“_Mordioux!_” cried D’Artagnan, “that was well spoken! was it not, your majesty? A good race! a noble race!” “Yes,” murmured the king, without, however daring to manifest his emotion, for it had no other cause than contact with a nature intrinsically noble. “Yes, monsieur, you say truly:--wherever you were, you were the king’s. But in changing your garrison, believe me you will find an advancement of which you are worthy.” Raoul saw that this ended what the king had to say to him. And with the perfect tact which characterized his refined nature, he bowed and retired. “Is there anything else, monsieur, of which you have to inform me?” said the king, when he found himself again alone with D’Artagnan. “Yes, sire, and I kept that news for the last, for it is sad, and will clothe European royalty in mourning.” “What do you tell me?” “Sire, in passing through Blois, a word, a sad word, echoed from the palace, struck my ear.” “In truth, you terrify me, M. d’Artagnan.” “Sire, this word was pronounced to me by a _piqueur_, who wore crape on his arm.” “My uncle, Gaston of Orleans, perhaps.” “Sire, he has rendered his last sigh.” “And I was not warned of it!” cried the king, whose royal susceptibility saw an insult in the absence of this intelligence. “Oh! do not be angry, sire,” said D’Artagnan; “neither the couriers of Paris, nor the couriers of the whole world, can travel with your servant; the courier from Blois will not be here these two hours, and he rides well, I assure you, seeing that I only passed him on the thither side of Orleans.” “My uncle Gaston,” murmured Louis, pressing his hand to his brow, and comprising in those three words all that his memory recalled of that symbol of opposing sentiments. “Eh! yes, sire, it is thus,” said D’Artagnan, philosophically replying to the royal thought, “it is thus the past flies away.” “That is true, monsieur, that is true; but there remains for us, thank God! the future; and we will try to make it not too dark.” “I feel confidence in your majesty on that head,” said D’Artagnan, bowing, “and now--” “You are right, monsieur; I had forgotten the hundred leagues you have just ridden. Go, monsieur, take care of one of the best of soldiers, and when you have reposed a little, come and place yourself at my disposal.” “Sire, absent or present, I am always yours.” D’Artagnan bowed and retired. Then, as if he had only come from Fontainebleau, he quickly traversed the Louvre to rejoin Bragelonne. Chapter II. A Lover and His Mistress.