“The right of pardoning only applies to the guilty,” said Tréville, who was determined to have the last word, “and my Musketeer is innocent. It is not mercy, then, that you are about to accord, sire, it is justice.” “And he is in the Fort l’Evêque?” said the king. “Yes, sire, in solitary confinement, in a dungeon, like the lowest criminal.” “The devil!” murmured the king; “what must be done?” “Sign an order for his release, and all will be said,” replied the cardinal. “I believe with your Majesty that Monsieur de Tréville’s guarantee is more than sufficient.” Tréville bowed very respectfully, with a joy that was not unmixed with fear; he would have preferred an obstinate resistance on the part of the cardinal to this sudden yielding. The king signed the order for release, and Tréville carried it away without delay. As he was about to leave the presence, the cardinal gave him a friendly smile, and said, “A perfect harmony reigns, sire, between the leaders and the soldiers of your Musketeers, which must be profitable for the service and honorable to all.” “He will play me some dog’s trick or other, and that immediately,” said Tréville. “One has never the last word with such a man. But let us be quick—the king may change his mind in an hour; and at all events it is more difficult to replace a man in the Fort l’Evêque or the Bastille who has got out, than to keep a prisoner there who is in.” M. de Tréville made his entrance triumphantly into the Fort l’Evêque, whence he delivered the Musketeer, whose peaceful indifference had not for a moment abandoned him. The first time he saw D’Artagnan, “You have come off well,” said he to him; “there is your Jussac thrust paid for. There still remains that of Bernajoux, but you must not be too confident.” As to the rest, M. de Tréville had good reason to mistrust the cardinal and to think that all was not over, for scarcely had the captain of the Musketeers closed the door after him, than his Eminence said to the king, “Now that we are at length by ourselves, we will, if your Majesty pleases, converse seriously. Sire, Buckingham has been in Paris five days, and only left this morning.” Chapter XVI. IN WHICH M. SÉGUIER, KEEPER OF THE SEALS, LOOKS MORE THAN ONCE FOR THE BELL It is impossible to form an idea of the impression these few words made upon Louis XIII. He grew pale and red alternately; and the cardinal saw at once that he had recovered by a single blow all the ground he had lost. “Buckingham in Paris!” cried he, “and why does he come?” “To conspire, no doubt, with your enemies, the Huguenots and the Spaniards.” “No, _pardieu_, no! To conspire against my honor with Madame de Chevreuse, Madame de Longueville, and the Condés.” “Oh, sire, what an idea! The queen is too virtuous; and besides, loves your Majesty too well.” “Woman is weak, Monsieur Cardinal,” said the king; “and as to loving me much, I have my own opinion as to that love.”