The officer imitated this carriage, this slowness, this sadness, and leisurely mounted his horse. The king pushed on sharply, the lieutenant followed him. At the bridge Louis turned around for the last time. The lieutenant, patient as a god who has eternity behind and before him, still hoped for a return of energy. But it was groundless, nothing appeared. Louis gained the street which led to the castle, and entered as seven was striking. When the king had returned, and the musketeer, who saw everything, had seen a corner of the tapestry over the cardinal’s window lifted up, he breathed a profound sigh, like a man unloosed from the tightest bonds, and said in a low voice: “Now then, my officer, I hope that it is over.” The king summoned his gentleman. “Please to understand I shall receive nobody before two o’clock,” said he. “Sire,” replied the gentleman, “there is, however, some one who requests admittance.” “Who is that?” “Your lieutenant of musketeers.” “He who accompanied me?” “Yes, sire.” “Ah,” said the king, “let him come in.” The officer entered. The king made a sign, and the gentleman and the valet retired. Louis followed them with his eyes until they had shut the door, and when the tapestries had fallen behind them,—“You remind me by your presence, monsieur, of something I had forgotten to recommend to you, that is to say, the most absolute discretion.” “Oh! sire, why does your majesty give yourself the trouble of making me such a recommendation? It is plain you do not know me.” “Yes, monsieur, that is true. I know that you are discreet; but as I had prescribed nothing—” The officer bowed. “Has your majesty nothing else to say to me?” “No, monsieur; you may retire.” “Shall I obtain permission not to do so till I have spoken to the king, sire?” “What do you have to say to me? Explain yourself, monsieur.” “Sire, a thing without importance to you, but which interests me greatly. Pardon me, then, for speaking of it. Without urgency, without necessity, I never would have done it, and I would have disappeared, mute and insignificant as I always have been.” “How! Disappeared! I do not understand you, monsieur.” “Sire, in a word,” said the officer, “I am come to ask for my discharge from your majesty’s service.” The king made a movement of surprise, but the officer remained as motionless as a statue. “Your discharge—yours, monsieur? and for how long a time, I pray?” “Why, forever, sire.” “What, you are desirous of quitting my service, monsieur?” said Louis, with an expression that revealed something more than surprise. “Sire, I regret to say that I am.” “Impossible!”