“Indeed, sire, I wholly comprehend your disappointment.  The misfortune is great; but I think you have still a good number of falcons, sparrow hawks, and tiercets.”

“And not a man to instruct them.  Falconers are declining.  I know no one but myself who is acquainted with the noble art of venery.  After me it will all be over, and people will hunt with gins, snares, and traps.  If I had but the time to train pupils!  But there is the cardinal always at hand, who does not leave me a moment’s repose; who talks to me about Spain, who talks to me about Austria, who talks to me about England!  Ah!  A propos of the cardinal, Monsieur de Treville, I am vexed with you!”

This was the chance at which M. de Treville waited for the king.  He knew the king of old, and he knew that all these complaints were but a preface—­a sort of excitation to encourage himself—­ and that he had now come to his point at last.

“And in what have I been so unfortunate as to displease your Majesty?” asked M. de Treville, feigning the most profound astonishment.

“Is it thus you perform your charge, monsieur?” continued the king, without directly replying to de Treville’s question.  “Is it for this I name you captain of my Musketeers, that they should assassinate a man, disturb a whole quarter, and endeavor to set fire to Paris, without your saying a word?  But yet,” continued the king, “undoubtedly my haste accuses you wrongfully; without doubt the rioters are in prison, and you come to tell me justice is done.”

“Sire,” replied M. de Treville, calmly, “on the contrary, I come to demand it of you.”

“And against whom?” cried the king.

“Against calumniators,” said M. de Treville.

“Ah!  This is something new,” replied the king.  “Will you tell me that your three damned Musketeers, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, and your youngster from Bearn, have not fallen, like so many furies, upon poor Bernajoux, and have not maltreated him in such a fashion that probably by this time he is dead?  Will you tell me that they did not lay siege to the hotel of the Duc de la Tremouille, and that they did not endeavor to burn it?—­which would not, perhaps, have been a great misfortune in time of war, seeing that it is nothing but a nest of Huguenots, but which is, in time of peace, a frightful example.  Tell me, now, can you deny all this?”

“And who told you this fine story, sire?” asked Treville, quietly.

“Who has told me this fine story, monsieur?  Who should it be but he who watches while I sleep, who labors while I amuse myself, who conducts everything at home and abroad—­in France as in Europe?”

“Your Majesty probably refers to God,” said M. de Treville; “for I know no one except God who can be so far above your Majesty.”

“No, monsieur; I speak of the prop of the state, of my only servant, of my only friend—­of the cardinal.”

“His Eminence is not his holiness, sire.”