“Because his majesty gives way sometimes to jests very compromising for his servants; and jesting, my lord, is a weapon that seriously wounds men of the sword, as we are.”

Monk did all in his power not to betray his thought, but D’Artagnan watched him with too close attention not to detect an almost imperceptible flush upon his face.  “Well, now, for my part,” said he, with the most natural air possible, “I am not an enemy of jesting, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan; my soldiers will tell you that even many times in camp, I listened very indifferently, and with a certain pleasure, to the satirical songs which the army of Lambert passed into mine, and which, certainly, would have caused the ears of a general more susceptible than I am to tingle.”

“Oh, my lord,” said D’Artagnan, “I know you are a complete man; I know you have been, for a long time, placed above human miseries; but there are jests and jests of a certain kind, which have the power of irritating me beyond expression.”

“May I inquire what kind, my friend?”

“Such as are directed against my friends or against people I respect, my lord!”

Monk made a slight movement, which D’Artagnan perceived.  “Eh! and in what,” asked Monk, “in what can the stroke of a pin which scratches another tickle your skin?  Answer me that.”

“My lord, I can explain it to you in a single sentence; it concerns you.”

Monk advanced a single step towards D’Artagnan.  “Concerns me?” said he.

“Yes, and this is what I cannot explain; but that arises, perhaps, from my want of knowledge of his character.  How can the king have the heart to jest about a man who has rendered him so many and such great services?  How can one understand that he should amuse himself in setting by the ears a lion like you with a gnat like me?”

“I cannot conceive that in any way,” said Monk.

“But so it is.  The king, who owed me a reward, might have rewarded me as a soldier, without contriving that history of the ransom, which affects you, my lord.”

“No,” said Monk, laughing:  “it does not affect me in any way, I can assure you.”

“Not as regards me, I can understand; you know me, my lord, I am so discreet that the grave would appear a babbler compared to me; but — do you understand, my lord?”

“No,” replied Monk, with persistent obstinacy.

“If another knew the secret which I know — "

“What secret?”

“Eh! my lord, why, that unfortunate secret of Newcastle.”

“Oh! the million of the Comte de la Fere?”

“No, my lord, no; the enterprise made upon your grace’s person.”

“It was well played, chevalier, that is all, and no more is to be said about it:  you are a soldier, both brave and cunning, which proves that you unite the qualities of Fabius and Hannibal.  You employed your means, force and cunning:  there is nothing to be said against that:  I ought to have been on guard.”