The Swiss did as D’Artagnan advised, and conducted him to the vestibule of the king’s cabinet.  When arrived there, he bowed to his prisoner, and, without saying anything, returned to his post.  D’Artagnan had not had time to ask why his sword was not taken from him, when the door of the cabinet opened, and a valet de chambre called, “M. d’Artagnan!” The musketeer assumed his parade carriage, and entered, with his large eyes wide open, his brow calm, his moustache stiff.  The king was seated at a table writing.  He did not disturb himself when the step of the musketeer resounded on the floor; he did not even turn his head.  D’Artagnan advanced as far as the middle of the room, and seeing that the king paid no attention to him, and suspecting, besides, that this was nothing but affectation, a sort of tormenting preamble to the explanation that was preparing, he turned his back on the prince, and began to examine the frescoes on the cornices, and the cracks in the ceiling.  This maneuver was accompanied by a little tacit monologue.  “Ah! you want to humble me, do you? — you, whom I have seen so young — you, whom I have saved as I would my own child, — you, whom I have served as I would a God — that is to say, for nothing.  Wait awhile! wait awhile! you shall see what a man can do who has suffered the air of the fire of the Huguenots, under the beard of monsieur le cardinal — the true cardinal.”  At this moment Louis turned round.

“Ah! are you there, Monsieur d’Artagnan?” said he.

D’Artagnan saw the movement and imitated it.  “Yes, sire,” said he.

“Very well; have the goodness to wait till I have cast this up.”

D’Artagnan made no reply; he only bowed.  “That is polite enough,” thought he; “I have nothing to say.”

Louis made a violent dash with his pen, and threw it angrily away.

“Ah! go on, work yourself up!” thought the musketeer; “you will put me at my ease.  You shall find I did not empty the bag, the other day, at Blois.”

Louis rose from his seat, passed his hand over his brow, then, stopping opposite to D’Artagnan, he looked at him with an air at once imperious and kind, “What the devil does he want with me?  I wish he would begin!” thought the musketeer.

“Monsieur,” said the king, “you know, without doubt, that monsieur le cardinal is dead?”

“I suspected so, sire.”

“You know that, consequently, I am master in my own kingdom?”

“That is not a thing that dates from the death of monsieur le cardinal, sire; a man is always master in his own house, when he wishes to be so.”

“Yes; but do you not remember all you said to me at Blois?”

“Now we come to it,” thought D’Artagnan; “I was not deceived.  Well, so much the better, it is a sign that my scent is tolerably keen yet.”

“You do not answer me,” said Louis.

“Sire, I think I recollect.”

“You only think?”