he was leaning, he saw, standing
out strongly, a figure with a brown and lofty countenance, an aquiline
nose, a stern but brilliant eye, gray and long hair, a black mustache,
the true type of military beauty, whose gorget, more sparkling than a
mirror, broke all the reflected lights which concentrated upon it, and
sent them back as lightning. This officer wore his gray hat with its
long red plumes upon his head, a proof that he was called there by his
duty, and not by his pleasure. If he had been brought thither by his
pleasure--if he had been a courtier instead of a soldier, as pleasure
must always be paid for at the same price--he would have held his hat in
his hand.

That which proved still better that this officer was upon duty, and was
accomplishing a task to which he was accustomed, was, that he watched,
with folded arms, remarkable indifference, and supreme apathy, the joys
and ennuis of this fete. Above all, he appeared, like a philosopher, and
all old soldiers are philosophers,--he appeared above all to comprehend
the ennuis infinitely better than the joys; but in the one he took his
part, knowing very well how to do without the other.

Now, he was leaning, as we have said, against the carved door-frame when
the melancholy, weary eyes of the king, by chance, met his.

It was not the first time, as it appeared, that the eyes of the officer
had met those eyes, and he was perfectly acquainted with the expression
of them; for, as soon as he had cast his own look upon the countenance
of Louis XIV., and had read by it what was passing in his heart--that is
to say, all the ennui that oppressed him--all the timid desire to go
out which agitated him,--he perceived he must render the king a
service without his commanding it,--almost in spite of himself. Boldly,
therefore, as if he had given the word of command to cavalry in battle,
"On the king's service!" cried he, in a clear, sonorous voice.

At these words, which produced the effect of a peal of thunder,
prevailing over the orchestra, the singing and the buzz of the
promenaders, the cardinal and the queen-mother looked at each other with
surprise.

Louis XIV., pale, but resolved, supported as he was by that intuition
of his own thought which he had found in the mind of the officer of
musketeers, and which he had just manifested by the order given, arose
from his chair, and took a step towards the door.

"Are you going, my son?" said the queen, whilst Mazarin sat