siness to transact."

"Oh!" cried D'Artagnan, with one of those intelligent grimaces which he
alone knew how to make, "that is enough to make me recover my love for
Monseigneur Giulio Mazarini. What, Athos! the king has not seen you
since then?"

"No."

"And you are not furious?"

"I! why should I be? Do you imagine, my dear D'Artagnan, that it was on
the king's account I acted as I have done? I did not know the young man.
I defended the father, who represented a principle--sacred in my eyes,
and I allowed myself to be drawn towards the son from sympathy for this
same principle. Besides, he was a worthy knight, a noble creature, that
father; do you remember him?"

"Yes; that is true; he was a brave, an excellent man, who led a sad
life, but made a fine end."

"Well, my dear D'Artagnan, understand this; to that king, to that man
of heart, to that friend of my thoughts, if I durst venture to say so,
I swore at the last hour to preserve faithfully the secret of a deposit
which was to be transmitted to his son, to assist him in his hour of
need. This young man came to me; he described his destitution; he was
ignorant that he was anything to me save a living memory of his father.
I have accomplished towards Charles II. what I promised Charles I.; that
is all! Of what consequence is it to me, then, whether he be grateful or
not? It is to myself I have rendered a service, by relieving myself of
this responsibility, and not to him."

"Well, I have always said," replied D'Artagnan, with a sigh, "that
disinterestedness was the finest thing in the world."

"Well, and you, my friend," resumed Athos, "are you not in the same
situation as myself? If I have properly understood your words, you
allowed yourself to be affected by the misfortunes of this young man;
that, on your part, was much greater than it was upon mine, for I had a
duty to fulfill; whilst you were under no obligation to the son of the
martyr. You had not, on your part, to pay him the price of that precious
drop of blood which he let fall upon my brow, through the floor of the
scaffold. That which made you act was heart alone--the noble and good
heart which you possess beneath your apparent skepticism and sarcastic
irony; you have engaged the fortune of a servitor, and your own, I
suspect, my benevolent miser! and your sacrifice is not acknowledged!
Of what consequence is it? You wish to repay Planchet his money. I can
comprehend that, my friend: for it is no