ould speak of a circumstance which created an epoch in my
life, and which consecrated me, from the age of sixteen, to the devoted
service of your majesty."

"Ah! ah!" said the king, "what was that circumstance? Tell me,
monsieur."

"This is it, sire.--When I was setting out on my first campaign, that is
to say, to join the army of monsieur le prince, M. le Comte de la Fere
came to conduct me as far as Saint-Denis, where the remains of King
Louis XIII. wait, upon the lowest steps of the funeral _basilique_, a
successor, whom God will not send him, I hope, for many years. Then
he made me swear upon the ashes of our masters, to serve royalty,
represented by you--incarnate in you, sire--to serve it in word, in
thought, and in action. I swore, and God and the dead were witnesses to
my oath. During ten years, sire, I have not so often as I desired had
occasion to keep it. I am a soldier of your majesty, and nothing else;
and, on calling me nearer to you, I do not change my master, I only
change my garrison."

Raoul was silent and bowed. Louis still listened after he had done
speaking.

"_Mordioux!_" cried D'Artagnan, "that was well spoken! was it not, your
majesty? A good race! a noble race!"

"Yes," murmured the king, without, however daring to manifest
his emotion, for it had no other cause than contact with a nature
intrinsically noble. "Yes, monsieur, you say truly:--wherever you were,
you were the king's. But in changing your garrison, believe me you will
find an advancement of which you are worthy."

Raoul saw that this ended what the king had to say to him. And with
the perfect tact which characterized his refined nature, he bowed and
retired.

"Is there anything else, monsieur, of which you have to inform me?" said
the king, when he found himself again alone with D'Artagnan.

"Yes, sire, and I kept that news for the last, for it is sad, and will
clothe European royalty in mourning."

"What do you tell me?"

"Sire, in passing through Blois, a word, a sad word, echoed from the
palace, struck my ear."

"In truth, you terrify me, M. d'Artagnan."

"Sire, this word was pronounced to me by a _piqueur_, who wore crape on
his arm."

"My uncle, Gaston of Orleans, perhaps."

"Sire, he has rendered his last sigh."

"And I was not warned of it!" cried the king, whose royal susceptibility
saw an insult in the absence of this intelligence.

"Oh! do not be angry, sire," said D'Artagnan; "neither the couriers
of