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door of his house. But the duke had already alighted from his horse, and was looking around him. I am here, monseigneur, said Athos. Ah! good evening, dear count, said the prince, with that frank cordiality which won him so many hearts. Is it too late for a friend? Ah! my dear prince, come in! said the count. And, M. de Beaufort leaning on the arm of Athos, they entered the house, followed by Raoul, who walked respectfully and modestly among the officers of the prince, with several of whom he was acquainted. Chapter XXVII. Monsieur de Beaufort. The prince turned round at the moment when Raoul, in order to leave him alone with Athos,


others, my contemporaries, I, admiral of France, grandson of Henry IV., king of Paris, have I anything left but to get myself killed? _Cordieu!_ I will be talked of, I tell you; I shall be killed whether or not; if not there, somewhere else. Why, monseigneur, this is mere exaggeration; and hitherto you have shown nothing exaggerated save in bravery. _Peste!_ my dear friend, there is bravery in facing scurvy, dysentery, locusts, poisoned arrows, as my ancestor St. Louis did. Do you know those fellows


wished, and still wish earnestly, my dear count, that my life should have that last _facet_, after all the whimsical exhibitions I have seen myself make during fifty years. For, in short, you must admit that it is sufficiently strange to be born the grandson of a king, to have made war against kings, to have been reckoned among the powers of the age, to have maintained my rank, to feel Henry IV. within me, to be great admiral of Franceand then to go and get killed at Gigelli, among all those Turks, Saracens, and


that girl. Who had a son, had she not? that girl. Who had a son, had she not? [3] I believe she had, replied the duke, with careless _naivete_ and a complaisant forgetfulness, of which no words could translate the tone and the vocal expression. Now, here is poor Raoul, who is your son, I believe. Yes, he is my son, monseigneur. And the poor lad has been cut out by the king, and he frets. Still better, monseigneur, he abstains. I believe she had, replied the duke, with careless _naivete_ and a complaisant forgetfulness, of which no words could translate the tone and the vocal expression. Now, here is poor Raoul, who is your son, I believe. Yes, he is my son, monseigneur. And the poor lad has been cut out by the king, and he frets. Still better, monseigneur, he abstains.