“If I were not your son, I should curse you, my mother, for having rendered me so unhappy.”
D’Artagnan felt a shudder pass through the marrow of his bones.
He bowed respectfully to the young prince, and said as he bent, “Excuse me, monseigneur, I am but a soldier, and my oaths are his who has just left the chamber.”
“Thank you, M. d’Artagnan� . What has become of M. d’Herblay?”
“M. d’Herblay is in safety, monseigneur,” said a voice behind them; “and no one, while I live and am free, shall cause a hair to fall from his head.”
“Monsieur Fouquet!” said the prince, smiling sadly.