“How many men have you here?” inquired the king, without making any
other reply to the question addressed to him.
“What for, sire?”
“How many men have you, I say?” repeated the king, stamping upon the
ground with his foot.
“I have the musketeers.”
“Well; and what others?”
“Twenty guards and thirteen Swiss.”
“How many men will be required to—”
“To do what, sire?” replied the musketeer, opening his large, calm eyes.
“To arrest M. Fouquet.”
D’Artagnan fell back a step.
“To arrest M. Fouquet!” he burst forth.
“Are you going to tell me that it is impossible?” exclaimed the king, in tones of cold, vindictive passion.
“I never say that anything is impossible,” replied D’Artagnan, wounded to
the quick.
“Very well; do it, then.”
D’Artagnan turned on his heel, and made his way towar
