“And not a man to instruct them. Falconers are declining. I know no one but myself who is acquainted with the noble art of venery. After me it will all be over, and people will hunt with gins, snares, and traps. If I had but the time to train pupils! But there is the cardinal always at hand, who does not leave me a moment’s repose; who talks to me about Spain, who talks to me about Austria, who talks to me about England! Ah! Apropos of the cardinal, M. de Tréville, I am vexed with you!”

This was the chance at which M. de Tréville waited for the king. He knew the king of old, and he knew that all these complaints were but a preface⁠—a sort of excitation to encourage himself⁠—and that he had now come to his point at last.

“And in what have I been so unfortunate as to displease Your Majesty?” asked M. de Tréville, feigning the most profound astonishment.