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THE MAN IN THE IRON MASK

THE MAN IN" THE lEON MASK. 429

fold,'* replied the falconer; *'it is said that Monsieur Col- bert had given orders to the governor of the Bastile, and that the execution was ordered/'

  • 'Enough!^' said D'Artagnan pensively, and with a view

of cutting short the conversation. '^Yes/' said the captain of the harriers, drawing toward them, *^Monsieur Fouquet is now at Pignerol; he has richly deserved it. He has had the good fortune to be conducted there by you; he had robbed the king enough." D'Artagnan launched at the master of the dogs one of his evil looks, and said to him: '^Monsieur, if any one told me you had eaten your dogs' meat, not only would I refuse to believe it; but, still more, if you were condemned to the whip or the jail for it, I should pity you, and would not allow people to speak ill of you. And yet, monsieur, honest man as you may be, I assure you that you are not more so than poor Monsieur Fouquet was.'^ After having undergone this sharp rebuke, the captain of the harriers hung his head, and allowed the falconer to get two steps in advance of him nearer to D'Artagnan.

  • ^He is content, said the falconer, in a low voice, to the

musketeer; we all know that harriers are in fashion nowa- days; if he were a falconer he would not talk in that way." D'Artagnan smiled in a melancholy manner at seeing this great political question resolved by the discontent of such humble interests. He for a moment ran over in his mind the glorious existence of the surintendant, the crumbling away of his fortunes, and the melancholy death that awaited him; and, to conclude: "Did Monsieur Fouquet love falconry?" said he. Oh, passionately, monsieur!" replied the falconer, with an accent of bitter regret, and a sigh that was the funeral oration of Fouquet. D'Artagnan allowed the ill-humor of the one and the re- grets of the other to pass, and continued to advance into the plain. They could already catch glimpses of the hunts- men at the issues of the wood, the feathers of the outriders, passing like shooting-stars across the clearings, and the white horses cutting with their luminous apparitions the dark thickets of the copses. "But," resumed D'Artagnan, "will the sport be long? Pray, give us a good swift bird, for I am very tired. Is it a heron or a swan?"

"Both, Monsieur d'Artagnan," said the falconer; "but

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