"Is there anything else, monsieur, of which you have to inform me?" said
the king, when he found himself again alone with D'Artagnan.

"Yes, sire, and I kept that news for the last, for it is sad, and will
clothe European royalty in mourning."

"What do you tell me?"

"Sire, in passing through Blois, a word, a sad word, echoed from the
palace, struck my ear."

"In truth, you terrify me, M. d'Artagnan."

"Sire, this word was pronounced to me by a _piqueur_, who wore crape on
his arm."

"My uncle, Gaston of Orleans, perhaps."

"Sire, he has rendered his last sigh."

"And I was not warned of it!" cried the king, whose royal susceptibility
saw an insult in the absence of this intelligence.

"Oh! do not be angry, sire," said D'Artagnan; "neither the couriers of
Paris, nor the couriers of the whole world, can travel with your servant;
the courier from Blois will not be here these two hours, and he rides
well, I assure you, seeing that I only passed him on the thither side of
Orleans."