With his whole mind fixed on the thought of revenge, he had forgotten the cause and substance of the offense.
"No, no one," he said; "no one here! Leave me." D'Artagnan quitted the room.

The king closed the door with his own hands, and began to walk up and down his apartment at a furious pace, like a wounded bull in an arena, trailing from his horn the colored streamers and the iron darts.

At last he began to take comfort in the expression of his violent feelings.
"Miserable wretch that he is! not only does he squander my finances, but with his ill-gotten plunder he corrupts secretaries, friends, generals, artists, and all, and tries to rob me of the one to whom I am most attached.

This is the reason that perfidious girl so boldly took his part! Gratitude! and who can tell whether it was not a stronger feeling--love itself ?" He gave himself up for a moment to the bitterest reflections.

"A satyr!" he thought, with that abhorrent hate with which young men regard those more advanced in life, who still think of love.
"A man who has never found opposition or resistance in any one, who lavishes his gold and jewels in every direction, and who retains his staff of painters in order to take the portraits of his mistresses in the costume of goddesses." The king trembled with passion as he continued, "He pollutes and profanes everything that belongs to me! He destroys everything that is mine.