D'Artagnan was dressed in the height of Parisian fashion; the country bumpkins of Burgundy could not compare with him at all. He had keenly noticed this, and was therefore especially pleased with himself, swaggering and splendid. He and Colbert had brought twelve attendants, who had now all been sent to the great kitchen. The Duchess's servants took D'Artagnan's and the others' horses from their men; they would be tended as carefully as their masters. Fires burned in the stable, warm and dry, while grooms stood ready with brushes, scrubbing them spotless before wiping down their bodies with dried straw. D'Artagnan had specifically instructed them that his beloved mount had been bestowed upon him by the King in reward for his ability and loyalty, and must be fed oats—he had even refused to wait first in the antechamber, calmly admiring the scenery and murals in the entrance hall instead.
At first, Colbert truly did not understand why D'Artagnan had done this. But only two or three minutes later, when a maid in an emerald gown, with layered lace spilling from her collar and cuffs, came to lead them toward the antechamber, the astonished and envious looks cast their way gave him his answer. And in the time it took them to go from the antechamber to the corridor, from the corridor to the hall, from the hall to the library, and from the library to a small, secluded private room, D'Artagnan had not only gained a beautiful name, a silk handkerchief embroidered with initials, and countless smiles, but had also secured a veiled promise. Even Colbert, who had little interest in so-called love, could not help but marvel—truly, their King could make use of anyone.
When the maid was about to leave, D'Artagnan insisted on kissing her hand in thanks. She