ity he felt as if he had
been stricken by death. Drops of blood beneath his coat stained the fine
linen that clothed his chest. His dress concealed the blood, and his
smile the rage which devoured him. His domestics perceived, by the
manner in which he approached his carriage, that their master was not in
the best of humors: the result of their discernment was, that his orders
were executed with that exactitude of maneuver which is found on board
a man-of-war, commanded during a storm by an ill-tempered captain. The
carriage, therefore, did not simply roll along--it flew. Fouquet had
hardly time to recover himself during the drive; on his arrival he
went at once to Aramis, who had not yet retired for the night. As for
Porthos, he had supped very agreeably off a roast leg of mutton, two
pheasants, and a perfect heap of cray-fish; he then directed his body to
be anointed with perfumed oils, in the manner of the wrestlers of
old; and when this anointment was completed, he had himself wrapped in
flannels and placed in a warm bed. Aramis, as we have already said,
had not retired. Seated at his ease in a velvet dressing-gown, he wrote
letter after letter in that fine and hurried handwriting, a page of
which contained a quarter of a volume. The door was thrown hurriedly
open, and the superintendent appeared, pale, agitated, anxious. Aramis
looked up: "Good-evening," said he, and his searching look detected his
host's sadness and disordered state of mind. "Was your play as good as
his majesty's?" asked Aramis, by way of beginning the conversation.

Fouquet threw himself upon a couch, and then pointed to the door to
the servant who had followed him; when the servant had left he said,
"Excellent."

Aramis, who had followed every movement with his eyes, noticed that he
stretched himself upon the cushions with a sort of feverish impatience.
"You have lost as usual?" inquired Aramis, his pen still in his hand.

"Even more than usual," replied Fouquet.

"You know how to support losses?"

"Sometimes."

"What, Monsieur Fouquet a bad player!"

"There is play and play, Monsieur d'Herblay."

"How much have you lost?" inquired Aramis, with a slight uneasiness.

Fouquet collected himself a moment, and then, without the slightest
emotion, said, "The evening has cost me four millions," and a bitter
laugh drowned the last vibration of these words.

Aramis, who did not expect such an amount, dropped his pen. "Four
millions," he said