will be few great monseigneurs with so good. People
will see the difference there is between the courtiers of wealth and
those of friendship."

"Ever generous and grateful, dear prelate."

"In your school."

Fouquet grasped his hand. "And where are you going?" he said.

"I am off to Paris, when you shall have given a certain letter."

"For whom?"

"M. de Lyonne."

"And what do you want with Lyonne?"

"I wish to make him sign a _lettre de cachet_."

"'_Lettre de cachet!_' Do you desire to put somebody in the Bastile?"

"On the contrary--to let somebody out."

"And who?"

"A poor devil--a youth, a lad who has been Bastiled these ten years, for
two Latin verses he made against the Jesuits."

"'Two Latin verses!' and, for 'two Latin verses,' the miserable being
has been in prison for ten years!"

"Yes!"

"And has committed no other crime?"

"Beyond this, he is as innocent as you or I."

"On your word?"

"On my honor!"

"And his name is--"

"Seldon."

"Yes.--But it is too bad. You knew this, and you never told me!"

"'Twas only yesterday his mother applied to me, monseigneur."

"And the woman is poor!"

"In the deepest misery."

"Heaven," said Fouquet, "sometimes bears with such injustice on earth,
that I hardly wonder there are wretches who doubt of its existence.
Stay, M. d'Herblay." And Fouquet, taking a pen, wrote a few rapid lines
to his colleague Lyonne. Aramis took the letter and made ready to go.

"Wait," said Fouquet. He opened his drawer, and took out ten government
notes which were there, each for a thousand francs. "Stay," he said;
"set the son at liberty, and give this to the mother; but, above all, do
not tell her--"

"What, monseigneur?"

"That she is ten thousand livres richer than I. She would say I am but
a poor superintendent! Go! and I pray that God will bless those who are
mindful of his poor!"

"So also do I pray," replied Aramis, kissing Fouquet's hand.

And he went out quickly, carrying off the letter for Lyonne and the
notes for Seldon's mother, and taking up Moliere, who was beginning to
lose patience.

Chapter VII. Another Supper at the Bastile.

Seven o'clock sounded from the great clock of the Bastile, that famous
clock, which, like all the accessories of the state prison, the very use
of which is a torture, recalled to the prisoners' minds the destination
of every hour of their punishment. The time-piece of the Bastile,
adorned with figures, like mos