n it was the blood of Louis XIII. which Fouquet
was sacrificing to the blood of Louis XIII.; it was to a selfish
ambition he was sacrificing a noble ambition; to the right of keeping
he sacrificed the right of having. The whole extent of his fault was
revealed to him at simple sight of the pretender. All that passed in the
mind of Fouquet was lost upon the persons present. He had five minutes
to focus meditation on this point of conscience; five minutes, that is
to say five ages, during which the two kings and their family scarcely
found energy to breathe after so terrible a shock. D'Artagnan, leaning
against the wall, in front of Fouquet, with his hand to his brow, asked
himself the cause of such a wonderful prodigy. He could not have said at
once why he doubted, but he knew assuredly that he had reason to doubt,
and that in this meeting of the two Louis XIV.s lay all the doubt and
difficulty that during late days had rendered the conduct of Aramis so
suspicious to the musketeer. These ideas were, however, enveloped in a
haze, a veil of mystery. The actors in this assembly seemed to swim in
the vapors of a confused waking. Suddenly Louis XIV., more impatient and
more accustomed to command, ran to one of the shutters, which he opened,
tearing the curtains in his eagerness. A flood of living light entered
the chamber, and made Philippe draw back to the alcove. Louis seized
upon this movement with eagerness, and addressing himself to the queen:

"My mother," said he, "do you not acknowledge your son, since every one
here has forgotten his king!" Anne of Austria started, and raised her
arms towards Heaven, without being able to articulate a single word.

"My mother," said Philippe, with a calm voice, "do you not acknowledge
your son?" And this time, in his turn, Louis drew back.

As to Anne of Austria, struck suddenly in head and heart with fell
remorse, she lost her equilibrium. No one aiding her, for all were
petrified, she sank back in her fauteuil, breathing a weak, trembling
sigh. Louis could not endure the spectacle and the affront. He bounded
towards D'Artagnan, over whose brain a vertigo was stealing and who
staggered as he caught at the door for support.

"_A moi! mousquetaire!_" said he. "Look us in the face and say which is
the paler, he or I!"

This cry roused D'Artagnan, and stirred in his heart the fibers of
obedience. He shook his head, and, without more hesitation, he walked
straight up to Philippe, on