shutting him up altogether, I will try and conduct myself like a man who
understands what good manners are. People will talk about it, of course;
but they shall talk well of it, I am determined." And D'Artagnan,
drawing by a gesture peculiar to himself his shoulder-belt over his
shoulder, went straight off to M. Fouquet, who, after he had taken leave
of his guests, was preparing to retire for the night and to sleep
tranquilly after the triumphs of the day.

The air was still perfumed or infected, whichever way it may be
considered, with the odor of the fireworks. The wax-lights were dying
away in their sockets, the flowers fell unfastened from the garlands,
the groups of dancers and courtiers were separating in the salons.
Surrounded by his friends, who complimented him and received his
flattering remarks in return, the surintendant half-closed his wearied
eyes. He longed for rest and quiet; he sank upon the bed of laurels
which had been heaped up for him for so many days past: it might almost
have been said that he seemed bowed beneath the weight of the new debts
which he had incurred for the purpose of giving the greatest possible
honor to this fete. Fouquet had just retired to his room, still smiling,
but more than half-dead. He could listen to nothing more, he could
hardly keep his eyes open; his bed seemed to possess a fascinating and
irresistible attraction for him. The god Morpheus, the presiding deity
of the dome painted by Lebrun, had extended his influence over the
adjoining rooms, and showered down his most sleep-inducing poppies upon
the master of the house. Fouquet, almost entirely alone, was being
assisted by his valet-de-chambre to undress, when M. d'Artagnan appeared
at the entrance of the room. D'Artagnan had never been able to succeed
in making himself common at the court; and notwithstanding he was seen
everywhere and on all occasions, he never failed to produce an effect
wherever and whenever he made his appearance. Such is the happy
privilege of certain natures, which in that respect resemble either
thunder or lightning; every one recognizes them; but their appearance
never fails to arouse surprise and astonishment, and whenever they occur
the impression is always left that the last was the loudest or brightest
and most violent. "What! M. d'Artagnan?" said Fouquet, who had already
taken his right arm out of the sleeve of his doublet.

"At your service," replied the musketeer.

"Come in, my dear M.