cular, then, between you?"

"Yes."

"A secret, perhaps?"

"Yes, a secret."

"A secret of such a nature as to change his majesty's interests?"

"You are, indeed, a man of superior intelligence, monseigneur, and have
made a very accurate guess. I have, in fact, discovered a secret of a
nature to change the interests of the king of France."

"Ah!" said Fouquet, with the reserve of a man who does not wish to ask
any questions.

"And you shall judge of it yourself," pursued Aramis; "and you shall
tell me if I am mistaken with regard to the importance of this secret."

"I am listening, since you are good enough to unbosom yourself to me;
only do not forget that I have asked you nothing which may be indiscreet
in you to communicate."

Aramis seemed for a moment as if he were collecting himself.

"Do not speak!" said Fouquet; "there is still time enough."

"Do you remember," said the bishop, casting down his eyes, "the birth of
Louis XIV.?"

"As it were yesterday."

"Have you ever heard anything particular respecting his birth?"

"Nothing; except that the king was not really the son of Louis XIII."

"That does not matter to us, or the kingdom either; he is the son of his
father, says the French law, whose father is recognized by the law."

"True; but it is a grave matter when the quality of races is called into
question."

"A merely secondary question, after all. So that, in fact, you have
never learned or heard anything particular?"

"Nothing."

"That is where my secret begins. The queen, you must know, instead of
being delivered of one son, was delivered of two children."

Fouquet looked up suddenly as he replied, "And the second is dead?"

"You will see. These twins seemed likely to be regarded as the pride of
their mother, and the hope of France; but the weak nature of the king,
his superstitious feelings, made him apprehend a series of conflicts
between two children whose rights were equal; so he put out of the
way--he suppressed--one of the twins."

"Suppressed, do you say?"

"Be patient. Both the children grew up; the one on the throne, whose
minister you are--the other, who is my friend, in gloom and isolation."

"Good heavens! What are you saying, Monsieur d'Herblay? And what is this
poor prince doing?"

"Ask me, rather, what he has done?"

"Yes, yes."

"He was brought up in the country, and then thrown into a fortress which
goes by the name of the Bastille."

"Is it possible?" crie