with the ruin of
his fortune, with loss of liberty, with loss of life even, by intrigue
and personal hatred, to which the king gave too readily an attentive
ear. But Heaven permits (still, however, out of consideration for the
unhappy prince who had been sacrificed) that M. Fouquet should in his
turn have a devoted friend who knew this state secret, and felt that he
possessed strength and courage enough to divulge this secret, after
having had the strength to carry it locked up in his own heart for
twenty years."

"Do not go on any farther," said Fouquet, full of generous feelings, "I
understand you, and can guess everything now. You went to see the king
when the intelligence of my arrest reached you; you implored him, he
refused to listen to you; then you threatened him with that secret,
threatened to reveal it, and Louis XIV., alarmed at the risk of its
betrayal, granted to the terror of your indiscretion what he refused to
your generous intercession. I understand, I understand; you have the
king in your power; I understand."

"You understand nothing as yet," replied Aramis, "and again you have
interrupted me. And then, too, allow me to observe that you pay no
attention to logical reasoning, and seem to forget what you ought most
to remember."

"What do you mean?"

"You know upon what I laid the greatest stress at the beginning of our
conversation?"

"Yes, his majesty's hate, invincible hate for me; yes, but what feeling
of hate could resist the threat, of such a revelation?"

"Such a revelation, do you say? that is the very point where your logic
fails you. What! do you suppose that if I had made such a revelation to
the king I should have been alive now?"

"It is not ten minutes ago since you were with the king?"

"That may be. He might not have had the time to get me killed outright,
but he would have had the time to get me gagged and thrown into a
dungeon. Come, come, show a little consistency in your reasoning,
mordieu!"

And by the mere use of this word, which was so thoroughly his old
musketeer's expression, forgotten by one who never seemed to forget
anything, Fouquet could not but understand to what a pitch of exaltation
the calm, impenetrable bishop of Vannes had wrought himself. He
shuddered at it.

"And then," replied the latter, after having mastered his feelings,
"should I be the man I really am, should I be the true friend you regard
me as, if I were to expose you, you whom the king hates