ations. "What is that?" asked Fouquet.

"That is your Marchiali," said the governor; "that is the way these
madmen call out."

And he accompanied that reply with a glance more indicative of injurious
illusions, as far as Fouquet was concerned, than of politeness. The
latter trembled; he had just recognized in one cry, more terrible than
any that had preceded it, the king's voice. He paused on the staircase,
snatching the bunch of keys from Baisemeaux, who thought this new madman
was going to dash out his brains with one of them. "Ah!" he cried, "M.
d'Herblay did not say a word about that."

"Give me the keys at once!" cried Fouquet, tearing them from his hand.
"Which is the key of the door I am to open."

"That one."

A fearful cry, followed by a violent blow against the door, made the
whole staircase resound with the echo. "Leave this place," said Fouquet
to Baisemeaux, in a threatening voice.

"I ask nothing better," murmured the latter, "there will be a couple of
madmen face to face, and the one will kill the other, I am sure."

"Go!" repeated Fouquet. "If you place your foot in this staircase before
I call you, remember that you shall take the place of the meanest
prisoner in the Bastille."

"This job will kill me, I am sure it will," muttered Baisemeaux, as he
withdrew with tottering steps.

The prisoner's cries became more and more terrible. When Fouquet had
satisfied himself that Baisemeaux had reached the bottom of the
staircase, he inserted the key in the first lock. It was then that he
heard the hoarse, choking voice of the king, crying out, in a frenzy of
rage, "Help, help! I am the king." The key of the second door was not
the same as the first, and Fouquet was obliged to look for it on the
bunch. The king, however, furious and almost mad with rage and passion,
shouted at the top of his voice, "It was M. Fouquet who brought me here.
Help me against M. Fouquet! I am the king! Help the king against M.
Fouquet!"

These cries tore the minister's heart with mingled emotions. They were
followed by a shower of terrible blows leveled against the door with a
part of the broken chair with which the king had armed himself. Fouquet
at last succeeded in finding the key. The king was almost exhausted; he
could hardly articulate distinctly as he shouted, "Death to Fouquet!
death to the traitor Fouquet!" The door flew open.

CHAPTER XCVII.

THE KING'S GRATITUDE.

The two men were on the point of dar