ting toward each other when they
suddenly and abruptly stopped, as a mutual recognition took place, and
each uttered a cry of horror.

"Have you come to assassinate me, monsieur?" said the king when he
recognized Fouquet.

"The king in this state!" murmured the minister.

Nothing could be more terrible indeed than the appearance of the young
prince at the moment Fouquet had surprised him; his clothes were in
tatters; his shirt, open and torn to rags, was stained with sweat, and
with the blood which streamed from his lacerated breast and arms.
Haggard, ghastly pale, his hair in disheveled masses, Louis XIV.
presented the most perfect picture of despair, hunger, and fear
combined, that could possibly be united in one figure. Fouquet was so
touched, so affected and disturbed by it, that he ran toward him with
his arms stretched out and his eyes filled with tears. Louis held up the
massive piece of wood of which he had made such a furious use.

"Sire," said Fouquet, in a voice trembling with emotion, "do you not
recognize the most faithful of your friends?"

"A friend--you!" repeated Louis, gnashing his teeth in a manner which
betrayed his hate and desire for speedy vengeance.

"The most respectful of your servants," added Fouquet, throwing himself
on his knees. The king let the rude weapon fall from his grasp. Fouquet
approached him, kissed his knees, and took him in his arms with
inconceivable tenderness.

"My king, my child," he said, "how you must have suffered!"

Louis, recalled to himself by the change of situation, looked at
himself, and ashamed of the disordered state of his apparel, ashamed of
his conduct, and ashamed of the air of pity and protection that was
shown toward him, drew back. Fouquet did not understand this movement;
he did not perceive that the king's feeling of pride would never forgive
him for having been a witness of such an exhibition of weakness.

"Come, sire," he said, "you are free."

"Free?" repeated the king. "Oh! you set me at liberty, then, after
having dared to lift up your hand against me."

"You do not believe that!" exclaimed Fouquet, indignantly; "you cannot
believe me to be guilty of such an act."

And rapidly, warmly even, he related the whole particulars of the
intrigue, the details of which are already known to the reader. While
the recital continued, Louis suffered the most horrible anguish of mind;
and when it was finished, the magnitude of the danger he had run str