again to you."

Fouquet rose, much agitated and disturbed.

"Come," he said, "come; you spoke of overthrowing kings and replacing
them by others. If, indeed, I am not really out of my senses, is or is
not that what you said just now?"

"You are by no means out of your senses, for it is perfectly true I did
say all that just now."

"And why did you say so?"

"Because it is easy to speak in this manner of thrones being cast down,
and kings being raised up, when one is, one's self, far above all king's
and thrones, of this world at least."

"Your power is infinite, then?" cried Fouquet.

"I have told you so already, and I repeat it," replied Aramis, with
glistening eyes and trembling lips.

Fouquet threw himself back in his chair and buried his face in his
hands. Aramis looked at him for a moment, as the angel of human
destinies might have looked upon a simple mortal being.

"Adieu," he said to him, "sleep undisturbed, and send your letter to La
Valliere. To-morrow we shall see each other again."

"Yes, to-morrow," said Fouquet, shaking his hand like a man returning to
his senses. "But where shall we see each other?"

"At the king's promenade, if you like."

"Agreed." And they separated.

CHAPTER III.

THE STORM.

The dawn of the following day was dark and gloomy, and as every one knew
that the promenade was set down in the royal programme, every one's
gaze, as his eyes were opened, was directed toward the sky. Just above
the tops of the trees a thick, suffocating vapor seemed to remain
suspended, with hardly sufficient power to rise thirty feet above the
ground under the influence of the sun's rays, which could barely be seen
through the veil of a heavy and thick mist. No dew had fallen in the
morning; the turf was dried up for want of moisture, the flowers were
withered. The birds sung less inspiritingly than usual amid the boughs,
which remained as motionless as death. The strange confused and animated
murmurs, which seemed born of, and to exist by the sun, that respiration
of nature which is unceasingly heard amid all other sounds, could not
be heard now, and never had the silence been so profound. The king had
noticed the cheerless aspect of the heavens as he approached the window
immediately after rising. But as all the necessary directions had been
given respecting the promenade, and every preparation had been made
accordingly, and as, which was far more imperious than everything else,
Lo