!" said Porthos; "and what were the
names of these friends of M. Fouquet?"

"MM. d'Eymeris and Lyodot," said D'Artagnan. "Do you know these names,
Aramis?"

"No," said the prelate, disdainfully; "they sound like the names of
financiers."

"Exactly; so they were."

"Oh! M. Fouquet allows his friends to be hanged, then," said Porthos.

"And why not?" said Aramis.

"Why, it seems to me--"

"If these culprits were hanged, it was by order of the king. Now M.
Fouquet, although superintendent of the finances, has not, I believe,
the right of life and death."

"That may be," said Porthos; "but in the place of M. Fouquet--"

Aramis was afraid Porthos was about to say something awkward, so
interrupted him. "Come, D'Artagnan," said he; "this is quite enough
about other people, let us talk a little about you."

"Of me you know all that I can tell you. On the contrary let me hear a
little about you, Aramis."

"I have told you, my friend. There is nothing of Aramis left in me."

"Nor of the Abbe d'Herblay even?"

"No, not even of him. You see a man whom Providence has taken by the
hand, whom he has conducted to a position that he could never have dared
even to hope for."

"Providence?" asked D'Artagnan.

"Yes."

"Well, that is strange! I was told it was M. Fouquet."

"Who told you that?" cried Aramis, without being able, with all the
power of his will, to prevent the color rising to his cheeks.

"_Ma foi!_ why, Bazin!"

"The fool!"

"I do not say he is a man of genius, it is true; but he told me so; and
after him, I repeat it to you."

"I have never even seen M. Fouquet," replied Aramis with a look as pure
and calm as that of a virgin who has never told a lie.

"Well, but if you had seen him and known him, there is no harm in that,"
replied D'Artagnan. "M. Fouquet is a very good sort of a man."

"Humph!"

"A great politician." Aramis made a gesture of indifference.

"An all-powerful minister."

"I only hold to the king and the pope."

"_Dame!_ listen then," said D'Artagnan, in the most natural tone
imaginable. "I said that because everybody here swears by M. Fouquet.
The plain is M. Fouquet's; the salt-mines I am about to buy are
M. Fouquet's; the island in which Porthos studies topography is M.
Fouquet's; the garrison is M. Fouquet's; the galleys are M. Fouquet's. I
confess, then, that nothing would have surprised me in your enfeoffment,
or rather in that of your diocese, to M. Fouquet. He is a d