in the hands of the archers."

"Then it was you who threw the man out of the window?"

"It was I, myself," replied D'Artagnan, modestly.

"And you who killed Menneville?"

"I had that misfortune," said D'Artagnan, bowing like a man who is being
congratulated.

"It was you, then, in short, who caused the two condemned persons to be
hung?"

"Instead of being burnt, yes, monsieur, and I am proud of it. I saved
the poor devils from horrible tortures. Understand, my dear Monsieur de
Gourville, that they wanted to burn them alive. It exceeds imagination!"

"Go, my dear Monsieur d'Artagnan, go," said Gourville, anxious to spare
Fouquet the sight of the man who had just caused him such profound
grief.

"No," said Fouquet, who had heard all from the door of the ante-chamber;
"not so; on the contrary, Monsieur d'Artagnan, come in."

D'Artagnan wiped from the hilt of his sword a last bloody trace, which
had escaped his notice, and returned. He then found himself face to
face with these three men, whose countenances wore very different
expressions. With the abbe it was anger, with Gourville stupor, with
Fouquet it was dejection.

"I beg your pardon, monsieur le ministre," said D'Artagnan, "but my
time is short; I have to go to the office of the intendant, to have an
explanation with Monsieur Colbert, and to receive my quarter's pension."

"But, monsieur," said Fouquet, "there is money here." D'Artagnan
looked at the superintendent with astonishment. "You have been answered
inconsiderately, monsieur, I know, because I heard it," said the
minister; "a man of your merit ought to be known by everybody."
D'Artagnan bowed. "Have you an order?" added Fouquet.

"Yes, monsieur."

"Give it me, I will pay you myself; come with me." He made a sign to
Gourville and the abbe, who remained in the chamber where they were.
He led D'Artagnan into his cabinet. As soon as the door was shut,--"how
much is due to you, monsieur?"

"Why, something like five thousand livres, monseigneur."

"For arrears of pay?"

"For a quarter's pay."

"A quarter consisting of five thousand livres!" said Fouquet, fixing
upon the musketeer a searching look. "Does the king, then, give you
twenty thousand livres a year?"

"Yes, monseigneur, twenty thousand livres a year. Do you think it is too
much?"

"I?" cried Fouquet, and he smiled bitterly. "If I had any knowledge of
mankind, if I were--instead of being a frivolous, inconsequent, and vain
spirit