“Very well, monsieur, we have nothing else to ask of you,” said the abbe, more and more dejected, in proportion as the moment approached for finding himself alone with his brother.

“Have you been paid?” asked Gourville.

“Partly, monsieur,” replied Danicamp.

“Here are twenty pistols.  Begone, monsieur, and never forget to defend, as this time has been done, the true interests of the king.”

“Yes, monsieur,” said the man, bowing and pocketing the money.  After which he went out.  Scarcely had the door closed after him when Fouquet, who had remained motionless, advanced with a rapid step and stood between the abbe and Gourville.  Both of them at the same time opened their mouths to speak to him.  “No excuses,” said he, “no recriminations against anybody.  If I had not been a false friend I should not have confided to any one the care of delivering Lyodot and D’Eymeris.  I alone am guilty; to me alone are reproaches and remorse due.  Leave me, abbe.”

“And yet, monsieur, you will not prevent me,” replied the latter, “from endeavoring to find out the miserable fellow who has intervened to the advantage of M. Colbert in this so well-arranged affair; for, if it is good policy to love our friends dearly, I do not believe that is bad which consists in obstinately pursuing our enemies.”

“A truce to policy, abbe; begone, I beg of you, and do not let me hear any more of you till I send for you; what we most need is circumspection and silence.  You have a terrible example before you, gentlemen:  no reprisals, I forbid them.”

“There are no orders,” grumbled the abbe, “which will prevent me from avenging a family affront upon the guilty person.”

“And I,” cried Fouquet, in that imperative tone to which one feels there is nothing to reply, “if you entertain one thought, one single thought, which is not the absolute expression of my will, I will have you cast into the Bastile two hours after that thought has manifested itself.  Regulate your conduct accordingly, abbe.”

The abbe colored and bowed.  Fouquet made a sign to Gourville to follow him, and was already directing his steps towards his cabinet, when the usher announced with a loud voice:  “Monsieur le Chevalier d’Artagnan.”

“Who is he?” said Fouquet, negligently, to Gourville.

“An ex-lieutenant of his majesty’s musketeers,” replied Gourville, in the same tone.  Fouquet did not even take the trouble to reflect, and resumed his walk.  “I beg your pardon, monseigneur!” said Gourville, “but I have remembered; this brave man has quitted the king’s service, and probably comes to receive an installment of some pension or other.”

“Devil take him!” said Fouquet, “why does he choose his opportunity so ill?”

“Permit me then, monseigneur, to announce your refusal to him; for he is one of my acquaintance, and is a man whom, in our present circumstances, it would be better to have as a friend than an enemy.”