“Bah! what did he do?”

“Why, in the first place, he threw a man out of the window, as he would have flung a sack full of flock.”

“Come, that’s pretty well,” said Porthos.

“Then he drew, and cut and thrust away, as we fellows used to do in the good old times.”

“And what was the cause of this riot?” said Porthos.

D’Artagnan remarked upon the face of Aramis a complete indifference to this question of Porthos.  “Why,” said he, fixing his eyes upon Aramis, “on account of the two farmers of the revenue, friends of M. Fouquet, whom the king forced to disgorge their plunder, and then hanged them.”

A scarcely perceptible contraction of the prelate’s brow showed that he had heard D’Artagnan’s reply.  “Oh, oh!” 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.”