And as the superintendent looked into the drawer, Aramis rose from his seat.
“This is very singular,” said Fouquet.
“Your memory is treacherous, my dear Monseigneur; look in another drawer.”
Fouquet took out the bundle of papers, and turned them over once more; he then grew very pale.
“Don’t confine your search to that drawer,” said Aramis; “look elsewhere.”
“Quite useless; I have never made a mistake; no one but myself arranges any papers of mine of this nature; no one but myself ever opens this drawer, of which, besides, no one, myself excepted, is aware of the secret.”
“What do you conclude, then?” said Aramis, agitated.
“That Mazarin’s receipt has been stolen from me; Madame de Chevreuse was right, chevalier; I have appropriated the public funds, I have robbed the state coffers of thirteen millions of money; I am a thief, Monsieur d’Herblay.”
“Nay, nay, do not get irritated—do not get excited.”
“And why not, chevalier? surely there is every reason for it. If legal proceedings are well arranged, and a judgment given in accordance with them, your friend the superintendent will soon follow Montfaucon, his colleague Enguerrand de Marigny, and his predecessor, Semblançay.”
“Oh!” said Aramis, smiling, “not so fast as that.”
“And why not? why not so fast? What do you suppose Madame de Chevreuse has done with those letters—for you refused them, I suppose?”
“Yes; at once. I suppose that she went and sold them to M. Colbert.”
“Well?”
“I said I supposed so; I might have said I was sure of it, for I had her followed, and, when she left me, she returned to her own house, went out by a back door, and proceeded straight to the intendant’s house in the Rue Croix des Petits-Champs.”
“Legal proceedings will be instituted, then, scandal and dishonor will follow; and all will fall upon me like a thunderbolt, blindly, pitilessly.”
Aramis approached Fouquet, who sat trembling in his chair, close to the open drawers; he placed his hand on his shoulder, and in an affectionate tone of voice, said: “Do not forget that the position of M. Fouquet can in no way be compared to that of Semblançay or of Marigny.”
“And why not, in Heaven’s name?”
“Because the proceedings against those ministers were determined, completed, and the sentence carried out, whilst in your case the same thing cannot take place.”
“Another blow, why not? A peculator is, under any circumstances, a criminal.”
“Criminals who know how to find a safe asylum are never in danger.”
“What! make my escape? Fly?”
“No, I do not mean that; you forget that all such proceedings originate in the parliament, that they are instituted by the procureur-général, and that you are the procureur-général. You see that, unless you wish to condemn yourself—”
“Oh!” cried Fouquet, suddenly, dashing his fist upon the table.
“Well! what? what is the matter?”
“I am procureur-général no longer.”
Aramis, at this reply, became as livid as death; he pressed his hands together convulsively, and with a wild, haggard look, which almost annihilated Fouquet, he said, laying a stress on every distinct syllable, “You are procureur-général no longer, do you say?”
“No.”
“Since when?”
“Since the last four or five hours.”
“Take care,” interrupted Aramis, coldly; “I do not think you are in the full possession of your senses, my friend; collect yourself.”
“I tell you,” returned Fouquet, “that a little while ago, someone came to me, brought by my friends, to offer me fourteen hundred thousand francs for the appointment, and that I sold it.”
Aramis looked as though he had been struck by lightning; the intelligent and mocking expression of his countenance assumed an aspect of such profound gloom and terror, that it had more effect upon the superintendent than all the exclamations and speeches in the world. “You had need of money, then?” he said, at last.
“Yes; to discharge a debt of honor.” And in a few words, he gave Aramis an account of Madame de Bellière’s generosity, and the manner in which he had thought it but right to discharge that act of generosity.
“Yes,” said Aramis, “that is, indeed, a fine trait. What has it cost?”
“Exactly the fourteen hundred thousand francs—the price of my appointment.”
“Which you received in that manner, without reflection. Oh, imprudent man!”
“I have not yet received the amount, but I shall tomorrow.”
“It is not yet completed, then?”
“It must be carried out, though; for I have given the goldsmith, for twelve o’clock tomorrow, an order upon my treasury, into which the purchaser’s money will be paid at six or seven o’clock.”
“Heaven be praised!” cried Aramis, clapping his hands together, “nothing is yet completed, since you have not yet been paid.”
“But the goldsmith?”
“You shall receive the fourteen hundred thousand francs from me, at a quarter before twelve.”
“Stay a moment; it is at six o’clock, this very morning, that I am to sign.”
“Oh! I will answer that you do not sign.”
“I have given my word, chevalier.”
“If you have given it, you will take it back again, that is all.”
“Can I believe what I hear?” cried Fouquet, in a most expressive tone. “Fouquet recall his word, after it has once been pledged!”
Aramis replied to the almost stern look of the minister by a look full of anger. “Monsieur,” he said, “I believe I have deserved to be called a man of honor? As a soldier, I have risked my life five hundred times; as a priest I have rendered still greater services, both to the state and to my friends. The value of a word, once passed, is estimated according to the worth of the man who gives it. So long as it is in his own keeping, it is of the purest, finest gold; when his wish to keep it has passed away, it is a two-edged sword. With that word, therefore, he defends himself as with an honorable weapon, considering that, when he disregards his word, he endangers his life and incurs an amount of risk far greater than
