“My friend,” said Aramis, emphasizing the word with a kind of disdainful familiarity, “what does Heaven do in order to substitute one king for another?”
“Heaven!” exclaimed Fouquet—“Heaven gives directions to its agent, who seizes upon the doomed victim, hurries him away, and seats the triumphant rival on the empty throne. But you forget that this agent is called death. Oh! Monsieur d’Herblay, in Heaven’s name, tell me if you have had the idea—”
“There is no question of that, Monseigneur; you are going beyond the object in view. Who spoke of Louis XIV’s death? who spoke of adopting the example which Heaven sets in following out the strict execution of its decrees? No, I wish you to understand that Heaven effects its purposes without confusion or disturbance, without exciting comment or remark, without difficulty or exertion; and that men, inspired by Heaven, succeed like Heaven itself, in all their undertakings, in all they attempt, in all they do.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, my friend,” returned Aramis, with the same intonation on the word friend that he had applied to it the first time—“I mean that if there has been any confusion, scandal, and even effort in the substitution of the prisoner for the king, I defy you to prove it.”
“What!” cried Fouquet, whiter than the handkerchief with which he wiped his temples, “what do you say?”
“Go to the king’s apartment,” continued Aramis, tranquilly, “and you who know the mystery, I defy even you to perceive that the prisoner of the Bastille is lying in his brother’s bed.”
“But the king,” stammered Fouquet, seized with horror at the intelligence.
“What king?” said Aramis, in his gentlest tone; “the one who hates you, or the one who likes you?”
“The king—of—yesterday.”
“The king of yesterday! be quite easy on that score; he has gone to take the place in the Bastille which his victim occupied for so many years.”
“Great God! And who took him there?”
“I.”
“You?”
“Yes, and in the simplest way. I carried him away last night. While he was descending into midnight, the other was ascending into day. I do not think there has been any disturbance whatever. A flash of lightning without thunder awakens nobody.”
Fouquet uttered a thick, smothered cry, as if he had been struck by some invisible blow, and clasping his head between his clenched hands, he murmured: “You did that?”
“Cleverly enough, too; what do you think of it?”
“You dethroned the king? imprisoned him, too?”
“Yes, that has been done.”
“And such an action was committed here, at Vaux?”
“Yes, here, at Vaux, in the Chamber of Morpheus. It would almost seem that it had been built in anticipation of such an act.”
“And at what time did it occur?”
“Last night, between twelve and one o’clock.”
Fouquet made a movement as if he were on the point of springing upon Aramis; he restrained himself. “At Vaux; under my roof!” he said, in a half-strangled voice.
“I believe so! for it is still your house, and it is likely to continue so, since M. Colbert cannot rob you of it now.”
“It was under my roof, then, Monsieur, that you committed this crime?”
“This crime?” said Aramis, stupefied.
“This abominable crime!” pursued Fouquet, becoming more and more excited; “this crime more execrable than an assassination! this crime which dishonors my name forever, and entails upon me the horror of posterity.”
“You are not in your senses, Monsieur,” replied Aramis, in an irresolute tone of voice; “you are speaking too loudly; take care!”
“I will call out so loudly, that the whole world shall hear me.”
“Monsieur Fouquet, take care!”
Fouquet turned round towards the prelate, whom he looked at full in the face. “You have dishonored me,” he said, “in committing so foul an act of treason, so heinous a crime upon my guest, upon one who was peacefully reposing beneath my roof. Oh! woe, woe is me!”
“Woe to the man, rather, who beneath your roof meditated the ruin of your fortune, your life. Do you forget that?”
“He was my guest, my sovereign.”
Aramis rose, his eyes literally bloodshot, his mouth trembling convulsively. “Have I a man out of his senses to deal with?” he said.
“You have an honorable man to deal with.”
“You are mad.”
“A man who will prevent you consummating your crime.”
“You are mad, I say.”
“A man who would sooner, oh! far sooner, die; who would kill you even, rather than allow you to complete his dishonor.”
And Fouquet snatched up his sword, which d’Artagnan had placed at the head of his bed, and clenched it resolutely in his hand. Aramis frowned, and thrust his hand into his breast as if in search of a weapon. This movement did not escape Fouquet, who, full of nobleness and pride in his magnanimity, threw his sword to a distance from him, and approached Aramis so close as to touch his shoulder with his disarmed hand. “Monsieur,” he said, “I would sooner die here on the spot than survive this terrible disgrace; and if you have any pity left for me, I entreat you to take my life.”
Aramis remained silent and motionless.
“You do not reply?” said Fouquet.
Aramis raised his head gently, and a glimmer of hope might be seen once more to animate his eyes. “Reflect, Monseigneur,” he said, “upon everything we have to expect. As the matter now stands, the king is still alive, and his imprisonment saves your life.”
“Yes,” replied Fouquet, “you may have been acting on my behalf, but I will not, do not, accept your services. But, first of all, I do not wish your ruin. You will leave this house.”
Aramis stifled the exclamation which almost escaped his broken heart.
“I am hospitable towards all who are dwellers beneath my roof,” continued Fouquet, with an air of inexpressible majesty; “you will not be more fatally lost than he whose ruin you have consummated.”
“You will be so,” said Aramis, in a hoarse, prophetic voice, “you will be
