“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 has occupied for such a long time past.”
“Great God! And who took him there?”
“I.”
“You?”
“Yes, and in the simplest way. I carried him away last night; and while he was descending into gloom, the other was ascending into light. I do not think there has been any disturbance created in any way. A flash of lightning without thunder never awakens any one.”
Fouquet uttered a thick, smothered cry, as if he had been struck by some invisible blow, and clasping his head between his clinched hands, he murmured, “You did that?”
“Cleverly enough, too; what do you think of it?”
“You have dethroned the King; you have imprisoned him?”
“It is 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 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.”
“M. Fouquet, take care!”
Fouquet turned towards the prelate, whom he looked 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; he was my King!”
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 from consummating your crime.”
“You are mad!”
“A man who would 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 clinched 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, noble and grand 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 my 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.”