accident, to be in the riot; and in this riot we were
obliged to have recourse to our swords. And he did wonders.”
“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
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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 two farmers of
the revenues, 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
those 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!”
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“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 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.”
“I only hold to the king and the pope.”
“Dame! listen then,” said D’Artagnan, in the most natural
tone imaginable. “I said that because everybody here swears
by M. Fouquet. The plain is M. Fouquet’s; the salt-mines I
am about to buy are M. Fouquet’s; the island in which
Porthos studies topography is M. Fouquet’s; the galleys are
M. Fouquet’s. I confess, then, that nothing would have
surprised me in your enfeoffment, or rather in that of your
diocese, to M. Fouquet. He is a different master from the
king, that is all; but quite as powerful as Louis.”
“Thank God! I am not vassal to anybody; I belong to nobody,
and am entirely my own master,” replied Aramis, who, during
this conversation, followed with his eye every gesture of
D’Artagnan, every glance of Porthos. But D’Artagnan was
impassible and Porthos motionless; the thrusts aimed so
skillfully were parried by an able adversary; not one hit
the mark. Nevertheless, both began to feel the fatigue of
such a contest and the announcement of supper was well
received by everybody. Supper changed the course of