Ten Years Later by Dumas, Alexandre. Part two

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

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