“Sire, men are but men, and M. Fouquet has his defects as well as his great qualities.”
“Ah! defects, who is without them, M. Colbert?”
“Your majesty, hardly,” said Colbert, boldly; for he knew how to convey a good deal of flattery in a light amount of blame, like the arrow which cleaves the air notwithstanding its weight, thanks to the light feathers which bear it up.
The king smiled. “What defect has M. Fouquet, then?” he said.
“Still the same, sire; it is said he is in love.”
“In love! with whom?”
“I am not quite sure, sire; I have very little to do with matters of gallantry.”
“At all events you know, since you speak of it.”
“I have heard a name mentioned.”
“Whose?”