“He has his troubles, then?”
“Yes; his wife wants to make him ambitious.”
“Well, and he told you—”
“That some one had spoken to him about a post in parliament; that M. Fouquet’s name had been mentioned; that ever since, Madame Vanel dreams of nothing else than being called madame la procureur-generale, and that it makes her ill and kills her every night she does not dream about it.”
“The deuce!”
“Poor woman!” said Fouquet.
“Wait a moment. Conrart is always telling me that I do not know how to conduct matters of business; you will see how I managed this one.”
“Well, go on.”
“‘I suppose you know,’ said I to Vanel, ‘that the value of a post such as that which M. Fouquet holds is by no means trifling.’
“‘How much do you imagine it to be?’ he said.