“I cannot do it,” said Vanel, hoarsely.
“Very well,” replied Aramis, who had grasped Vanel so tightly by the coat that, when he let go his hold, Vanel staggered back a few paces, “very well; one can now see clearly enough your object in coming here.”
“Yes,” said Fouquet, “one can easily see that.”
“But—” said Vanel, attempting to stand erect before the weakness of these two men of honor.
“Does the fellow presume to speak?” said Aramis, with the tone of an emperor.
“Fellow!” repeated Vanel.
“The scoundrel, I meant to say,” added Aramis, who had now resumed his usual self-possession. “Come, monsieur, produce your deed of sale,—you have it about you, I suppose, in one of your pockets, already prepared, as an assassin holds his pistol or his dagger concealed under his cloak.”
Vanel began to mutter something.
“Enough!” cried Fouquet. “Where is this deed?”
Vanel tremblingly searched in his pockets, and as he drew out his pocket-book, a paper fell out of it, while Vanel offered the other to Fouquet. Aramis pounced upon the paper which had fallen out, as soon as he recognized the handwriting. “I beg your pardon,” said Vanel, “that is a rough draft of the deed.”