"What makes you think that, M. d'Artagnan? For my part, I think quite the contrary."
"I have heard speak of nothing of the kind," replied D'Artagnan.
"Eh! eh!" said Fouquet.
"Indeed, no. You are an agreeable man, in spite of your fever. The king ought not, cannot help loving you, at the bottom of his heart."
Fouquet's face implied doubt. "But M. Colbert?" said he; "does M. Colbert love me as much as you say?"
"I don't speak of M. Colbert," replied D'Artagnan. "He is an exceptional man, is that M. Colbert. He does not love you; that is very possible; but, mordioux! the squirrel can guard himself against the adder with very little trouble."
"Do you know that you are speaking to me quite as a friend," replied Fouquet; "and that, upon my life! I have never met with a man of your intelligence, and your heart?"
"You are pleased to say so," replied D'Artagnan. "Why did you wait till to-day, to pay me such a compliment?"
"Blind as we are!" murmured Fouquet.
"Your voice is getting hoarse," said D'Artagnan; "drink, monseigneur, drink!" And he offered him a cup of tisane, with the most friendly cordiality; Fouquet took it, and thanked him by a bland smile. "Such things only happen to me," said the musketeer. "I have passed ten years under your very beard, while you were rolling about tons of gold. You were clearing an annual pension of four millions; you never observed me; and you find out there is such a person in the world, just at the moment—"