Fouquet recognized the writing and zeal of Gourville. Not being willing that, if any evil happened to himself, this paper should compromise a faithful friend, the surintendant was busy tearing it into a thousand morsels, spread about by the wind from the balustrade of the terrace. D'Artagnan found him watching the flight of the last scraps into space.
"Monsieur," said he, "the king waits for you."
Fouquet walked with a deliberate step into the little corridor, where MM. de Brienne and Rose were at work, while the Duc de Saint-Aignan, seated on a chair, likewise in the corridor, appeared to be waiting for orders, with feverish impatience, his sword between his legs. It appeared strange to Fouquet that MM. Brienne, Rose, and de Saint-Aignan, in general so attentive and obsequious, should scarcely take the least notice, as he, the superintendent, passed. But how could he expect to find it otherwise among courtiers, he whom the king no longer called anything but Fouquet? He raised his head, determined to look every one and everything bravery in the face, and entered the king's apartment, where a little bell, which we already know, had announced him to his majesty.
The king, without rising, nodded to him, and with interest—"Well! how are you. Monsieur Fouquet?" said he.
"I am in a high fever," replied the superintendent; "but I am at the king's service."
"That is well; the States assemble to-morrow; have you a speech ready?"
Fouquet looked at the king with astonishment. "I have not, sire," replied he; "but I will improvise one. I am too well acquainted with affairs to feel any embarrassment. I have only one question to ask; will your majesty permit me?"
"Certainly; ask it."
"Why has your majesty not done his first minister the honor to give him notice of this in Paris!"
"You were ill; I was not willing to fatigue you."