"'Twas only yesterday his mother applied to me, monseigneur."
"And the woman is poor."
"In the deepest misery."
"Oh, Heaven!" said Fouquet, "you sometimes bear with such injustice on earth, that I understand why there are wretches who doubt in your existence. Stay, M. d'Herblay." And Fouquet, taking a pen, wrote a few rapid lines to his colleague Lyonne. Aramis took the letter and made ready to go.
"Wait," said Fouquet. He opened his drawer, and took out ten government notes which were there, each for a thousand francs. "Stay," he said; "set the son at liberty, and give this to the mother; but, above all, tell her not—."
"What, monseigneur?"
"That she is ten thousand livres richer than I. She would say, I am but a poor surintendant! Go! and I hope that God will bless those who are mindful of his poor!"
"So also do I hope," replied Aramis, kissing Fouquet's hand.
And he went out quickly, carrying off the letter for Lyonne, and the notes for Seldon's mother, and taking up Moliere, who was beginning to lose patience.