"Upon my word, monseigneur," replied D'Artagnan, "M. d'Herblay must be desperately fond of walks by night, and composing verses by moonlight in the park of Vaux, with some of your poets, in all probability, for he is not in his own room."
"What! not in his own room?" cried Fouquet, whose last hope had thus escaped him; for unless he could ascertain in what way the bishop of Vannes could assist him, he perfectly well knew that in reality he could not expect assistance from any one but him.
"Or, indeed," continued D'Artagnan, "if he is in his own room, he has very good reasons for not answering."
"But surely you did not call him in such a manner that he could have heard you?"
"You can hardly suppose, monseigneur, that having already exceeded my orders, which forbade me leaving you a single moment—you can hardly suppose, I say, that I should have been mad enough to rouse the whole house and allow myself to be seen in the corridor of the bishop of Vannes, in order that M. Colbert might state with positive certainty that I gave you time to burn your papers."
"My papers?"
"Of course; at least that is what I should have done in your place; when any one opens a door for me, I always availed myself of it."
"Yes, yes, and I thank you, for I have availed myself of it."
"And you have done perfectly right. Every man has his own peculiar secrets, with which others have nothing to do. But let us return to Aramis, monseigneur."
"Well, then, I tell you, you could not have called loud enough, or Aramis would have heard you."