"What!" cried Fouquet, whiter than the handkerchief with which he wiped his temples, "what do you say?"
"Go to the king's apartment," continued Aramis, tranquilly, "and you who know the mystery, I defy even you to perceive that the prisoner of the Bastille is lying in his brother's bed."
"But the king?" stammered Fouquet, seized with horror at the intelligence.
"What king?" said Aramis, in his gentlest tone; "the one who hates you, or the one who likes you?"
"The king—of yesterday?"
"The king of yesterday! be quite easy on that score; he has gone to take the place in the Bastille which his victim has occupied for such a long time past."
"Great God! And who took him there?"
"I!"
"You?"
"Yes; and in the simplest way. I carried him away last night; and while he was descending into gloom, the other was ascending into light. I do not think there has been any disturbance created in any way. A flash of lightning without thunder never awakens any one."