“Then it was you who threw the man out of the window?”
“It was I, myself,” replied D’Artagnan, modestly.
“And you who killed Menneville?”
“I had that misfortune,” said D’Artagnan, bowing like a man who is being congratulated.
“It was you, then, in short, who caused the two condemned persons to be hung?”
“Instead of being burnt, yes, monsieur, and I am proud of it. I saved the poor devils from horrible tortures. Understand, my dear Monsieur de Gourville, that they wanted to burn them alive. It exceeds imagination!”
“Go, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, go,” said Gourville, anxious to spare Fouquet the sight of the man who had just caused him such profound grief.
“No,” said Fouquet, who had heard all from the door of the ante-chamber; “not so; on the contrary, Monsieur d’Artagnan, come in.”
D’Artagnan wiped from the hilt of his sword a last bloody trace, which had escaped his notice, and returned. He then found himself face to face with these three men, whose countenances wore very different expressions. With the abbe it was anger, with Gourville stupor, with Fouquet it was dejection.
“I beg your pardon, monsieur le ministre,” said D’Artagnan, “but my time is short; I have to go to the office of the intendant, to have an explanation with Monsieur Colbert, and to receive my quarter’s pension.”