“But, monsieur,” said Fouquet, “there is money here.” D’Artagnan looked at the superintendent with astonishment. “You have been answered inconsiderately, monsieur, I know, because I heard it,” said the minister; “a man of your merit ought to be known by everybody.” D’Artagnan bowed. “Have you an order?” added Fouquet.
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Give it me, I will pay you myself; come with me.” He made a sign to Gourville and the abbe, who remained in the chamber where they were. He led D’Artagnan into his cabinet. As soon as the door was shut,—“how much is due to you, monsieur?”
“Why, something like five thousand livres, monseigneur.”
“For arrears of pay?”
“For a quarter’s pay.”
“A quarter consisting of five thousand livres!” said Fouquet, fixing upon the musketeer a searching look. “Does the king, then, give you twenty thousand livres a year?”
“Yes, monseigneur, twenty thousand livres a year. Do you think it is too much?”
“I?” cried Fouquet, and he smiled bitterly. “If I had any knowledge of mankind, if I were—instead of being a frivolous, inconsequent, and vain spirit—of a prudent and reflective spirit; if, in a word, I had, as certain persons have known how, regulated my life, you would not receive twenty thousand livres a year, but a hundred thousand, and you would belong not to the king but to me.”
D’Artagnan colored slightly. There is sometimes in the manner in which a eulogium is given, in the voice, in the affectionate tone, a poison so sweet, that the strongest mind is intoxicated by it. The superintendent terminated his speech by opening a drawer, and taking from it four rouleaux, which he placed before D’Artagnan. The Gascon opened one. “Gold!” said he.