Fouquet drew from his finger a ring worth about three thousand pistoles. “Monsieur,” said he, “this stone was given me by a friend of my childhood, by a man to whom you have rendered a great service.”
“A service—I?” said the musketeer; “I have rendered a service to one of your friends?”
“You cannot have forgotten it, monsieur, for it dates this very day.”
“And that friend’s name was—”
“M. d’Eymeris.”
“One of the condemned?”
“Yes, one of the victims. Well! Monsieur d’Artagnan, in return for the service you have rendered him, I beg you to accept this diamond. Do so for my sake.”
“Monsieur! you—”
“Accept it, I say. To-day is with me a day of mourning; hereafter you will, perhaps, learn why; to-day I have lost one friend; well, I will try to get another.”
“But, Monsieur Fouquet—”