“Oh!” cried Fouquet, as if he caught a glimpse of the abyss that yawned beneath his feet, “impossible! impossible! But who passed a pencil over the marks made by Colbert?”
“I did. I was afraid the first would be effaced.”
“Oh! I will know all.”
“You will know nothing, monsieur; you despise your enemy too much for that.”
“Pardon me, my dear marquise; excuse me; yes, M. Colbert is my enemy, I believe him to be so; yes, M. Colbert is a man to be dreaded, I admit. But I! I have time, and as you are here, as you have assured me of your devotion, as you have allowed me to hope for your love, as we are alone——”
“I came here to save you, Monsieur Fouquet, and not to ruin myself,” said the marquise, rising—“therefore, beware!——”
“Marquise, in truth you terrify yourself too much at least, unless this terror is but a pretext——”
“He is very deep, very deep; this M. Colbert: beware!”
Fouquet, in his turn, drew himself up. “And I?” asked he.
“And you, you have only a noble heart. Beware! beware!”