“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 not belong 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.
“It will be less burdensome, monsieur.”
“But then, monsieur, these make twenty thousand livres.”
“No doubt they do.”
“But only five are due to me.”