“The very day I refuse, Colbert will procure the money; whence I know not, but he will procure it: and I shall be lost.”
“There is no doubt of that. In how many days did you promise these four millions?”
“In three days. The king seemed exceedingly pressed.”
“In three days?”
“When I think,” resumed Fouquet, “that just now as I passed along the streets, the people cried out, ‘There is the rich Monsieur Fouquet,’ it is enough to turn my brain.”
“Stay, monsieur, the matter is not worth so much trouble,” said Aramis, calmly, sprinkling some sand over the letter he had just written.
“Suggest a remedy, then, for this evil without a remedy.”
“There is only one remedy for you,—pay.”
“But it is very uncertain whether I have the money. Everything must be exhausted; Belle-Isle is paid for; the pension has been paid; and money, since the investigation of the accounts of those who farm the revenue, is scarce. Besides, admitting that I pay this time, how can I do so on another occasion? When kings have tasted money, they are like tigers who have tasted flesh, they devour everything. The day will arrive—must arrive—when I shall have to say, ‘Impossible, sire,’ and on that very day I am a lost man.”
Aramis raised his shoulders slightly, saying: