“That is quite sufficient, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” returned Fouquet, coldly. “It was not for nothing you acquired your reputation as a man of intelligence and resource; but with me all this is quite superfluous. Let us come to the point. Do me a service. Why do you arrest me? What have I done?”
“Oh! I know nothing about what you may have done; but I do not arrest you—this evening, at least!”
“This evening!” said Fouquet, turning pale, “but to-morrow?”
“It is not to-morrow just yet, monseigneur. Who can ever answer for the morrow?”
“Quick, quick, captain! let me speak to M. d’Herblay.”
“Alas! that is quite impossible, monseigneur. I have strict orders to see that you hold no communication with any one.”
“With M. d’Herblay, captain—with your friend!”
“Monseigneur, is M. d’Herblay the only person with whom you ought to be prevented holding any communication?”
Fouquet colored, and then assuming an air of resignation, he said: “You are right, monsieur; you have taught me a lesson I ought not to have evoked. A fallen man cannot assert his right to anything, even from those whose fortunes he may have made; for a still stronger reason, he cannot claim anything from those to whom he may never have had the happiness of doing a service.”
“Monseigneur!”