“But their thoughts? degree of intelligence? their knowledge of human life?”
“There is inequality there, I admit, monseigneur. Yes; for the prisoner of the Bastile is, most incontestably, superior in every way to his brother; and if, from his prison, this unhappy victim were to pass to the throne, France would not, from the earliest period of its history, perhaps, have had a master more powerful in genius and nobility of character.”
Fouquet buried his face in his hands, as if he were overwhelmed by the weight of this immense secret. Aramis approached him.
“There is a further inequality,” he said, continuing his work of temptation, “an inequality which concerns yourself, monseigneur, between the twins, both sons of Louis XIII., namely, the last comer does not know M. Colbert.”
Fouquet raised his head immediately—his features were pale and distorted. The bolt had hit its mark—not his heart, but his mind and comprehension.
“I understand you,” he said to Aramis; “you are proposing a conspiracy to me?”
“Something like it.”
“One of those attempts which, as you said at the beginning of this conversation, alters the fate of empires?”
“And of superintendents, too; yes, monseigneur.”
“In a word, you propose that I should agree to the substitution of the son of Louis XIII., who is now a prisoner in the Bastile, for the son of Louis XIII., who is at this moment asleep in the Chamber of Morpheus?”