“This crime?” said Aramis, stupefied.
“This abominable crime!” pursued Fouquet, becoming more and more excited; “this crime more execrable than an assassination! this crime which dishonors my name forever, and entails upon me the horror of posterity.”
“You are not in your senses, monsieur,” replied Aramis, in an irresolute tone of voice; “you are speaking too loudly; take care!”
“I will call out so loudly, that the whole world shall hear me.”
“Monsieur Fouquet, take care!”
Fouquet turned round towards the prelate, whom he looked at full in the face. “You have dishonored me,” he said, “in committing so foul an act of treason, so heinous a crime upon my guest, upon one who was peacefully reposing beneath my roof. Oh! woe, woe is me!”
“Woe to the man, rather, who beneath your roof meditated the ruin of your fortune, your life. Do you forget that?”
“He was my guest, my sovereign.”
Aramis rose, his eyes literally bloodshot, his mouth trembling convulsively. “Have I a man out of his senses to deal with?” he said.
“You have an honorable man to deal with.”