“You are mad.”
“A man who will prevent you consummating your crime.”
“You are mad, I say.”
“A man who would sooner, oh! far sooner, die; who would kill you even, rather than allow you to complete his dishonor.”
And Fouquet snatched up his sword, which D’Artagnan had placed at the head of his bed, and clenched it resolutely in his hand. Aramis frowned, and thrust his hand into his breast as if in search of a weapon. This movement did not escape Fouquet, who, full of nobleness and pride in his magnanimity, threw his sword to a distance from him, and approached Aramis so close as to touch his shoulder with his disarmed hand. “Monsieur,” he said, “I would sooner die here on the spot than survive this terrible disgrace; and if you have any pity left for me, I entreat you to take my life.”
Aramis remained silent and motionless.
“You do not reply?” said Fouquet.
Aramis raised his head gently, and a glimmer of hope might be seen once more to animate his eyes. “Reflect, monseigneur,” he said, “upon everything we have to expect. As the matter now stands, the king is still alive, and his imprisonment saves your life.”
“Yes,” replied Fouquet, “you may have been acting on my behalf, but I will not, do not, accept your services. But, first of all, I do not wish your ruin. You will leave this house.”
Aramis stifled the exclamation which almost escaped his broken heart.