“What is that?” asked Fouquet.
“That is your Marchiali,” said the governor; “this is the way these madmen scream.”
And he accompanied that reply with a glance more pregnant with injurious allusion, as far as Fouquet was concerned, than politeness. The latter trembled; he had just recognized in one cry more terrible than any that had preceded it, the king’s voice. He paused on the staircase, snatching the bunch of keys from Baisemeaux, who thought this new madman was going to dash out his brains with one of them. “Ah!” he cried, “M. d’Herblay did not say a word about that.”
“Give me the keys at once!” cried Fouquet, tearing them from his hand. “Which is the key of the door I am to open?”
“That one.”
A fearful cry, followed by a violent blow against the door, made the whole staircase resound with the echo.
“Leave this place,” said Fouquet to Baisemeaux, in a threatening tone.
“I ask nothing better,” murmured the latter, to himself. “There will be a couple of madmen face to face, and the one will kill the other, I am sure.”
“Go!” repeated Fouquet. “If you place your foot on this staircase before I call you, remember that you shall take the place of the meanest prisoner in the Bastile.”
“This job will kill me, I am sure it will,” muttered Baisemeaux, as he withdrew with tottering steps.