“The too much heart you displayed in your reception of the king,” said La Fontaine, quietly, without suspicion that he was uttering a sacrilege.
“We cannot devote too much heart to the reception of our king,” said Fouquet, mildly, to his poet.
“Monsieur meant to say the too great ardor,” interrupted D’Artagnan, with perfect frankness and much amenity. “The fact is, monseigneur, that hospitality was never practiced as at Vaux.”
Madame Fouquet permitted her countenance to show clearly that if Fouquet had conducted himself well towards the king, the king had hardly done the like to the minister. But D’Artagnan knew the terrible secret. He alone with Fouquet knew it; those two men had not, the one the courage to complain, the other the right to accuse. The captain, to whom the two hundred pistoles were brought, was about to take his leave, when Fouquet, rising, took a glass of wine, and ordered one to be given to D’Artagnan.
“Monsieur,” said he, “to the health of the king, whatever may happen.”
“And to your health, monseigneur, whatever may happen,” said D’Artagnan.
He bowed, with these words of evil omen, to all the company, who rose as soon as they heard the sound of his spurs and boots at the bottom of the stairs.
“I, for a moment, thought it was I and not my money he wanted,” said Fouquet, endeavoring to laugh.
“You!” cried his friends; “and what for, in the name of Heaven!”
“Oh! do not deceive yourselves, my dear brothers in Epicurus,” said the superintendent; “I do not wish to make a comparison between the most humble sinner on the earth, and the God we adore, but remember, he gave one day to his friends a repast which is called the Last Supper, and which was nothing but a farewell dinner, like that which we are making at this moment.”