Fouquet looked at the king with astonishment. “I have not, sire,” replied he; “but I will improvise one. I am too well acquainted with affairs to feel any embarrassment. I have only one question to ask; will your majesty permit me?”
“Certainly. Ask it.”
“Why did not your majesty do his first minister the honor of giving him notice of this in Paris?”
“You were ill; I was not willing to fatigue you.”
“Never did a labor—never did an explanation fatigue me, sire; and since the moment is come for me to demand an explanation of my king—”
“Oh, Monsieur Fouquet! an explanation? An explanation, pray, of what?”
“Of your majesty’s intentions with respect to myself.”
The king blushed. “I have been calumniated,” continued Fouquet, warmly, “and I feel called upon to adjure the justice of the king to make inquiries.”
“You say all this to me very uselessly, Monsieur Fouquet; I know what I know.”
“Your majesty can only know the things that have been told to you; and I, on my part, have said nothing to you, whilst others have spoken many, many times—”