“Monsieur d’Artagnan!” cried the king, ringing his little bell.
“Oh, sire,” interrupted Fouquet, laughing in such a manner as made the prince feel cold, “would you give me the captain of your musketeers to take me to my lodgings? An equivocal honor that, sire! A simple footman, I beg.”
“And why, M. Fouquet? M. d’Artagnan conducts me often, and extremely well!”
“Yes, but when he conducts you, sire, it is to obey you; whilst me—”
“Go on!”
“If I am obliged to return home supported by the leader of the musketeers, it would be everywhere said you had had me arrested.”
“Arrested!” replied the king, who became paler than Fouquet himself,—“arrested! oh!”
“And why should they not say so?” continued Fouquet, still laughing; “and I would lay a wager there would be people found wicked enough to laugh at it.” This sally disconcerted the monarch. Fouquet was skillful enough, or fortunate enough, to make Louis XIV. recoil before the appearance of the deed he meditated. M. d’Artagnan, when he appeared, received an order to desire a musketeer to accompany the surintendant.
“Quite unnecessary,” said the latter; “sword for sword; I prefer Gourville, who is waiting for me below. But that will not prevent me enjoying the society of M. d’Artagnan. I am glad he will see Belle-Isle, he is so good a judge of fortifications.”
D’Artagnan bowed, without at all comprehending what was going on. Fouquet bowed again and left the apartment, affecting all the slowness of a man who walks with difficulty. When once out of the castle, “I am saved!” said he. “Oh! yes, disloyal king, you shall see Belle-Isle, but it shall be when I am no longer there.”