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Updated: June 3, 2025
He performed these various operations with so much mystery, activity, and generosity, that never was Fouquet, then laboring under an attack of fever, more nearly saved, except for the counteraction of that immense disturber of human projects, chance. A report was spread during the night, that the king was coming in great haste on post horses, and would arrive in ten or twelve hours at the latest.
The king, at the suggestion, listened with renewed attention and immediately looking around him, said, "Is Monsieur Fouquet no longer here?" "Yes, sire, I am here," replied the superintendent, till then engaged with Buckingham, and approached the king, who advanced a step towards him with a smiling yet negligent air.
Catherine Fouquet, Countess de Vertus, his daughter, Madame de Montbazon's mother, was beautiful, witty, somewhat giddy, and very gallant. Impatient of all hindrance, she had authorised one of her lovers to assassinate her husband; but it was the husband who assassinated the lover.
"Why not?" replied Fouquet; "if true, as it is said to be, that the king has made him his intendant?" Scarcely had Fouquet uttered these words, with a marked intention, than an explosion broke forth among the guests. "The miser!" said one. "The mean, pitiful fellow!" said another. "The hypocrite!" said a third. Pelisson exchanged a meaning look with Fouquet.
"A great deal can be seen with observation as keen as yours," said Fouquet; at which D'Artagnan bowed. During this Raoul made a sign to Buckingham. "M. Fouquet," said Buckingham, "I leave the captain with you, he is more learned than I am in bastions, scarps, and counter-scarps, and I will join one of my friends, who has just beckoned me."
In fact with incredible rapidity and marvelous lucidity, Fouquet deciphered the largest papers and most complicated writings, correcting them, annotating them with a pen moved as if by a fever, and the work melting under his hands, signatures, figures, references, became multiplied as if ten clerks that is to say, a hundred fingers and ten brains had performed the duties, instead of the five fingers and single brain of this man.
"Gourville, count a hundred thousand livres for the abbe." "Good! and spare nothing, did you not say?" "Nothing." "That is well." "Monseigneur," objected Gourville, "if this should be known, we should lose our heads." "Eh! Gourville," replied Fouquet, purple with anger, "you excite my pity. Speak for yourself, if you please. My head does not shake in that manner upon my shoulders.
"That only proves one thing," said D'Artagnan; "and that is, that you have your particular customs in finance, and M. Fouquet has his own." "Mine, monsieur, are the correct ones." "I do not say they are not." "And you have accepted what was not due to you." D'Artagnan's eyes flashed.
I should not be astonished if he were, for he seems to be on very good terms with the dryads of Fontainebleau." "Never mind," said Fouquet; "let us get there. If he is not aware of it, we shall see what he will do if he should know it, as it has two entrances, so that whilst he enters by one, we can leave by the other." "Is it far?" asked Aramis, "for the rain is beginning to penetrate."
At this singular confession of the superintendent, D'Artagnan cast his glance all round the room; and although he did not open his lips, Fouquet understood him so thoroughly, that he added: "What can be done with such wealth of substance as surrounds us, when a man can no longer cultivate his taste for the magnificent?
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