ng
now but work. 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. From time to time, only, Fouquet, absorbed by
his work, raised his head to cast a furtive glance upon a clock placed
before him. The reason of this was, Fouquet set himself a task, and
when this task was once set, in one hour's work he, by himself, did
what another would not have accomplished in a day; always certain,
consequently, provided he was not disturbed, of arriving at the close
in the time his devouring activity had fixed. But in the midst of his
ardent labor, the soft strokes upon the little bell placed behind the
glass sounded again, hasty, and, consequently, more urgent.

"The lady appears to be impatient," said Fouquet. "Humph! a calm! That
must be the comtesse; but, no, the comtesse is gone to Rambouillet
for three days. The presidente, then? Oh! no, the presidente would not
assume such grand airs; she would ring very humbly, then she would wait
my good pleasure. The greatest certainty is, that I do not know who
it can be, but that I know who it cannot be. And since it is not you,
marquise, since it cannot be you, deuce take the rest!" And he went on
with his work in spite of the reiterated appeals of the bell. At the end
of a quarter of an hour, however, impatience prevailed over Fouquet in
his turn: he might be said to consume, rather than to complete the
rest of his work; he thrust his papers into his portfolio, and giving a
glance at the mirror, whilst the taps continued faster than ever: "Oh!
oh!" said he, "whence comes all this racket? What has happened, and who
can the Ariadne be who expects me so impatiently. Let us see!"

He then applied the tip of his finger to the nail parallel to the one
he had drawn. Immediately the glass moved like a folding-door and
discovered a secret closet, rather deep, in which the superintendent
disappeared as if going into a vast box. When there, he touched another
spring, which opened, not a board, but a block of the wall, and he went
out by that opening, leaving the door to shut of itself. Then Fouquet
descended about a sco