. And now, monseigneur, give me your word that you will
not in any way attempt to make your escape, and that when I return I
shall find you here again."

"I give it, monsieur," replied Fouquet, with an expression of the
warmest and deepest gratitude.

D'Artagnan disappeared. Fouquet looked at him as he quitted the room,
waited with a feverish impatience until the door was closed behind him,
and as soon as it was shut, flew to his keys, opened two or three secret
doors concealed in various articles of furniture in the room, looked
vainly for certain papers, which doubtless he had left at Saint-Mande,
and which he seemed to regret not having found in them; then hurriedly
seizing hold of letters, contracts, papers, writings, he heaped them
up into a pile, which he burnt in the extremest haste upon the marble
hearth of the fireplace, not even taking time to draw from the interior
of it the vases and pots of flowers with which it was filled. As soon as
he had finished, like a man who has just escaped an imminent danger, and
whose strength abandons him as soon as the danger is past, he sank down,
completely overcome, on a couch. When D'Artagnan returned, he found
Fouquet in the same position; the worthy musketeer had not the slightest
doubt that Fouquet, having given his word, would not even think of
failing to keep it, but he had thought it most likely that Fouquet would
turn his (D'Artagnan's) absence to the best advantage in getting rid of
all the papers, memorandums, and contracts, which might possibly render
his position, which was even now serious enough, more dangerous than
ever. And so, lifting up his head like a dog who has regained the scent,
he perceived an odor resembling smoke he had relied on finding in the
atmosphere, and having found it, made a movement of his head in token
of satisfaction. As D'Artagnan entered, Fouquet, on his side, raised his
head, and not one of D'Artagnan's movements escaped him. And then the
looks of the two men met, and they both saw that they had understood
each other without exchanging a syllable.

"Well!" asked Fouquet, the first to speak, "and M. d'Herblay?"

"Upon my word, monseigneur," replied D'Artagnan, "M. d'Herblay must
be desperately fond of walking out at night, and composing verses
by moonlight in the park of Vaux, with some of your poets, in all
probability, for he is not in his own room."

"What! not in his own room?" cried Fouquet, whose last hope thus escaped
him;