say, and the wonders
of Vaux! What of it? What boot these wonders? If I am ruined, how shall
I fill with water the urns which my Naiads bear in their arms, or
force the air into the lungs of my Tritons? To be rich enough, Monsieur
d'Artagnan, a man must be too rich."

D'Artagnan shook his head.

"Oh! I know very well what you think," replied Fouquet, quickly. "If
Vaux were yours, you would sell it, and would purchase an estate in the
country; an estate which should have woods, orchards, and land attached,
so that the estate should be made to support its master. With forty
millions you might--"

"Ten millions," interrupted D'Artagnan.

"Not a million, my dear captain. No one in France is rich enough to give
two millions for Vaux, and to continue to maintain it as I have done; no
one could do it, no one would know how."

"Well," said D'Artagnan, "in any case, a million is not abject misery."

"It is not far from it, my dear monsieur. But you do not understand me.
No; I will not sell my residence at Vaux; I will give it to you, if
you like;" and Fouquet accompanied these words with a movement of the
shoulders to which it would be impossible to do justice.

"Give it to the king; you will make a better bargain."

"The king does not require me to give it to him," said Fouquet; "he
will take it away from me with the most absolute ease and grace, if it
pleases him to do so; and that is the very reason I should prefer to see
it perish. Do you know, Monsieur d'Artagnan, that if the king did not
happen to be under my roof, I would take this candle, go straight to the
dome, and set fire to a couple of huge chests of fusees and fireworks
which are in reserve there, and would reduce my palace to ashes."

"Bah!" said the musketeer, negligently. "At all events, you would not be
able to burn the gardens, and that is the finest feature of the place."

"And yet," resumed Fouquet, thoughtfully, "what was I saying? Great
heavens! burn Vaux! destroy my palace! But Vaux is not mine; these
wonderful creations are, it is true, the property, as far as sense of
enjoyment goes, of the man who has paid for them; but as far as duration
is concerned, they belong to those who created them. Vaux belongs to
Lebrun, to Lenotre, to Pelisson, to Levau, to La Fontaine, to Moliere;
Vaux belongs to posterity, in fact. You see, Monsieur d'Artagnan, that
my very house has ceased to be my own."

"That is all well and good," said D'Artagnan; "the idea