t comer does not
know M. Colbert."

Fouquet raised his head immediately--his features were pale and
distorted. The bolt had hit its mark--not his heart, but his mind and
comprehension.

"I understand you," he said to Aramis; "you are proposing a conspiracy
to me?"

"Something like it."

"One of those attempts which, as you said at the beginning of this
conversation, alters the fate of empires?"

"And of superintendents, too; yes, monseigneur."

"In a word, you propose that I should agree to the substitution of the
son of Louis XIII., who is now a prisoner in the Bastile, for the son of
Louis XIII., who is at this moment asleep in the Chamber of Morpheus?"

Aramis smiled with the sinister expression of the sinister thought which
was passing through his brain. "Exactly," he said.

"Have you thought," continued Fouquet, becoming animated with that
strength of talent which in a few seconds originates, and matures the
conception of a plan, and with that largeness of view which foresees all
consequences, and embraces every result at a glance--"have you thought
that we must assemble the nobility, the clergy, and the third estate
of the realm; that we shall have to depose the reigning sovereign, to
disturb by so frightful a scandal the tomb of their dead father, to
sacrifice the life, the honor of a woman, Anne of Austria, the life and
peace of mind and heart of another woman, Maria Theresa; and suppose
that it were all done, if we were to succeed in doing it--"

"I do not understand you," continued Aramis, coldly. "There is not a
single syllable of sense in all you have just said."

"What!" said the superintendent, surprised, "a man like you refuse to
view the practical bearing of the case! Do you confine yourself to the
childish delight of a political illusion, and neglect the chances of its
being carried into execution; in other words, the reality itself, is it
possible?"

"My friend," said Aramis, emphasizing the word with a kind of disdainful
familiarity, "what does Heaven do in order to substitute one king for
another?"

"Heaven!" exclaimed Fouquet--"Heaven gives directions to its agent,
who seizes upon the doomed victim, hurries him away, and seats the
triumphant rival on the empty throne. But you forget that this agent is
called death. Oh! Monsieur d'Herblay, in Heaven's name, tell me if you
have had the idea--"

"There is no question of that, monseigneur; you are going beyond the
object in view. Who s