advanced up the
spiral staircase, the more clearly did certain muffled murmurs become
distinct appeals and fearful imprecations.

"What is that?" asked Fouquet.

"That is your Marchiali," said the governor; "this is the way these
madmen scream."

And he accompanied that reply with a glance more pregnant with injurious
allusion, as far as Fouquet was concerned, than politeness. The latter
trembled; he had just recognized in one cry more terrible than any that
had preceded it, the king's voice. He paused on the staircase, snatching
the bunch of keys from Baisemeaux, who thought this new madman was going
to dash out his brains with one of them. "Ah!" he cried, "M. d'Herblay
did not say a word about that."

"Give me the keys at once!" cried Fouquet, tearing them from his hand.
"Which is the key of the door I am to open?"

"That one."

A fearful cry, followed by a violent blow against the door, made the
whole staircase resound with the echo.

"Leave this place," said Fouquet to Baisemeaux, in a threatening tone.

"I ask nothing better," murmured the latter, to himself. "There will be
a couple of madmen face to face, and the one will kill the other, I am
sure."

"Go!" repeated Fouquet. "If you place your foot on this staircase
before I call you, remember that you shall take the place of the meanest
prisoner in the Bastile."

"This job will kill me, I am sure it will," muttered Baisemeaux, as he
withdrew with tottering steps.

The prisoner's cries became more and more terrible. When Fouquet
had satisfied himself that Baisemeaux had reached the bottom of the
staircase, he inserted the key in the first lock. It was then that he
heard the hoarse, choking voice of the king, crying out, in a frenzy of
rage, "Help, help! I am the king." The key of the second door was not
the same as the first, and Fouquet was obliged to look for it on the
bunch. The king, however, furious and almost mad with rage and passion,
shouted at the top of his voice, "It was M. Fouquet who brought me here.
Help me against M. Fouquet! I am the king! Help the king against
M. Fouquet!" These cries filled the minister's heart with terrible
emotions. They were followed by a shower of blows leveled against the
door with a part of the broken chair with which the king had armed
himself. Fouquet at last succeeded in finding the key. The king was
almost exhausted; he could hardly articulate distinctly as he shouted,
"Death to Fouquet! death to the trai