covered his attention in some degree at the moment that Monsieur
Colbert, who had been narrowly observant for some minutes, approached,
and, doubtless, with great respect, yet with much perseverance,
whispered a counsel of some sort into the still tingling ears of the
king. The king, at the suggestion, listened with renewed attention and
immediately looking around him, said, "Is Monsieur Fouquet no longer
here?"

"Yes, sire, I am here," replied the superintendent, till then engaged
with Buckingham, and approached the king, who advanced a step towards
him with a smiling yet negligent air. "Forgive me," said Louis, "if I
interrupt your conversation; but I claim your attention wherever I may
require your services."

"I am always at the king's service," replied Fouquet.

"And your cash-box, too," said the king, laughing with a false smile.

"My cash-box more than anything else," said Fouquet, coldly.

"The fact is, I wish to give a _fete_ at Fontainebleau--to keep open
house for fifteen days, and I shall require--" and he stopped, glancing
at Colbert. Fouquet waited without showing discomposure; and the king
resumed, answering Colbert's icy smile, "four million francs."

"Four million," repeated Fouquet, bowing profoundly. And his nails,
buried in his bosom, were thrust into his flesh, but the tranquil
expression of his face remained unaltered. "When will they be required,
sire?"

"Take your time,--I mean--no, no; as soon as possible."

"A certain time will be necessary, sire."

"Time!" exclaimed Colbert, triumphantly.

"The time, monsieur," said the superintendent, with the haughtiest
disdain, "simply to _count the money_; a million can only be drawn and
weighed in a day."

"Four days, then," said Colbert.

"My clerks," replied Fouquet, addressing himself to the king, "will
perform wonders on his majesty's service, and the sum shall be ready in
three days."

It was for Colbert now to turn pale. Louis looked at him astonished.
Fouquet withdrew without any parade or weakness, smiling at his numerous
friends, in whose countenances alone he read the sincerity of their
friendship--an interest partaking of compassion. Fouquet, however,
should not be judged by his smile, for, in reality, he felt as if he had
been stricken by death. Drops of blood beneath his coat stained the fine
linen that clothed his chest. His dress concealed the blood, and his
smile the rage which devoured him. His domestics perceived, by the