succeeded, or, at least, it would not have been I who would have opposed myself to it.  Now, what will be brought against me?  I have no house to be burnt in Bretagne; I have no treasure there that can be taken from me. — No; but I have my skin; that precious skin of M. d’Artagnan, which to him is worth more than all the houses and all the treasures of the world.  That skin to which I cling above everything, because it is, everything considered, the binding of a body which encloses a heart very warm and ready to fight, and, consequently, to live.  Then, I do desire to live:  and, in reality, I live much better, more completely, since I have become rich.  Who the devil ever said that money spoiled life?  Upon my soul, it is no such thing, on the contrary, it seems as if I absorbed a double quantity of air and sun. Mordioux! what will it be then, if I double that fortune; and if, instead of the switch I now hold in my hand, I should ever carry the baton of a marechal?  Then I really don’t know if there will be, from that moment, enough of air and sun for me.  In fact, this is not a dream, who the devil would oppose it, if the king made me a marechal, as his father, King Louis XIII., made a duke and constable of Albert de Luynes?  Am I not as brave, and much more intelligent, than that imbecile De Vitry?  Ah! that’s exactly what will prevent my advancement:  I have too much wit.  Luckily, if there is any justice in this world, fortune owes me many compensations.  She owes me certainly a recompense for all I did for Anne of Austria, and an indemnification for all she has not done for me.  Then, at the present, I am very well with a king, and with a king who has the appearance of determining to reign.  May God keep him in that illustrious road!  For, if he is resolved to reign, he will want me; and if he wants me, he will give me what he has promised me — warmth and light; so that I march, comparatively, now, as I marched formerly, — from nothing to everything.  Only the nothing of to-day is the all of former days; there has only this little change taken place in my life.  And now let us see! let us take the part of the heart, as I just now was speaking of it.  But in truth, I only spoke of it from memory.”  And the Gascon applied his hand to his breast, as if he were actually seeking the place where his heart was.

“Ah! wretch!” murmured he, smiling with bitterness.  “Ah! poor mortal species!  You hoped, for an instant, that you had not a heart, and now you find you have one — bad courtier as thou art, — and even one of the most seditious.  You have a heart which speaks to you in favor of M. Fouquet.  And what is M. Fouquet, when the king is in question? — A conspirator, a real conspirator, who did not even give himself the trouble to conceal his being a conspirator; therefore, what a weapon would you not have against him, if his good grace, and his intelligence had not made a scabbard for that weapon.  An armed revolt! — for, in fact,