token of satisfaction. As D’Artagnan entered, Fouquet, on his side, raised his head, and not one of D’Artagnan’s movements escaped him. And then the looks
of the two men met, and they both saw that they had understood each other without exchanging a syllable.
“Well!” asked Fouquet, the first to speak, “and M. d’Herblay?”
“Upon my word, monseigneur,” replied D’Artagnan, “M. d’Herblay must
be desperately fond of walking out at night, and composing verses by moonlight
in the park of Vaux, with some of your poets, in all probability, for he is not in
his own room.”
“What! not in his own room?” cried Fouquet, whose last hope thus escaped
him; for unless he could ascertain in what way the bishop of Vannes could assist
him, he perfectly well knew that he could expect assistance from no o
