Ten Years Later by Alexandre Dumas (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📖

having received any letter; therefore, having positively denied its receipt, she was unable either to return or burn it.”

“Oh, oh!” said Aramis, with uneasiness, “what is this you tell me?”

“I say that she swore most positively she had not received any letter.”

“That is too much. And did you not insist?”

“On the contrary, I did insist, almost impertinently even.”

“And she persisted in her denial?”

“Unhesitatingly.”

“And did she not contradict herself?”

“Not once.”

“But, in that case, then, you have left our letter in her hands?”

“How could I do otherwise?”

“Oh! it was a great mistake.”

“What the deuce would you have done in my place?”

“One could not force her, certainly, but it is very embarrassing; such a letter ought not to remain in existence against us.”

“Oh! the young girl’s disposition is generosity itself; I looked at her eyes, and I can read eyes well.”

“You think she can be relied upon?”

“From my heart I do.”

“Well, I think we are mistaken.”

“In what way?”

“I think that, in point of fact, as she herself told you, she did not receive the letter.”

“What! do you suppose—”

“I suppose that, from some motive, of which we know nothing, your man did not deliver the letter to her.”

Fouquet rang the bell. A servant appeared. “Send Toby here,” he said. A moment afterwards a man made his appearance, with an anxious, restless look, shrewd expression of the mouth, with short arms, and his back somewhat bent. Aramis fixed a penetrating look upon him.

“Will you allow me to interrogate him myself?” inquired Aramis.

“Do so,” said Fouquet.

Aramis was about to say something to the lackey, when he paused. “No,” he said; “he would see that we attach too much importance to his answer; therefore question him yourself; I will pretend to be writing.” Aramis accordingly placed himself at a table, his back turned towards the old attendant, whose every gesture and look he watched in a looking-glass opposite to him.

“Come here, Toby,” said Fouquet to the valet, who approached with a tolerably firm step. “How did you execute my commission?” inquired Fouquet.

“In the usual way, monseigneur,” replied the man.

“But how, tell me?”

“I succeeded in penetrating as far as Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s apartment; but she was at mass, and so I placed the note on her toilette-table. Is not that what you told me to do?”

“Precisely; and is that all?”

“Absolutely all, monseigneur.”

“No one was there?”

“No one.”

“Did you conceal yourself as I told you?”

“Yes.”

“And she returned?”

“Ten minutes afterwards.”

“And no one could have taken the letter?”

“No one; for no one had entered the room.”

“From the outside, but from the interior?”

“From the place where I was secreted, I could see to the very end of the room.”

“Now listen to me,” said Fouquet, looking fixedly at the lackey; “if this letter did not reach its proper destination, confess it; for, if a mistake has been made, your head shall be the forfeit.”

Toby started, but immediately recovered himself. “Monseigneur,” he said, “I placed the letter on the very place I told you: and I ask only half an hour to prove to you that the letter is in Mademoiselle de la Valliere’s hand, or to bring you back the letter itself.”

Aramis looked at the valet scrutinizingly. Fouquet was ready in placing confidence in people, and for twenty years this man had served him faithfully. “Go,” he said; “but bring me the proof you speak of.” The lackey quitted the room.

“Well, what do you think of it?” inquired Fouquet of Aramis.

“I think that you must, by some means or another, assure yourself of the truth, either that the letter has, or has not, reached La Valliere; that, in the first case, La Valliere must return it to you, or satisfy you by burning it in your presence; that, in the second, you must have the letter back again, even were it to cost you a million. Come, is not that your opinion?”

“Yes; but still, my dear bishop, I believe you are exaggerating the importance of the affair.”

“Blind, how blind you are!” murmured Aramis.

“La Valliere,” returned Fouquet, “whom we assume to be a schemer of the first ability, is simply nothing more than a coquette, who hopes that I shall pay my court to her, because I have already done so, and who, now that she has received a confirmation of the king’s regard, hopes to keep me in leading strings with the letter. It is natural enough.”

Aramis shook his head.

“Is not that your opinion?” said Fouquet.

“She is not a coquette,” he replied.

“Allow me to tell you—”

“Oh! I am well enough acquainted with women who are coquettes,” said Aramis.

“My dear friend!”

“It is a long time ago since I finished my education, you mean. But women are the same, throughout the centuries.”

“True; but men change, and you at the present day are far more suspicious than you formerly were.” And then, beginning to laugh, he added, “Come, if La Valliere is willing to love me only to the extent of a third, and the king two-thirds, do you think the condition acceptable?”

Aramis rose impatiently. “La Valliere,” he said, “has never loved, and never will love, any one but the king.”

“At all events,” said Fouquet, “what would you do?”

“Ask me rather what I would have done?”

“Well! what would you have done?”

“In the first place,