“Oh, ciphers is it?” said Bernouin. “Very well! if your eminence attempts calculations, I will promise you a pretty headache to-morrow! And with that please to remember M. Guenaud is not here.” “You are right, Bernouin. You must take Brienne’s place, my friend. Indeed, I ought to have brought M. Colbert with me. That young man goes on very well, Bernouin, very well; a very orderly youth.” “I do not know,” said the valet de chambre, “but I don’t like the countenance of your young man who goes on so well.” “Well, well, Bernouin! We don’t stand in need of your advice. Place yourself there: take the pen and write.” “I am ready, monseigneur; what am I to write?” “There, that’s the place: after the two lines already traced.” “I am there.” “Write seven hundred and sixty thousand livres.” “That is written.” “Upon Lyons——” The cardinal appeared to hesitate. “Upon Lyons,” repeated Bernouin. “Three millions nine hundred thousand livres.” “Well, monseigneur?” “Upon Bordeaux seven millions.” “Seven?” repeated Bernouin. “Yes,” said the cardinal, pettishly, “seven.” Then, recollecting himself, “You understand, Bernouin,” added he, “that all this money is to be spent?” “Eh! monseigneur; whether it be to be spent or put away is of very little consequence to me, since none of these millions are mine.” “These millions are the king’s; it is the king’s money I am reckoning. Well, what were we saying? You always interrupt me!” “Seven millions upon Bordeaux.” “Ah! yes; that’s right. Upon Madrid four millions. I give you to understand plainly to whom this money belongs, Bernouin, seeing that everybody has the stupidity to believe me rich in millions. I repel the silly idea. A minister, besides, has nothing of his own. Come, go on. Rentrees generales, seven millions; properties, nine millions. Have you written that, Bernouin?” “Yes, monseigneur.” “Bourse, six hundred thousand livres; various property, two millions. Ah! I forgot—the furniture of the different chateaux——” “Must I put of the crown?” asked Bernouin. “No, no, it is of no use doing that—that is understood. Have you written that, Bernouin?” “Yes, monseigneur.” “And the ciphers?” “Stand straight under one another.” “Cast them up, Bernouin.” “Thirty-nine millions two hundred and sixty thousand livres, monseigneur.” “Ah!” cried the cardinal, in a tone of vexation; “there are not yet forty millions!” Bernouin recommenced the addition. “No, monseigneur; there want seven hundred and forty thousand livres.” Mazarin asked for the account, and revised it carefully. “Yes, but,” said Bernouin, “thirty-nine millions two hundred and sixty thousand livres make a good round sum.” “Ah, Bernouin, I wish the king had it.” “Your eminence told me that this money was his majesty’s.” “Doubtless, as clear, as transparent as possible. These thirty-nine millions are bespoken, and much more.”