Baisemeaux turned pale, thinking that this remark was made ironically, and portended a furious burst of anger. But Fouquet had recovered his breath, and, beckoning the sentinel and the subaltern, who were rubbing their shoulders, towards him, he said, “There are twenty pistoles for the sentinel, and fifty for the officer. Pray receive my compliments, gentlemen. I will not fail to speak to his majesty about you. And now, M. Baisemeaux, a word with you.” And he followed the governor to his official residence, accompanied by a murmur of general satisfaction. Baisemeaux was already trembling with shame and uneasiness. Aramis’s early visit, from that moment, seemed to possess consequences, which a functionary such as he (Baisemeaux) was, was perfectly justified in apprehending. It was quite another thing, however, when Fouquet in a sharp tone of voice, and with an imperious look, said, “You have seen M. d’Herblay this morning?” “Yes, monseigneur.” “And are you not horrified at the crime of which you have made yourself an accomplice?” “Well,” thought Baisemeaux, “good so far;” and then he added, aloud, “But what crime, monseigneur, do you allude to?” “That for which you can be quartered alive, monsieur--do not forget that! But this is not a time to show anger. Conduct me immediately to the prisoner.” “To what prisoner?” said Baisemeaux, trembling. “You pretend to be ignorant? Very good--it is the best plan for you, perhaps; for if, in fact, you were to admit your participation in such a crime, it would be all over with you. I wish, therefore, to seem to believe in your assumption of ignorance.” “I entreat you, monseigneur--” “That will do. Lead me to the prisoner.” “To Marchiali?” “Who is Marchiali?” “The prisoner who was brought back this morning by M. d’Herblay.” “He is called Marchiali?” said the superintendent, his conviction somewhat shaken by Baisemeaux’s cool manner. “Yes, monseigneur; that is the name under which he was inscribed here.” Fouquet looked steadily at Baisemeaux, as if he would read his very heart; and perceived, with that clear-sightedness most men possess who are accustomed to the exercise of power, that the man was speaking with perfect sincerity. Besides, in observing his face for a few moments, he could not believe that Aramis would have chosen such a confidant. “It is the prisoner,” said the superintendent to him, “whom M. d’Herblay carried away the day before yesterday?” “Yes, monseigneur.” “And whom he brought back this morning?” added Fouquet, quickly: for he understood immediately the mechanism of Aramis’s plan. “Precisely, monseigneur.” “And his name is Marchiali, you say?” “Yes, Marchiali. If monseigneur has come here to remove him, so much the better, for I was going to write about him.” “What has he done, then?”