Mazarin was in bed, suffering a little from the gout. But as he was a man of order, who utilized even pain, he forced his wakefulness to be the humble servant of his labor. He had consequently ordered Bernouin, his valet de chambre, to bring him a little traveling-desk, so that he might write in bed. But the gout is not an adversary that allows itself to be conquered so easily; therefore, at each movement he made, the pain from dull became sharp. “Is Brienne there?” asked he of Bernouin. “No, monseigneur,” replied the valet de chambre; “M. de Brienne, with your permission, is gone to bed. But if it is the wish of your eminence, he can speedily be called.” “No, it is not worth while. Let us see, however. Cursed ciphers!” And the cardinal began to think, counting on his fingers the while. “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 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?”