His unconquerable pride revolted at the idea that a man had held suspended at the end of his finger the thread of his royal life.

Every word that fell from Fouquet's lips, and which he thought most efficacious in procuring his friend's pardon, seemed to pour another drop of poison into the already ulcerated heart of Louis XIV.
Nothing could bend or soften him.

Addressing himself to Fouquet, he said, "I really don't know, monsieur, why you should solicit the pardon of these men.

What good is there in asking that which can be obtained without solicitation ?" "I do not understand you, sire." "It is not difficult, either.

Where am I now ?" "In the Bastile, sire." "Yes; in a dungeon.