But D'Artagnan knew the terrible secret.

He alone with Fouquet knew it; those two men had not, the one the courage to complain, the other the right to accuse.

The captain, to whom the two hundred pistoles were brought, was about to take his leave, when Fouquet, rising, took a glass of wine, and ordered one to be given to D'Artagnan.
"Monsieur," said he, "to the health of the king, _whatever may happen_." "And to your health, monseigneur, _whatever may happen_," said D'Artagnan.
He bowed, with these words of evil omen, to all the company, who rose as soon as they heard the sound of his spurs and boots at the bottom of the stairs.
"I, for a moment, thought it was I and not my money he wanted," said Fouquet, endeavoring to laugh.
"You!" cried his friends; "and what for, in the name of Heaven!" "Oh! do not deceive yourselves, my dear brothers in Epicurus," said the superintendent; "I do not wish to make a comparison between the most humble sinner on the earth, and the God we adore, but remember, he gave one day to his friends a repast which is called the Last Supper, and which was nothing but a farewell dinner, like that which we are making at this moment." A painful cry of denial arose from all parts of the table.

"Shut the doors," said Fouquet, and the servants disappeared.

"My friends," continued Fouquet, lowering his voice, "what was I formerly?
What am I now?
Consult among yourselves and reply.