“That may be!

But you forget that you have made me a present of Belle-Isle.”

“But not for you to arrest my friends.”

“You take it back again, then?”

“As far as that goes — yes, sire.”

“My musketeers shall capture it, and the affair will be at an end.”

“Neither your musketeers, nor your whole army could take Belle-Isle,” said Fouquet, coldly. “Belle-Isle is impregnable.”

The king became perfectly livid; a lightning flash seemed to dart from his eyes. Fouquet felt that he was lost, but he as not one to shrink when the voice of honor spoke loudly within him. He bore the king’s