colleague, Lyonne. Aramis took the letter and made ready to go.
"Wait," said Fouquet. He opened his drawer, and took out ten government notes which were there, each for a thousand francs. "Stay," he said; "set the son at liberty, and give this to the mother; but, above all, tell her not———"
"What, monseigneur?"
"That she is ten thousand livres richer than I. She would say I am but a poor surintendant. Go, and I hope that God will bless those who are mindful of His poor!"
"So also do I hope," replied Aramis, kissing bouquet's hand. And he went out quickly, carrying off the letter for Lyonne and the notes for Seldon's mother, and taking up Molière, who was beginning to lose patience.
CHAPTER VII.
ANOTHER SUPPER AT THE BASTILE.
SEVEN o'clock sounded from the great clock of the Bastile, that famous clock, which, like all the accessories of the state prison, the very use of which is a torture, recalled to the prisoners' minds the destination of every hour of their punishment. The timepiece of the Bastile, adorned with figures, like most of the clocks of the period, represented St. Peter in bonds. It was the supper hour of the unfortunate captives. The doors, grating on their enormous hinges, opened for the passage of the baskets and trays of provisions, the delicacy of which, as M. de Baisemeaux has himself taught us, was regulated by the condition in life of the prisoner. We understand, on this head, the theories of M. de Baisemeaux, sovereign dispenser of gastronomic delicacies, head-cook of the royal fortress, whose trays, full laden, were ascending the steep staircases, carrying some consolation to the prisoners in the bottom of honestly filled bottles. This same hour was that of M. de Gouverneur's supper also. He had a guest to-day, and the spit turned more heavily than usual. Roast partridges flanked with quails and flanking a larded leveret; boiled fowls, ham, fried and sprinkled with white wine, cardons of Guipuzcoa and la bisque écrivisses—these, together with the soups and hors d'œuvre, constituted the governor's bill of fare. Baisemeaux, seated at table, was rubbing his hands
