Fouquet approached the glass, listening, the same noise was renewed, and in the same measure.
"Oh! oh!" murmured the intendant, with surprise, "who is yonder? I did not expect anybody to-day." And, without doubt, to respond to that signal, he pulled a gilded nail in that same glass, and shook it thrice. Then, returning to his place, and seating himself again, "Ma foi! let them wait." said he. And, plunging again into the ocean of papers unrolled before him, he appeared to think of nothing any longer but work.
In fact, with incredible rapidity and marvelous lucidity, Fouquet deciphered the largest papers and most complicated writings, correcting them, annotating them with a pen moved as if by a fever, and the work melting under his hands, signatures, figures, references, became multiplied as if ten clerks—that is to say, a hundred fingers and ten brains—had performed the duties, instead of the five fingers and single brain of this man. From time to time only, Fouquet, absorbed by his work, raised his head to cast a furtive glance upon a clock placed before him. The reason of this was, Fouquet set himself a task, and when this task was once set, in one hour's work, he, by himself, did what another would not have accomplished in a day; always certain, consequently, provided he was not disturbed, to arrive at the end in the time his devouring activity had fixed. But in the midst of his ardent labor, the dry strokes upon the little bell placed behind the glass sounded again once more, hasty, and, consequently, more urgent.
"The lady appears to begin to be impatient," said Fouquet. "Humph! a calm! That must be the comtesse; but, no, the comtesse is gone to Rambouillet for three days. The présidente, then? Oh! no, the présidente would not assume such grand airs; she would ring very humbly, then she would wait my good pleasure. The clearest of all is, that I may not know who it can be, but that I know who it cannot be. And since it is not you, marquise, since it cannot be you, deuce take the rest!" And he went on with his work, in spite of the reiterated appeals of the bell. At the end of a quarter of an hour, however, impatience prevailed over Fouquet in his turn; he might be said to burn, rather than to complete the rest of his work; he thrust his papers into his portfolio, and giving a glance at the mirror, while the taps continued to be faster than ever, "Oh! oh!" said he, "whence comes all this racket? What has happened, and who can the Ariadne be who expects me so impatiently? Let us see
