Fouquet had gone to bed, like a man who clings to life, and wishes to economize, as much as possible, that slender tissue of existence, of which the shocks and frictions of this world so quickly wear out the tenuity. D'Artagnan appeared at the door of this chamber, and was saluted by the superintendent with a very affable "Good day."
-"_Bon jour!_ monseigneur," replied the musketeer; "how did you get through the journey?" -"Tolerably well, thank you." -"And the fever?"
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