Thursday Evening, January, 1665.
At length, the mother, the daughter-in-law, and the brother have
obtained leave to be together; they are going to Montluçon in the heart
of Auvergne. The mother had permission to go to Parc-aux-Dames to her
daughter, but her daughter-in-law has prevailed on her to accompany
her. M. and Madame de Charost are on their way to Ancenis. Pecquet
and Lavalée are still in the Bastille. Can any thing be more dreadful
than this injustice? They have given M. Fouquet another servant. M.
d’Artagnan was his only comfort in his journey. It is said that the
person who is to have the care of him at Pignerol is a very worthy
creature. God grant he may be so! or rather, God protect our friend! He
has already protected him so visibly that we ought to think he has an
especial care of him. La Forêt, his old esquire, accosted him as he was
going away. “I am delighted to see you,” said Fouquet to him; “I know
your fidelity and affection: tell my wife and mother not to despair,
that my courage remains, and that I am in good health.” Is not this
admirable? Adieu, my dear sir; let us be like him; let us have courage,
and dwell on the joy occasioned by the glorious sentence of Saturday.