“Greatly,” replied the minister; “ask Gourville to tell you what it is.” Pélisson, on turning round, found La Fontaine treading upon his heels. He was obliged to listen to a Latin verse, which the poet had composed upon Vatel. La Fontaine had, for an hour, been scanning this verse in all corners, seeking someone to pour it out upon advantageously. He thought he had caught Pélisson, but the latter escaped him; he turned towards Sorel, who had, himself, just composed a quatrain in honor of the supper, and the Amphytrion. La Fontaine in vain endeavored to gain attention to his verses; Sorel wanted to obtain a hearing for his quatrain. He was obliged to retreat before M. le Comte de Charost, whose arm Fouquet had just taken. L’Abbé Fouquet perceived that the poet, absentminded as usual, was about to follow the two talkers; and he interposed. La Fontaine seized upon him, and recited his verses. The abbé, who was quite innocent of Latin, nodded his head, in cadence, at every roll which La Fontaine impressed upon his body, according to the undulations of the dactyls and spondees. While this was going on, behind the confiture-basins, Fouquet related the event of the day to his son-in-law, M. de Charost. “We will send the idle and useless to look at the fireworks,” said Pélisson to Gourville, “whilst we converse here.”
“So be it,” said Gourville, addressing four words to Vatel. The latter then led towards the gardens the major part of the beaux, the ladies and the chatterers, whilst the men walked in the gallery, lighted by three hundred wax-lights, in the sight of all; the admirers of fireworks all ran away towards the garden. Gourville approached Fouquet, and said: “Monsieur, we are here.”
“All?” said Fouquet.
“Yes—count.” The superintendent counted; there were eight persons. Pélisson and Gourville walked arm in arm, as if conversing upon vague and frivolous subjects. Sorel and two officers imitated them, and in an opposite direction. The Abbé Fouquet walked alone. Fouquet, with M. de Charost, walked as if entirely absorbed in the conversation of his son-in-law. “Messieurs,” said he, “let no one of you raise his head as he walks, or appear to pay attention to me; continue walking, we are alone, listen to me.”
A perfect silence ensued, disturbed only by the distant cries of the joyous guests, from the groves whence they beheld the fireworks. It was a whimsical spectacle this, of these men walking in groups, as if each one was occupied about something, whilst lending attention really only to one amongst them, who, himself, seemed to be speaking only to his companion. “Messieurs,” said Fouquet, “you have, without doubt, remarked the absence of two of my friends this evening, who were with us on Wednesday. For God’s sake, abbé, do not stop—it is not necessary to enable you to listen; walk on, carrying your head in a natural way, and as you have excellent sight, place yourself at the window, and if anyone returns towards the gallery, give us notice by coughing.”
The abbé obeyed.
“I have not observed their absence,” said Pélisson, who, at this moment, was turning his back to Fouquet, and walking the other way.
“I do not see M. Lyodot,” said Sorel, “who pays me my pension.”
“And I,” said the abbé, at the window, “do not see M. d’Eymeris, who owes me eleven hundred livres from our last game of brelan.”
“Sorel,” continued Fouquet, walking bent, and gloomily, “you will never receive your pension any more from M. Lyodot; and you, abbé, will never be paid you eleven hundred livres by M. d’Eymeris; for both are doomed to die.”
“To die!” exclaimed the whole assembly, arrested, in spite of themselves, in the comedy they were playing, by that terrible word.
“Recover yourselves, messieurs,” said Fouquet, “for perhaps we are watched—I said: to die!”
“To die!” repeated Pélisson; “what, the men I saw six days ago, full of health, gayety, and the spirit of the future! What then is man, good God! that disease should thus bring him down all at once!”
“It is not a disease,” said Fouquet.
“Then there is a remedy,” said Sorel.
“No remedy. Messieurs de Lyodot and D’Eymeris are on the eve of their last day.”
“Of what are these gentlemen dying, then?” asked an officer.
“Ask of him who kills them,” replied Fouquet.
“Who kills them? Are they being killed, then?” cried the terrified chorus.
“They do better still; they are hanging them,” murmured Fouquet, in a sinister voice, which sounded like a funeral knell in that rich gallery, splendid with pictures, flowers, velvet, and gold. Involuntarily everyone stopped; the abbé quitted his window; the first fusées of the fireworks began to mount above the trees. A prolonged cry from the gardens attracted the superintendent to enjoy the spectacle. He drew near to a window, and his friends placed themselves behind him, attentive to his least wish.
“Messieurs,” said he, “M. Colbert has caused to be arrested, tried and will execute my two friends; what does it become me to do?”
“Mordieu!” exclaimed the abbé, the first one to speak, “run M. Colbert through the body.”
“Monseigneur,” said Pélisson, “you must speak to His Majesty.”
“The king, my dear Pélisson, himself signed the order for the execution.”
“Well!” said the Comte de Charost, “the execution must not take place, then; that is all.”
“Impossible,” said Gourville, “unless we could corrupt the jailers.”
“Or the governor,” said Fouquet.
“This night the prisoners might be allowed to escape.”
“Which of you will take charge of the transaction?”
“I,” said the abbé, “will carry the money.”
“And I,” said Pélisson, “will be the bearer of the words.”
“Words and money,” said Fouquet, “five hundred thousand livres to the governor of the conciergerie, that is sufficient; nevertheless, it shall be a million, if necessary.”
“A million!” cried the abbé; “why, for less than half,
