The lighter had just passed the elbow. It came on so fast, that behind it might be seen to tremble the white train of its wake illumined with the fires of day.
"How they go," repeated the patron, "how they go! They must be well paid! I did not think," he added, "that oars of wood could behave better than ours, but those yonder prove the contrary."
"Well they may," said one of the rowers, "they are twelve, and we are but eight."
"Twelve rowers!" replied Gourville, "twelve! impossible."
The number of eight rowers for a lighter had never been exceeded, even for the king. This honor had been paid to Monsieur le Surintendant, much more for the sake of haste than of respect.
"What does that mean?" said Gourville, endeavoring to distinguish beneath the tent which was already apparent, travelers which the most piercing eye could not yet have succeeded in discovering.
"They must be in a hurry, for it is not the king," said the patron.
Fouquet shuddered.
"By what do you know that it is not the king?" said Gourville.
"In the first place, because there is no white flag with fleurs-de-lis, which the royal lighter always carries."