“And I,” said the abbe, 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, abbe, 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 Pelisson; “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.