“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 every one stopped; the abbe quitted his window; the first fuses 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 abbe, the first one to speak, “run M. Colbert through the body.”
“Monseigneur,” said Pelisson, “you must speak to his majesty.”
“The king, my dear Pelisson, 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.”