“Our friends are lost. Colbert is conveying them to the donjon. They crossed our path under the arcade Saint-Jean.”
Pelisson, struck as by a thunderbolt, made no reply. With a single reproach he would have killed his master. “Where is monseigneur going?” said the footman.
“Home—to Paris. You, Pelisson, return to Saint-Mande, and bring the Abbe Fouquet to me within an hour. Begone!”
Chapter LX. Plan of Battle.
The night was already far advanced when the Abbe Fouquet joined his brother. Gourville had accompanied him. These three men, pale with dread of future events, resembled less three powers of the day than three conspirators, united by one single thought of violence. Fouquet walked for a long time, with his eyes fixed upon the floor, striking his hands one against the other. At length, taking courage, in the midst of a deep sigh: “Abbe,” said he, “you were speaking to me only to-day of certain people you maintain.”
“Yes, monsieur,” replied the abbe.
“Tell me precisely who are these people.” The abbe hesitated.
“Come! no fear, I am not threatening; no romancing, for I am not joking.”
“Since you demand the truth, monseigneur, here it is:—I have a hundred and twenty friends or companions of pleasure, who are sworn to me as the thief is to the gallows.”
“And you think you can depend on them?”