“It shall be done, monsieur. Give me your other ideas.”
“That is your business.”
“Then give me your purse.”
“Gourville, count a hundred thousand livres for the abbe.”
“Good! and spare nothing, did you not say?”
“Nothing.”
“That is well.”
“Monseigneur,” objected Gourville, “if this should be known, we should lose our heads.”
“Eh! Gourville,” replied Fouquet, purple with anger, “you excite my pity. Speak for yourself, if you please. My head does not shake in that manner upon my shoulders. Now, abbe, is everything arranged?”
“Everything.”