In the meantime Fouquet was hastening to the Louvre, at the best speed of his English horses. The king was at work with Colbert. All at once the king became thoughtful. The two sentences of death he had signed on mounting his throne sometimes recurred to his memory; they were two black spots which he saw with his eyes open; two spots of blood which he saw when his eyes were closed. “Monsieur,” said he rather sharply, to the intendant; “it sometimes seems to me that those two men you made me condemn were not very great culprits.”
“Sire, they were picked out from the herd of the farmers of the financiers, which wanted decimating.”
“Picked out by whom?”
“By necessity, sire,” replied Colbert, coldly.
“Necessity!—a great word,” murmured the young king.
“A great goddess, sire.”
“They were devoted friends of the superintendent, were they not?”
“Yes, sire; friends who would have given up their lives for Monsieur Fouquet.”
“They have given them, monsieur,” said the king.
“That is true;—but uselessly, by good luck,—which was not their intention.”