“So?”
“I have done what was right, my friend, at the risk of my reputation. Adieu!”
“Not adieu, au revoir!”
“Perhaps,” said the marquise, giving her hand to Fouquet to kiss, and walking towards the door with so firm a step, that he did not dare to bar her passage. As to Fouquet, he retook, with his head hanging down and a fixed cloud on his brow, the path of the subterranean passage along which ran the metal wires that communicated from one house to the other, transmitting, through two glasses, the wishes and signals of hidden correspondents.
CHAPTER 55.
The Abbe Fouquet
Fouquet hastened back to his apartment by the subterranean passage, and immediately closed the mirror with the spring. He was scarcely in his closet, when he heard some one knocking violently at the door, and a well-known voice crying:—“Open the door, monseigneur, I entreat you, open the door!” Fouquet quickly restored a little order to everything that might have revealed either his absence or his agitation: he spread his papers over the desk, took up a pen, and, to gain time, said, through the closed door,—“Who is there?”
“What, monseigneur, do you not know me?” replied the voice.
“Yes, yes,” said Fouquet to himself, “yes, my friend I know you well enough.” And then, aloud: “Is it not Gourville?”
“Why, yes, monseigneur.”
Fouquet arose, cast a last look at one of his glasses, went to the door, pushed back the bolt, and Gourville entered. “Ah, monseigneur! monseigneur!” cried he, “what cruelty!”