“A sentence?” said the superintendent, with a shudder and pallor he could not conceal. “A sentence!—and on whom?”
“Two of your best friends.”
“Lyodot and D’Eymeris, do you mean? But what sort of a sentence?”
“Sentence of death.”
“Passed? Oh! you must be mistaken, Gourville; that is impossible.”
“Here is a copy of the sentence which the king is to sign to-day, if he has not already signed it.”
Fouquet seized the paper eagerly, read it, and returned it to Gourville. “The king will never sign that,” said he.
Gourville shook his head.
“Monseigneur, M. Colbert is a bold councilor: do not be too confident!”
“Monsieur Colbert again!” cried Fouquet. “How is it that that name rises upon all occasions to torment my ears, during the last two or three days? Thou make so trifling a subject of too much importance, Gourville. Let M. Colbert appear, I will face him; let him raise his head, I will crush him; but you understand, there must be an outline upon which my look may fall, there must be a surface upon which my feet may be placed.”