“Yes,” continued he, “and incredulity! thou ruinest, as contagion destroys the most robust health, that is to say, in an instant.”
“Let us go,” cried Fouquet; “desire the door to be opened, Gourville.”
“Be cautious,” said the latter, “the Abbe Fouquet is there.”
“Ah! my brother,” replied Fouquet, in a tone of annoyance, “he is there, is he? he knows all the ill news, then, and is rejoiced to bring it to me, as usual. The devil! if my brother is there, my affairs are bad, Gourville; why did you not tell me that sooner: I should have been the more readily convinced.”
“‘Monseigneur calumniates him,” said Gourville, laughing, “if he is come, it is not with a bad intention.”
“What, do you excuse him?” cried Fouquet; “a fellow without a heart, without ideas; a devourer of wealth.”
“He knows you are rich.”
“And would ruin me.”
“No, but he would like to have your purse. That is all.”
“Enough! enough! A hundred thousand crowns per month, during two years. Corbleu! it is I that pay, Gourville, and I know my figures.” Gourville laughed in a silent, sly manner. “Yes, yes, you mean to say it is the king pays,” said the superintendent. “Ah, Gourville, that is a vile joke; this is not the place.”