Two minutes after, the Abbe Fouquet appeared in the doorway, with profound reverences. He was a man of from forty to forty-five years of age, half churchman half soldier,—a spadassin, grafted upon an abbe; upon seeing that he had not a sword by his side, you might be sure he had pistols. Fouquet saluted him more as an elder brother than as a minister.
“What can I do to serve you, monsieur l’abbe?” said he.
“Oh! oh! how coldly you speak to me, brother!”
“I speak like a man who is in a hurry, monsieur.”
The abbe looked maliciously at Gourville, and anxiously at Fouquet, and said, “I have three hundred pistoles to pay to M. de Bregi this evening. A play debt, a sacred debt.”
“What next?” said Fouquet bravely, for he comprehended that the Abbe Fouquet would not have disturbed him for such a want.
“A thousand to my butcher, who will supply no more meat.”
“Next?”
“Twelve hundred to my tailor,” continued the abbe; “the fellow has made me take back seven suits of my people’s, which compromises my liveries, and my mistress talks of replacing me by a farmer of the revenue, which would be a humiliation for the church.”
“What else?” said Fouquet.