“Whither have they gone, then?”
“To Vincennes—to the donjon.”
“Who took them from here?”
“An order from the king.”
“Oh! woe! woe!” exclaimed Fouquet, striking his forehead. “Woe!” and without saying a single word more to the governor, he threw himself back in his carriage, despair in his heart, and death on his countenance.
“Well!” said Pellisson, with great anxiety.
“Our friends are lost. Colbert is conveying them to the donjon. They crossed our very path under the arcade Saint-Jean.”
Pellisson, struck as by a thunderbolt, made no reply. With a single reproach he would have killed his master. “Where is monseigneur going?” said the footman.
“Home—to Paris. You, Pellisson, return to Saint-Mande, and bring the Abbe Fouquet to me within an hour. Begone!”