“They would burn Paris, if I promised them they should not be burnt in turn.”
“The thing I ask of you, abbe,” said Fouquet, wiping the sweat which fell from his brow, “is to throw your hundred and twenty men upon the people I will point out to you, at a certain moment given—is it possible?”
“It will not be the first time such a thing has happened to them, monseigneur.”
“That is well: but would these bandits attack an armed force?”
“They are used to that.”
“Then get your hundred and twenty men together, abbe.”
“Directly. But where?”
“On the road to Vincennes, to-morrow, at two o’clock precisely.”
“To carry off Lyodot and D’Eymeris? There will be blows to be got!”
“A number, no doubt; are you afraid?”