“How they go,” repeated the skipper, “how they go! They must be well paid! I did not think,” he added, “that oars of wood could behave better than ours, but yonder oarsmen prove the contrary.”
“Well they may,” said one of the rowers, “they are twelve, and we but eight.”
“Twelve rowers!” replied Gourville, “twelve! impossible.”
The number of eight rowers for a lighter had never been exceeded, even for the king. This honor had been paid to monsieur le surintendant, more for the sake of haste than of respect.
“What does it mean?” said Gourville, endeavoring to distinguish beneath the tent, which was already apparent, travelers which the most piercing eye could not yet have succeeded in discovering.
“They must be in a hurry, for it is not the king,” said the patron.
Fouquet shuddered.
“By what sign do you know that it is not the king?” said Gourville.
“In the first place, because there is no white flag with fleurs-de-lis, which the royal lighter always carries.”
“And then,” said Fouquet, “because it is impossible it should be the king, Gourville, as the king was still in Paris yesterday.”