occupied about something, whilst lending attention really to
only one amongst them, who, himself, seemed to be speaking only to his
companion. "Messieurs," said Fouquet, "you have, without doubt, remarked
the absence of two of my friends this evening, who were with us on
Wednesday. For God's sake, abbe, do not stop,--it is not necessary to
enable you to listen; walk on, carrying your head in a natural way, and
as you have an excellent sight, place yourself at the window, and if any
one returns towards the gallery, give us notice by coughing."

The abbe obeyed.

"I have not observed their absence," said Pellisson, who, at this
moment, was turning his back to Fouquet and walking the other way.

"I do not see M. Lyodot," said Sorel, "who pays me my pension."

"And I," said the abbe, at the window, "do not see M. d'Eymeris, who
owes me eleven hundred livres from our last game at Brelan."

"Sorel," continued Fouquet, walking bent, and gloomily, "you will never
receive your pension any more from M. Lyodot; and you, abbe, will never
be paid your eleven hundred livres by M. d'Eymeris, for both are doomed
to die."

"To die!" exclaimed the whole assembly, arrested, in spite of
themselves, in the comedy they were playing, by that terrible word.

"Recover yourselves, messieurs," said Fouquet, "for perhaps we are
watched--I said: to die!"

"To die!" repeated Pellisson; "what, the men I saw six days ago, full
of health, gayety, and the spirit of the future! What then is man, good
God! that disease should thus bring him down, all at once!"

"It is not a disease," said Fouquet.

"Then there is a remedy," said Sorel.

"No remedy. Messieurs de Lyodot and D'Eymeris are on the eve of their
last day."

"Of what are these gentlemen dying, then?" asked an officer.

"Ask of him who kills them," replied Fouquet.

"Who kills them? Are they being killed, then?" cried the terrified
chorus.

"They do better still; they are hanging them," murmured Fouquet, in a
sinister voice, which sounded like a funeral knell in that rich gallery,
splendid with pictures, flowers, velvet, and gold. Involuntarily every
one stopped; the abbe quitted his window; the first fusees of the
fireworks began to mount above the trees. A prolonged cry from the
gardens attracted the superintendent to enjoy the spectacle. He
drew near to a window, and his friends placed themselves behind him,
attentive to his least wish. "Messieurs," said he, "M. Colbert has