"Oh! no," cried he, "or you would have sent away that woman."
"She has been here little more than half an hour, and I had no expectation she would come this evening."
"You love me just a little, then, marquise?"
"That is not the question now; it is of your danger; how are your affairs going on?"
"I am going this evening to get my friends out of the prisons of the Palais."
"How will you do that?"
"By buying and bribing the governor."
"He is a friend of mine; can I assist you, without injuring you?"
"Oh! marquise, it would be a signal service; but how can you be employed without your being compromised? Now, never shall my life, my power, or even my liberty, be purchased at the expense of a single tear from your eyes, or of one frown of pain upon your brow."
"Monseigneur, no more such words, they bewilder me; I have been culpable in trying to serve you, without calculating the extent of what I was doing. I love you in reality, as a tender friend; and as a friend, I am grateful for your delicate attentions - but, alas! - alas! you will never find a mistress in me."
"Marquise!" cried Fouquet, in a tone of despair; "why not?"
"Because you are too much beloved," said the young woman, in a low voice;
"because you are too much beloved by too many people - because the splendor of glory and fortune wound my eyes, whilst the darkness of sorrow attracts them; because, in short, I, who have repulsed you in your proud magnificence; I who scarcely looked at you in your splendor, I came, like a mad woman, to throw myself, as it were, into your arms, when I saw a misfortune hovering over your head. You understand me now, monseigneur? Become happy again, that I may remain chaste in heart and in thought: your misfortune entails my ruin."
"Oh! madame," said Fouquet, with an emotion he had never before felt;
"were I to fall to the lowest degree of human misery, and hear from your mouth that word which you now refuse me, that day, madame, you will be mistaken in your noble egotism; that day you will fancy you are consoling the most unfortunate of men, and you will have said, _I love you_, to the most illustrious, the most delighted, the most triumphant of the happy beings of this world."
He was still at her feet, kissing her hand, when Pellisson entered precipitately, crying, in very ill-humor, "Monseigneur! madame! for Heaven's sake! excuse me. Monseigneur, you have been here half an hour.
Oh! do not both look at me so reproachfully. Madame, pray who is that lady who left your house soon after monseigneur came in?"
"Madame Vanel," said Fouquet.
"Ha!" cried Pellisson, "I was sure of that."
"Well! what then?"
"Why, she got into her carriage, looking deadly pale."
"What consequence is that to me?"
"Yes, but what she said to her coachman is of consequence to you."
"Kind heaven!" cried the marquise, "what was that?"
"To M. Colbert's!" said Pellisson, in a hoarse voice.
"_Bon Dieu!_ - begone, begone, monseigneur!" replied the marquise, pushing Fouquet out of the salon, whilst Pellisson dragged him by the hand.
"Am I, then, indeed," said the superintendent, "become a child, to be frightened by a shadow?"
"You are a giant," said the marquise, "whom a viper is trying to bite in the heel."
Pellisson continued to drag Fouquet to the carriage. "To the Palais at full speed!" cried Pellisson to the coachman. The horses set off like lightening; no obstacle relaxed their pace for an instant. Only, at the arcade Saint-Jean, as they were coming out upon the Place de Greve, a long file of horsemen, barring the narrow passage, stopped the carriage of the superintendent. There was no means of forcing this barrier; it was necessary to wait till the mounted archers of the watch, for it was they who stopped the way, had passed with the heavy carriage they were escorting, and which ascended rapidly towards the Place Baudoyer.
Fouquet and Pellisson took no further account of this circumstance beyond deploring the minute's delay they had thus to submit to. They entered the habitation of the _concierge du Palais_ five minutes after. That officer was still walking about in the front court. At the name of Fouquet, whispered in his ear by Pellisson, the governor eagerly approached the carriage, and, hat in hand, was profuse in his attentions. "What an honor for me, monseigneur," said he.
"One word, monsieur le governeur, will you take the trouble to get into my carriage?" The officer placed himself opposite Fouquet in the coach.
"Monsieur," said Fouquet, "I have a service to ask of you."
"Speak, monseigneur."
"A service that will be compromising for you, monsieur, but which will assure to you forever my protection and my friendship."
"Were it to cast myself into the fire for you, monseigneur, I would do it."
"That is well," said Fouquet; "what I require is much more simple."
"That being so, monseigneur, what is it?"
"To conduct me to the chamber of Messieurs Lyodot and D'Eymeris."
"Will monseigneur have the kindness to say for what purpose?"
"I will tell you that in their presence, monsieur; at the same time that I will give you ample means of palliating this escape."
"Escape! Why, then, monseigneur does not know?"
"What?"
"That Messieurs Lyodot and D'Eymeris are no longer here."
"Since when?" cried Fouquet, in great agitation.
"About a quarter of an hour."
"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 into 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 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!"