“So be it,” said Gourville, addressing four words to Vatel. The latter then led towards the gardens the major part of the beaux, the ladies and the chatterers, whilst the men walked in the gallery, lighted by three hundred wax-lights, in the sight of all; the admirers of fireworks all ran away towards the garden. Gourville approached Fouquet, and said: “Monsieur, we are here.” “All!” said Fouquet. “Yes,—count.” The superintendent counted; there were eight persons. Pellisson and Gourville walked arm in arm, as if conversing upon vague and frivolous subjects. Sorel and two officers imitated them, in an opposite direction. The Abbe Fouquet walked alone. Fouquet, with M. de Chanost, walked as if entirely absorbed in the conversation of his son-in-law. “Messieurs,” said he, “let no one of you raise his head as he walks, or appear to pay attention to me; continue walking, we are alone, listen to me.” A perfect silence ensued, disturbed only by the distant cries of the joyous guests, from the groves whence they beheld the fireworks. It was a whimsical spectacle this, of these men walking in groups, as if each one was 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.