“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 caused to be arrested, tried and will execute my two friends; what does it become me to do?” “Mordieu!” exclaimed the abbe, the first one to speak, “run M. Colbert through the body.” “Monseigneur,” said Pellisson, “you must speak to his majesty.” “The king, my dear Pellisson, himself signed the order for the execution.” “Well!” said the Comte de Chanost, “the execution must not take place, then; that is all.” “Impossible,” said Gourville, “unless we could corrupt the jailers.” “Or the governor,” said Fouquet. “This night the prisoners might be allowed to escape.” “Which of you will take charge of the transaction?” “I,” said the abbe, “will carry the money.” “And I,” said Pellisson, “will be the bearer of the words.” “Words and money,” said Fouquet, “five hundred thousand livres to the governor of the conciergerie, that is sufficient, nevertheless, it shall be a million, if necessary.” “A million!” cried the abbe; “why, for less than half, I would have half Paris sacked.” “There must be no disorder,” said Pellisson. “The governor being gained, the two prisoners escape; once clear of the fangs of the law, they will call together the enemies of Colbert, and prove to the king that his young justice, like all other monstrosities, is not infallible.” “Go to Paris, then, Pellisson,” said Fouquet, “and bring hither the two victims; to-morrow we shall see.” Gourville gave Pellisson the five hundred thousand livres. “Take care the wind does not carry you away,” said the abbe; “what a responsibility. Peste! Let me help you a little.” “Silence!” said Fouquet, “somebody is coming. Ah! the fireworks are producing a magical effect.” At this moment a shower of sparks fell rustling among the branches of the neighboring trees. Pellisson and Gourville went out together by the door of the gallery; Fouquet descended to the garden with the five last plotters. CHAPTER 58. Epicureans