“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 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 in 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 very 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!” CHAPTER 60. Plan of Battle The night was already far advanced when the Abbe Fouquet joined his brother. Gourville had accompanied him. These three men, pale with dread of future events, resembled less three powers of the day than three conspirators, united by one single thought of violence. Fouquet walked for a long time, with his eyes fixed upon the floor, striking his hands one against the other. At length, taking courage, in the midst of a deep sigh: “Abbe,” said he, “you were speaking to me only to-day of certain people you maintain.” “Yes, monsieur,” replied the abbe. “Tell me precisely who are these people.” The abbe hesitated. “Come! no fear, I am not threatening; no romancing, for I am not joking.” “Since you demand the truth, monseigneur, here it is:—I have a hundred and twenty friends or companions of pleasure, who are sworn to me as the thief is to the gallows.” “And you think you can depend upon them?” “Entirely.” “And you will not compromise yourself?” “I will not even make my appearance.” “And are they men of resolution?” “They would burn Paris, if I promised them they should not be burnt in turn.” “The thing I ask of you, abbe,” said Fouquet, wiping the sweat which fell from his brow, “is to throw your hundred and twenty men upon the people I will point out to you, at a certain moment given—is it possible?” “It will not be the first time such a thing has happened to them, monseigneur.” “That is well: but would these bandits attack an armed force?” “They are used to that.”