This action of Pélisson’s soon made a noise in the world, and excited the most lively sensations of resentment in the minds of the public, who so seldom interest themselves in the fate of the unfortunate. Every body exclaimed that he was the most base and most criminal of mankind! Loaded with the benefactions of his master, honoured with his particular confidence,--his friend, in short--he stands forward in the infamous light of a public informer, and is about to stab him to the heart. Pélisson, could not be ignorant of these reports to his prejudice, which encreased every day; at length they attained to such a height, that some worthy members of society took the resolution publicly to reproach him with the baseness of his conduct, wherever they met him. The secretary, though now an object of contempt, preserved his tranquility, and appeared wholly indifferent to every thing that was said to him. The few friends who still remained true to the interests of the unfortunate minister, went to Pélisson’s house, and by alternate threats, entreaties, and supplications, endeavoured to deter him from his purpose, but in vain; he remained firm, and persisted in his resolution of speaking the truth, and of accusing Fouquet to his face. It must be observed that the prisoner, during this time, was invisible to every one but his judges, who were his greatest enemies, and many of whom, in violation of every principle of justice, had openly declared their intention of finding him guilty. At length the day arrived on which Pélisson was to prefer his accusation, and incur the atrocious sin of ingratitude. The doors of the Bastile are opened to him: he is confronted with his master, who exclaims, “Ah Pélisson, is it you? Are you my enemy, too?--Alas! I mistook you for my friend!”--The secretary, far from being disconcerted at this exclamation, began to fulfil the task he had undertaken, with all the impudence of the most hardened calumniator; he taxed Fouquet with crimes which were totally destitute of foundation, and which he hastened to contradict, with the manly firmness of conscious innocence. “That is not true,” said he, interrupting Pélisson, “you are an impostor, a detestable lyar! Can you advance falsehoods thus gross, and not blush with shame?”--“Oh,” replied Pélisson, whose countenance betrayed the most violent indignation, “you would not dare to contradict me, with so much assurance, if you did not know that your papers were burnt.”