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 only to 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 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 Pelisson, 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 of 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 you 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 Pelisson; “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. “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 fuses 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 Pelisson, “you must speak to his majesty.” “The king, my dear Pelisson, himself signed the order for the execution.”