"Names of the farmers of revenue to be condemned by the Chamber of
Justice: D'Eymeris, friend of M. F.; Lyodot, friend of M. F.; De Vanin,
indif."

"D'Eymeris and Lyodot!" cried Fouquet, reading the paper eagerly again.

"Friends of M. F.," pointed the marquise with her finger.

"But what is the meaning of these words: 'To be condemned by the Chamber
of Justice'?"

"_Dame!_" said the marquise, "that is clear enough, I think. Besides,
that is not all. Read on, read on;" and Fouquet continued,--"The two
first to death, the third to be dismissed, with MM. d'Hautemont and de
la Vallette, who will only have their property confiscated."

"Great God!" cried Fouquet, "to death, to death! Lyodot and D'Eymeris.
But even if the Chamber of Justice should condemn them to death, the
king will never ratify their condemnation, and they cannot be executed
without the king's signature."

"The king has made M. Colbert intendant."

"Oh!" cried Fouquet, as if he caught a glimpse of the abyss that yawned
beneath his feet, "impossible! impossible! But who passed a pencil over
the marks made by Colbert?"

"I did. I was afraid the first would be effaced."

"Oh! I will know all."

"You will know nothing, monsieur; you despise your enemy too much for
that."

"Pardon me, my dear marquise; excuse me; yes, M. Colbert is my enemy, I
believe him to be so; yes, M. Colbert is a man to be dreaded, I admit.
But I! I have time, and as you are here, as you have assured me of
your devotion, as you have allowed me to hope for your love, as we are
alone--"

"I came here to save you, Monsieur Fouquet, and not to ruin myself,"
said the marquise, rising--"therefore, beware!--"

"Marquise, in truth you terrify yourself too much at least, unless this
terror is but a pretext--"

"He is very deep, very deep; this M. Colbert: beware!"

Fouquet, in his turn, drew himself up. "And I?" asked he.

"And you, you have only a noble heart. Beware! beware!"

"So?"

"I have done what was right, my friend, at the risk of my reputation.
Adieu!"

"Not adieu, _au revoir!_"

"Perhaps," said the marquise, giving her hand to Fouquet to kiss, and
walking towards the door with so firm a step, that he did not dare to
bar her passage. As to Fouquet, he retook, with his head hanging down
and a fixed cloud on his brow, the path of the subterranean passage
along which ran the metal wires that communicated from one house to
the other, transmitting, through two gla