sight than he threw off the mask.
“Well!” said he, eagerly, “where is Pellisson! What is he
doing?”
“Pellisson has returned from Paris.”
“Has he brought back the prisoners?”
“He has not even seen the concierge of the prison.”
“What! did he not tell him he came from me?”
“He told him so, but the concierge sent him this reply: `If
any one came to me from M. Fouquet, he would have a letter
from M. Fouquet.'”
“Oh!” cried the latter, “if a letter is all he wants —- ”
“It is useless, monsieur!” said Pellisson, showing himself
at the corner of the little wood, “useless! Go yourself, and
speak in your own name.”
“You are right. I will go in, as if to work; let the horses
remain harnessed, Pellisson. Entertain my friends,
Gourville.”
“One last word of advice, monseigneur,” replied the latter.
“Speak, Gourville.”
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“Do not go to the concierge save at the last minute; it is
brave, but it is not wise. Excuse me, Monsieur Pellisson, if
I am not of the same opinion as you; but take my advice,
monseigneur, send again a message to this concierge, — he
is a worthy man, but do not carry it yourself.”
“I will think of it,” said Fouquet; “besides, we have all
the night before us.”
“Do not reckon too much on time; were the hours we have
twice as many as they are, they would not be too much,”
replied Pellisson; “it is never a fault to arrive too soon.”
“Adieu!” said the superintendent; “come with me, Pellisson.
Gourville, I commend my guests to your care.” And he set
off. The Epicureans did not perceive that the head of the
school had left them; the violins continued playing all
night long.
CHAPTER 59
A Quarter of an Hour’s Delay
Fouquet, on leaving his house for the second time that day,
felt himself less heavy and less disturbed than might have
been expected. He turned towards Pellisson, who was
meditating in the corner of the carriage some good arguments
against the violent proceedings of Colbert.
“My dear Pellisson,” said Fouquet, “it is a great pity you
are not a woman.”
“I think, on the contrary, it is very fortunate,” replied
Pellisson, “for, monseigneur, I am excessively ugly.”
“Pellisson! Pellisson!” said the superintendent, laughing:
“you repeat too often you are `ugly,’ not to leave people to
believe that it gives you much pain.”
“In fact it does, monseigneur, much pain; there is no man
more unfortunate than I: I was handsome, the smallpox
rendered me hideous; I am deprived of a great means of
attraction; now, I am your principal clerk or something of
that sort; I take great interest in your affairs, and if, at
this moment, I were a pretty woman, I could render you an
important service.”
“What?”
“I would go and find the concierge of the Palais. I would
seduce him, for he is a gallant man, extravagantly partial
to women; then I would get away our two prisoners.”
“I hope to be able to do so myself, although I am not a
pretty woman,” replied Fouquet.
“Granted, monseigneur; but you are compromising yourself
very much.”
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Dumas, Alexandre – Ten Years Later
“Oh!” cried Fouquet, suddenly, with one of those secret
transports which the generous blood of youth, or the
remembrance of some sweet emotion, infuses into the heart.
“Oh! I know a woman who will enact the personage we stand in
need of, with the lieutenant-governor of the conciergerie.”
“And, on my part, I know fifty, monseigneur; fifty trumpets,
which will inform the universe of your generosity, of your
devotion to your friends, and, consequently, will ruin you
sooner or later in ruining themselves.”
“I do not speak of such women, Pellisson, I speak of a noble
and beautiful creature who joins to the intelligence and wit
of her sex the valor and coolness of ours; I speak of a
woman, handsome enough to make the walls of a prison bow
down to salute her, discreet enough to let no one suspect by
whom she has been sent.”
“A treasure!” said Pellisson, “you would make a famous