The Abbe Fouquet.

Fouquet hastened back to his apartment by the subterranean passage, and immediately closed the mirror with the spring. He was scarcely in his well-known voice crying: — ”Open the door, monseigneur, I entreat you, open the door!” Fouquet quickly restored a little order to everything that might have revealed either his absence or his agitation: he spread his papers over the desk, took up a pen, and, to gain time, said, through the closed door, — ”Who is there?”

“What, monseigneur, do you not know me?” replied the voice.

“Yes, yes,” said Fouquet to himself, “yes, my friend, I know you well enough.” And then, aloud: “Is it not Gourville?”