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?”