preserved on his face the smile and character of carelessness; but scarcely was he out of sight than he threw off the mask.

“Well!” said he, eagerly, “where is Pelisson! What is he doing?”

“Pelisson 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,