A breathing, living specter, he advanced with his arms stretched out, his mouth parched, like a shade that comes to salute the friends of former days.

On seeing him thus, every one cried out, and every one rushed towards Fouquet.

The latter, looking at Pelisson, leaned upon his wife, and pressed the icy hand of the Marquise de Belliere.
"Well," said he, in a voice which had nothing human in it.
"What has happened, my God!" said some one to him.
Fouquet opened his right hand, which was clenched, but glistening with perspiration, and displayed a paper, upon which Pelisson cast a terrified glance.

He read the following lines, written by the king's hand: "'DEAR AND WELL-BELOVED MONSIEUR FOUQUET,--Give us, upon that which you have left of ours, the sum of seven hundred thousand livres, of which we stand in need to prepare for our departure.
"'And, as we know your health is not good, we pray God to restore you, and to have you in His holy keeping.

"'LOUIS.
"'The present letter is to serve as a receipt.'" A murmur of terror circulated through the apartment.
"Well," cried Pelisson, in his turn, "you have received that letter ?" "Received it, yes!" "What will you do, then ?" "Nothing, since I have received it." "But--" "If I have received it, Pelisson, I have paid it," said the surintendant, with a simplicity that went to the heart of all present.
"You have paid it!" cried Madame Fouquet.