Fouquet, however, should not be judged by his smile, for, in reality, he felt as if he had been stricken by death.

Drops of blood beneath his coat stained the fine linen that clothed his chest.

His dress concealed the blood, and his smile the rage which devoured him.

His domestics perceived, by the manner in which he approached his carriage, that their master was not in the best of humors: the result of their discernment was, that his orders were executed with that exactitude of maneuver which is found on board a man-of-war, commanded during a storm by an ill-tempered captain.

The carriage, therefore, did not simply roll along--it flew.