Fouquet was present, as D’Artagnan had said, at the king’s card-table.
It seemed as if Buckingham’s departure had shed a balm on the lacerated
hearts of the previous evening. Monsieur, radiant with delight, made a
thousand affectionate signs to his mother. The Count de Guiche could not
separate himself from Buckingham, and while playing, conversed with him
upon the circumstance of his projected voyage. Buckingham, thoughtful,
and kind in his manner, like a man who has adopted a resolution,
listened to the count, and from time to time cast a look full of regret
and hopeless affection at Madame. The princess, in the midst of her
elation of spirits, divided her attention between the king, who was
playing with her, Monsieur, who quietly joked her about her enormous
winnings, and De Guiche, who exhibited an extravagant delight. Of
Buckingham she took but little notice; for her, this fugitive, this
exile, was now simply a remembrance, no longer a man. Light hearts are
thus constituted; while they themselves continue untouched, they roughly
break off with every one who may possibly interfere with their little
calculations of self comfort. Madame had received Buckingham’s smiles
and attentions and sighs while he was present; but what was the good
of sighing, smiling, and kneeling at a distance? Can one tell in what
direction the winds in the Channel, which toss mighty vessels to and
fro, carry such sighs as these? The duke could not fail to mark this
change, and his heart was cruelly hurt. Of a sensitive character, proud
and susceptible of deep attachment, he cursed the day on which such a
passion had entered his heart. The looks he cast, from time to time
at Madame, became colder by degrees at the chilling complexion of his
thoughts. He could hardly yet despair, but he was strong enough to
impose silence upon the tumultuous outcries of his heart. In exact
proportion, however, as Madame suspected this change of feeling, she
redoubled her activity to regain the ray of light she was about to lose;
her timid and indecisive mind was displayed in brilliant flashes of
wit and humor. At any cost she felt that she must be remarked above
everything and every one, even above the king himself. And she was so,
for the queens, notwithstanding their dignity, and the king, despite the
respect which etiquette required, were all eclipsed by her. The queens,
stately and ceremonious, were softened and could not restrain their
laughter. Madame Henriette, the queen-mother, was dazzled by the
brilliancy which cast distinction upon her family, thanks to the wit of
the grand-daughter of Henry IV. The king, jealous, as a young man and
as a monarch, of the superiority of those who surrounded him, could not
resist admitting himself vanquished by a petulance so thoroughly French
in its nature, whose energy more than ever increased by English humor.
Like a child, he was captivated by her radiant beauty, which her wit
made still more dazzling. Madame’s eyes flashed like lightning. Wit and
humor escaped from her scarlet lips like persuasion from the lips of
Nestor of old. The whole court, subdued by her enchanting grace,
noticed for the first time that laughter could be indulged in before the
greatest monarch in the world, like people who merited their appellation
of the wittiest and most polished people in Europe.
Madame, from that evening, achieved and enjoyed a success capable of
bewildering all not born to those altitudes termed thrones; which, in
spite of their elevation, are sheltered from such giddiness. From that
very moment Louis XIV. acknowledged Madame as a person to be recognized.
Buckingham regarded her as a coquette deserving the cruelest tortures,
and De Guiche looked upon her as a divinity; the courtiers as a star
whose light might some day become the focus of all favor and power. And
yet Louis XIV., a few years previously, had not even condescended to
offer his hand to that “ugly girl” for a ballet; and Buckingham had
worshipped this coquette “on both knees.” De Guiche had once looked upon
this divinity as a mere woman; and the courtiers had not dared to extol
this star in her upward progress, fearful to disgust the monarch whom
such a dull star had formerly displeased.
Let us see what was taking place during this memorable evening at the
king’s card-table. The young queen, although Spanish by birth, and the
niece of Anne of Austria, loved the king, and could not conceal her
affection. Anne of Austria, a keen observer, like all women, and
imperious, like every queen, was sensible of Madame’s power, and
acquiesced in it immediately, a circumstance which induced the young
queen to raise the siege and retire to her apartments. The king hardly
paid any attention to her departure, notwithstanding the pretended
symptoms of indisposition by which it was accompanied. Encouraged by the
rules of etiquette, which he had begun to introduce at the court as an
element of every relation of life, Louis XIV. did not disturb himself;
he offered his hand to Madame without looking at Monsieur his brother,
and led the young princess to the door of her apartments. It was
remarked, that at the threshold of the door, his majesty, freed from
every restraint, or not equal to the situation, sighed very deeply.
The ladies present--nothing escapes a woman’s glance--Mademoiselle
Montalais, for instance--did not fail to say to each other, “the king
sighed,” and “Madame sighed too.” This had been indeed the case. Madame
had sighed very noiselessly, but with an accompaniment very far more
dangerous for the king’s repose. Madame had sighed, first closing her
beautiful black eyes, next opening them, and then, laden, as they were,
with an indescribable mournfulness of expression, she had raised them
towards the king, whose face at that moment visibly heightened in color.
The consequence of these blushes, of those interchanged sighs, and of
this royal agitation, was, that Montalais had committed an indiscretion
which had certainly affected her companion, for Mademoiselle de la
Vallière, less clear sighted, perhaps, turned pale when the king
blushed; and her attendance being required upon Madame, she tremblingly
followed the princess without thinking of taking the gloves, which court
etiquette required her to do. True it is that the young country girl
might allege as her excuse the agitation into which the king seemed to
be thrown, for Mademoiselle de la Vallière, busily engaged in closing
the door, had involuntarily fixed her eyes upon the king, who, as he
retired backwards, had his face towards it. The king returned to the
room where the card-tables were set out. He wished to speak to the
different persons there, but it was easy to see that his mind was
absent. He jumbled different accounts together, which was taken
advantage of by some of the noblemen who had retained those habits since
the time of Monsieur Mazarin--who had a poor memory, but was a good
calculator. In this way, Monsieur Manicamp, with a thoughtless and
absent air--for M. Manicamp was the honestest man in the world,
appropriated twenty thousand francs, which were littering the table, and
which did not seem to belong to any person in particular. In the same
way, Monsieur de Wardes, whose head was doubtless a little bewildered by
the occurrences of the evening, somehow forgot to leave behind him the
sixty double louis which he had won for the Duke of Buckingham, and
which the duke, incapable, like his father, of soiling his hands with
coin of any sort, had left lying on the table before him. The king
only recovered his attention in some degree at the moment that Monsieur
Colbert, who had been narrowly observant for some minutes, approached,
and, doubtless, with great respect, yet with much perseverance,
whispered a counsel of some sort into the still tingling ears of the
king. The king, at the suggestion, listened with renewed attention and
immediately looking around him, said, “Is Monsieur Fouquet no longer
here?”
“Yes, sire, I am here,” replied the superintendent, till then engaged
with Buckingham, and approached the king, who advanced a step towards
him with a smiling yet negligent air. “Forgive me,” said Louis, “if I
interrupt your conversation; but I claim your attention wherever I may
require your services.”
“I am always at the king’s service,” replied Fouquet.
“And your cash-box, too,” said the king, laughing with a false smile.
“My cash-box more than anything else,” said Fouquet, coldly.
“The fact is, I wish to give a _fete_ at Fontainebleau--to keep open
house for fifteen days, and I shall require--” and he stopped, glancing
at Colbert. Fouquet waited without showing discomposure; and the king
resumed, answering Colbert’s icy smile, “four million francs.”
“Four million,” repeated Fouquet, bowing profoundly. And his nails,
buried in his bosom, were thrust into his flesh, but the tranquil
expression of his face remained unaltered. “When will they be required,
sire?”
“Take your time,--I mean--no, no; as soon as possible.”
“A certain time will be necessary, sire.”
“Time!” exclaimed Colbert, triumphantly.
“The time, monsieur,” said the superintendent, with the haughtiest
disdain, “simply to _count the money_; a million can only be drawn and
weighed in a day.”
“Four days, then,” said Colbert.
“My clerks,” replied Fouquet, addressing himself to the king, “will
perform wonders on his majesty’s service, and the sum shall be ready in
three days.”
It was for Colbert now to turn pale. Louis looked at him astonished.
Fouquet withdrew without any parade or weakness, smiling at his numerous
friends, in whose countenances alone he read the sincerity of their
friendship--an interest partaking of compassion. 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. Fouquet had
hardly time to recover himself during the drive; on his arrival he
went at once to Aramis, who had not yet retired for the night. As for
Porthos, he had supped very agreeably off a roast leg of mutton, two
pheasants, and a perfect heap of cray-fish; he then directed his body to
be anointed with perfumed oils, in the manner of the wrestlers of
old; and when this anointment was completed, he had himself wrapped in
flannels and placed in a warm bed. Aramis, as we have already said,
had not retired. Seated at his ease in a velvet dressing-gown, he wrote
letter after letter in that fine and hurried handwriting, a page of
which contained a quarter of a volume. The door was thrown hurriedly
open, and the superintendent appeared, pale, agitated, anxious. Aramis
looked up: “Good-evening,” said he; and his searching look detected his
host’s sadness and disordered state of mind. “Was your play as good as
his majesty’s?” asked Aramis, by way of beginning the conversation.
Fouquet threw himself upon a couch, and then pointed to the door to
the servant who had followed him; when the servant had left he said,
“Excellent.”
Aramis, who had followed every movement with his eyes, noticed that he
stretched himself upon the cushions with a sort of feverish impatience.
“You have lost as usual?” inquired Aramis, his pen still in his hand.
“Even more than usual,” replied Fouquet.
“You know how to support losses?”
“Sometimes.”
“What, Monsieur Fouquet a bad player!”
“There is play and play, Monsieur d’Herblay.”
“How much have you lost?” inquired Aramis, with a slight uneasiness.
Fouquet collected himself a moment, and then, without the slightest
emotion, said, “The evening has cost me four millions,” and a bitter
laugh drowned the last vibration of these words.
Aramis, who did not expect such an amount, dropped his pen. “Four
millions,” he said; “you have lost four millions,--impossible!”
“Monsieur Colbert held my cards for me,” replied the superintendent,
with a similar bitter laugh.
“Ah, now I understand; so, so, a new application for funds?”
“Yes, and from the king’s own lips. It was impossible to ruin a man with
a more charming smile. What do you think of it?”
“It is clear that your destruction is the object in view.”
“That is your opinion?”
“Still. Besides, there is nothing in it which should astonish you, for
we have foreseen it all along.”
“Yes; but I did not expect four millions.”
“No doubt the amount is serious, but, after all, four millions are
not quite the death of a man, especially when the man in question is
Monsieur Fouquet.”
“My dear D’Herblay, if you knew the contents of my coffers, you would be
less easy.”
“And you promised?”
“What could I _do?_”
“That’s true.”
“The very day I refuse, Colbert will procure the money; whence I know
not, but he _will_ procure it: and I shall be lost.”
“There is no doubt of that. In how many days did you promise the four
millions?”
“In three days. The king seemed exceedingly pressed.”
“_In three days?_”
“When I think,” resumed Fouquet, “that just now as I passed along the
streets, the people cried out, ‘There is the rich Monsieur Fouquet,’ it
is enough to turn my brain.”
“Stay, monsieur, the matter is not worth so much trouble,” said Aramis,
calmly, sprinkling some sand over the letter he had just written.
“Suggest a remedy, then, for this evil without a remedy.”
“There is only one remedy for you,--pay.”
“But it is very uncertain whether I have the money. Everything must be
exhausted; Belle-Isle is paid for; the pension has been paid; and money,
since the investigation of the accounts of those who farm the revenue,
is scarce. Besides, admitting that I pay this time, how can I do so on
another occasion? When kings have tasted money, they are like tigers who
have tasted flesh, they devour everything. The day will arrive--_must_
arrive--when I shall have to say, ‘Impossible, sire,’ and on that very
day I am a lost man.”
Aramis raised his shoulders slightly, saying:
“A man in your position, my lord, is only lost when he wishes to be so.”
“A man, whatever his position may be, cannot hope to struggle against a
king.”
“Nonsense; when I was young I wrestled successfully with the Cardinal
Richelieu, who was king of France,--nay more--cardinal.”
“Where are my armies, my troops, my treasures? I have not even
Belle-Isle.”
“Bah! necessity is the mother of invention, and when you think all is
lost, something will be discovered which will retrieve everything.”
“Who will discover this wonderful something?”
“Yourself.”
“I! I resign my office of inventor.”
“Then _I_ will.”
“Be it so. But set to work without delay.”
“Oh! we have time enough!”
“You kill me, D’Herblay, with your calmness,” said the superintendent,
passing his handkerchief over his face.
“Do you not remember that I one day told you not to make yourself
uneasy, if you possessed courage? _Have_ you any?”
“I believe so.”
“Then don’t make yourself uneasy.”
“It is decided then, that, at the last moment, you will come to my
assistance.”
“It will only be the repayment of a debt I owe you.”
“It is the vocation of financiers to anticipate the wants of men such as
yourself, D’Herblay.”
“If obligingness is the vocation of financiers, charity is the virtue
of the clergy. Only, on this occasion, do you act, monsieur. You are not
yet sufficiently reduced, and at the last moment we will see what is to
be done.”
“We shall see, then, in a very short time.”
“Very well. However, permit me to tell you that, personally, I regret
exceedingly that you are at present so short of money, because I myself
was about to ask you for some.”
“For yourself?”
“For myself, or some of my people, for mine or for ours.”
“How much do you want?”
“Be easy on that score; a roundish sum, it is true, but not too
exorbitant.”
“Tell me the amount.”
“Fifty thousand francs.”
“Oh! a mere nothing. Of course one has always fifty thousand francs.
Why the deuce cannot that knave Colbert be as easily satisfied as you
are--and I should give myself far less trouble than I do. When do you
need this sum?”
“To-morrow morning; but you wish to know its destination?”
“Nay, nay, chevalier, I need no explanation.”
“To-morrow is the first of June.”
“Well?”
“One of our bonds becomes due.”
“I did not know we had any bonds.”
“Certainly, to-morrow we pay our last third instalment.”
“What third?”
“Of the one hundred and fifty thousand francs to Baisemeaux.”
“Baisemeaux? Who is he?”
“The governor of the Bastile.”
“Yes, I remember. On what grounds am I to pay one hundred and fifty
thousand francs for that man.”
“On account of the appointment which he, or rather we, purchased from
Louviere and Tremblay.”
“I have a very vague recollection of the matter.”
“That is likely enough, for you have so many affairs to attend to.
However, I do not believe you have any affair in the world of greater
importance than this one.”
“Tell me, then, why we purchased this appointment.”
“Why, in order to render him a service in the first place, and
afterwards ourselves.”
“Ourselves? You are joking.”
“Monseigneur, the time may come when the governor of the Bastile may
prove a very excellent acquaintance.”
“I have not the good fortune to understand you, D’Herblay.”
“Monseigneur, we had our own poets, our own engineer, our own architect,
our own musicians, our own printer, and our own painters; we needed our
own governor of the Bastile.”
“Do you think so?”
“Let us not deceive ourselves, monseigneur; we are very much opposed to
paying the Bastile a visit,” added the prelate, displaying, beneath
his pale lips, teeth which were still the same beautiful teeth so much
admired thirty years previously by Marie Michon.
“And you think it is not too much to pay one hundred and fifty thousand
francs for that? I thought you generally put out money at better
interest than that.”
“The day will come when you will admit your mistake.”
“My dear D’Herblay, the very day on which a man enters the Bastile, he
is no longer protected by his past.”
“Yes, he is, if the bonds are perfectly regular; besides, that good
fellow Baisemeaux has not a courtier’s heart. I am certain, my lord,
that he will not remain ungrateful for that money, without taking into
account, I repeat, that I retain the acknowledgements.”
“It is a strange affair! usury in a matter of benevolence.”
“Do not mix yourself up with it, monseigneur; if there be usury, it is
I who practice it, and both of us reap the advantage from it--that is
all.”
“Some intrigue, D’Herblay?”
“I do not deny it.”
“And Baisemeaux an accomplice in it?”
“Why not?--there are worse accomplices than he. May I depend, then, upon
the five thousand pistoles to-morrow?”
“Do you want them this evening?”
“It would be better, for I wish to start early; poor Baisemeaux will not
be able to imagine what has be become of me, and must be upon thorns.”
“You shall have the amount in an hour. Ah, D’Herblay, the interest
of your one hundred and fifty thousand francs will never pay my four
millions for me.”
“Why not, monseigneur?”
“Good-night, I have business to transact with my clerks before I
retire.”
“A good night’s rest, monseigneur.”
“D’Herblay, you wish things that are impossible.”
“Shall I have my fifty thousand francs this evening?”
“Yes.”
“Go to sleep, then, in perfect safety--it is I who tell you to do so.”
Notwithstanding this assurance, and the tone in which it was given,
Fouquet left the room shaking his head, and heaving a sigh.