Monsieur Faucheux’s horses were serviceable animals, with thickset knees
and legs that had some difficulty in moving. Like the carriage, they
belonged to the earlier part of the century. They were not as fleet as
the English horses of M. Fouquet, and consequently it took two hours
to get to Saint-Mande. Their progress, it might be said, was majestic.
Majesty, however, precludes hurry. The marquise stopped the carriage at
the door so well known to her, although she had seen it only once, under
circumstances, it will now be remembered, no less painful than those
which brought her now to it again. She drew a key from her pocket,
and inserted it into the lock, pushed open the door, which noiselessly
yielded to her touch, and directed the clerk to carry the chest upstairs
to the first floor. The weight of the chest was so great that the clerk
was obliged to get the coachman to assist him with it. They placed it
in a small cabinet, ante-room, or boudoir rather, adjoining the saloon
where we once saw M. Fouquet at the marquise’s feet. Madame de Belliere
gave the coachman a louis, smiled gracefully at the clerk, and dismissed
them both. She closed the door after them, and waited in the room, alone
and barricaded. There was no servant to be seen about the rooms, but
everything was prepared as though some invisible genius had divined the
wishes and desires of an expected guest. The fire was laid, candles
in the candelabra, refreshments upon the table, books scattered about,
fresh-cut flowers in the vases. One might almost have imagined it an
enchanted house.
The marquise lighted the candles, inhaled the perfume of the flowers,
sat down, and was soon plunged in profound thought. Her deep musings,
melancholy though they were, were not untinged with a certain vague joy.
Spread out before her was a treasure, a million wrung from her fortune
as a gleaner plucks the blue corn-flower from her crown of flowers. She
conjured up the sweetest dreams. Her principal thought, and one that
took precedence of all others, was to devise means of leaving this money
for M. Fouquet without his possibly learning from whom the gift had
come. This idea, naturally enough, was the first to present itself to
her mind. But although, on reflection, it appeared difficult to carry
out, she did not despair of success. She would then ring to summon M.
Fouquet and make her escape, happier than if, instead of having given
a million, she had herself found one. But, being there, and having seen
the boudoir so coquettishly decorated that it might almost be said the
least particle of dust had but the moment before been removed by the
servants; having observed the drawing-room, so perfectly arranged that
it might almost be said her presence there had driven away the fairies
who were its occupants, she asked herself if the glance or gaze of
those whom she had displaced--whether spirits, fairies, elves, or human
creatures--had not already recognized her. To secure success, it
was necessary that some steps should be seriously taken, and it was
necessary also that the superintendent should comprehend the serious
position in which he was placed, in order to yield compliance with
the generous fancies of a woman; all the fascinations of an eloquent
friendship would be required to persuade him, and, should this be
insufficient, the maddening influence of a devoted passion, which, in
its resolute determination to carry conviction, would not be turned
aside. Was not the superintendent, indeed, known for his delicacy and
dignity of feeling? Would he allow himself to accept from any woman that
of which she had stripped herself? No! He would resist, and if any voice
in the world could overcome his resistance, it would be the voice of the
woman he loved.
Another doubt, and that a cruel one, suggested itself to Madame de
Belliere with a sharp, acute pain, like a dagger thrust. Did he really
love her? Would that volatile mind, that inconstant heart, be likely to
be fixed for a moment, even were it to gaze upon an angel? Was it not
the same with Fouquet, notwithstanding his genius and his uprightness of
conduct, as with those conquerors on the field of battle who shed tears
when they have gained a victory? “I must learn if it be so, and must
judge of that for myself,” said the marquise. “Who can tell whether that
heart, so coveted, is not common in its impulses, and full of alloy? Who
can tell if that mind, when the touchstone is applied to it, will not
be found of a mean and vulgar character? Come, come,” she said, “this
is doubting and hesitation too much--to the proof,” she said, looking
at the timepiece. “It is now seven o’clock,” she said; “he must have
arrived; it is the hour for signing his papers.” With a feverish
impatience she rose and walked towards the mirror, in which she smiled
with a resolute smile of devotedness; she touched the spring and drew
out the handle of the bell. Then, as if exhausted beforehand by the
struggle she had just undergone, she threw herself on her knees, in
utter abandonment, before a large couch, in which she buried her face in
her trembling hands. Ten minutes afterwards she heard the spring of the
door sound. The door moved upon invisible hinges, and Fouquet appeared.
He looked pale, and seemed bowed down by the weight of some bitter
reflection. He did not hurry, but simply came at the summons. The
preoccupation of his mind must indeed have been very great, that a
man, so devoted to pleasure, for whom indeed pleasure meant everything,
should obey such a summons so listlessly. The previous night, in fact,
fertile in melancholy ideas, had sharpened his features, generally so
noble in their indifference of expression, and had traced dark lines
of anxiety around his eyes. Handsome and noble he still was, and the
melancholy expression of his mouth, a rare expression with men, gave a
new character to his features, by which his youth seemed to be renewed.
Dressed in black, the lace in front of his chest much disarranged by
his feverishly restless hand, the looks of the superintendent, full of
dreamy reflection, were fixed upon the threshold of the room which
he had so frequently approached in search of expected happiness. This
gloomy gentleness of manner, this smiling sadness of expression, which
had replaced his former excessive joy, produced an indescribable effect
upon Madame de Belliere, who was regarding him at a distance.
A woman’s eye can read the face of the man she loves, its every feeling
of pride, its every expression of suffering; it might almost be said
that Heaven has graciously granted to women, on account of their very
weakness, more than it has accorded to other creatures. They can conceal
their own feelings from a man, but from them no man can conceal his. The
marquise divined in a single glace the whole weight of the unhappiness
of the superintendent. She divined a night passed without sleep, a day
passed in deceptions. From that moment she was firm in her own strength,
and she felt that she loved Fouquet beyond everything else. She arose
and approached him, saying, “You wrote to me this morning to say you
were beginning to forget me, and that I, whom you had not seen lately,
had no doubt ceased to think of you. I have come to undeceive you,
monsieur, and the more completely so, because there is one thing I can
read in your eyes.”
“What is that, madame?” said Fouquet, astonished.
“That you have never loved me so much as at this moment; in the same
manner you can read, in my present step towards you, that I have not
forgotten you.”
“Oh! madame,” said Fouquet, whose face was for a moment lighted up by
a sudden gleam of joy, “you are indeed an angel, and no man can
suspect you. All he can do is to humble himself before you and entreat
forgiveness.”
“Your forgiveness is granted, then,” said the marquise. Fouquet was
about to throw himself upon his knees. “No, no,” she said, “sit here by
my side. Ah! that is an evil thought which has just crossed your mind.”
“How do you detect it, madame?”
“By the smile that has just marred the expression of your countenance.
Be candid, and tell me what your thought was--no secrets between
friends.”
“Tell me, then, madame, why you have been so harsh these three or four
months past?”
“Harsh?”
“Yes; did you not forbid me to visit you?”
“Alas!” said Madame de Belliere, sighing, “because your visit to me
was the cause of your being visited with a great misfortune; because my
house is watched; because the same eyes that have seen you already might
see you again; because I think it less dangerous for you that I should
come here than that you should come to my house; and, lastly, because
I know you to be already unhappy enough not to wish to increase your
unhappiness further.”
Fouquet started, for these words recalled all the anxieties connected
with his office of superintendent--he who, for the last few minutes, had
indulged in all the wild aspirations of the lover. “I unhappy?” he said,
endeavoring to smile: “indeed, marquise, you will almost make me believe
I am so, judging from your own sadness. Are your beautiful eyes raised
upon me merely in pity? I was looking for another expression from them.”
“It is not I who am sad, monsieur; look in the mirror, there--it is
yourself.”
“It is true I am somewhat pale, marquise; but it is from overwork; the
king yesterday required a supply of money from me.”
“Yes, four millions; I am aware of it.”
“You know it?” exclaimed Fouquet, in a tone of surprise; “how can you
have learnt it? It was after the departure of the queen, and in the
presence of one person only, that the king--”
“You perceive that I do know it; is that not sufficient? Well, go on,
monsieur, the money the king has required you to supply--”
“You understand, marquise, that I have been obliged to procure it, then
to get it counted, afterwards registered--altogether a long affair.
Since Monsieur de Mazarin’s death, financial affairs occasion some
little fatigue and embarrassment. My administration is somewhat
overtaxed, and this is the reason why I have not slept during the past
night.”
“So you have the amount?” inquired the marquise, with some anxiety.
“It would indeed be strange, marquise,” replied Fouquet, cheerfully, “if
a superintendent of finances were not to have a paltry four millions in
his coffers.”
“Yes, yes, I believe you either have, or will have them.”
“What do you mean by saying I shall have them?”
“It is not very long since you were required to furnish two millions.”
“On the contrary, it seems almost an age; but do not let us talk of
money matters any longer.”
“On the contrary, we will continue to speak of them, for that is my only
reason for coming to see you.”
“I am at a loss to compass your meaning,” said the superintendent, whose
eyes began to express an anxious curiosity.
“Tell me, monsieur, is the office of superintendent a permanent
position?”
“You surprise me, marchioness, for you speak as if you had some motive
or interest in putting the question.”
“My reason is simple enough; I am desirous of placing some money in your
hands, and naturally I wish to know if you are certain of your post.”
“Really, marquise, I am at a loss what to reply; I cannot conceive your
meaning.”
“Seriously, then, dear M. Fouquet, I have certain funds which somewhat
embarrass me. I am tired of investing my money in lands, and am anxious
to intrust it to some friend who will turn it to account.”
“Surely it does not press,” said M. Fouquet.
“On the contrary, it is very pressing.”
“Very well, we will talk of that by and by.”
“By and by will not do, for my money is there,” returned the marquise,
pointing out the coffer to the superintendent, and showing him, as she
opened it, the bundles of notes and heaps of gold. Fouquet, who had
risen from his seat at the same moment as Madame de Belliere, remained
for a moment plunged in thought; then suddenly starting back, he turned
pale, and sank down in his chair, concealing his face in his hands.
“Madame, madame,” he murmured, “what opinion can you have of me, when
you make me such an offer?”
“Of you!” returned the marquise. “Tell me, rather, what you yourself
think of the step I have taken.”
“You bring me this money for myself, and you bring it because you know
me to be embarrassed. Nay, do not deny it, for I am sure of it. Can I
not read your heart?”
“If you know my heart, then, can you not see that it is my heart I offer
you?”
“I have guessed rightly, then,” exclaimed Fouquet. “In truth, madame, I
have never yet given you the right to insult me in this manner.”
“Insult you,” she said, turning pale, “what singular delicacy of
feeling! You tell me you love me; in the name of that affection you wish
me to sacrifice my reputation and my honor, yet, when I offer you money
which is my own, you refuse me.”
“Madame, you are at liberty to preserve what you term your reputation
and your honor. Permit me to preserve mine. Leave me to my ruin, leave
me to sink beneath the weight of the hatreds which surround me, beneath
the faults I have committed, beneath the load, even, of my remorse,
but, for Heaven’s sake, madame, do not overwhelm me with this last
infliction.”
“A short time since, M. Fouquet, you were wanting in judgment; now you
are wanting in feeling.”
Fouquet pressed his clenched hand upon his breast, heaving with emotion,
saying: “overwhelm me, madame, for I have nothing to reply.”
“I offered you my friendship, M. Fouquet.”
“Yes, madame, and you limited yourself to that.”
“And what I am now doing is the act of a friend.”
“No doubt it is.”
“And you reject this mark of my friendship?”
“I do reject it.”
“Monsieur Fouquet, look at me,” said the marquise, with glistening eyes,
“I now offer you my love.”
“Oh, madame,” exclaimed Fouquet.
“I have loved you for a long while past; women, like men, have a false
delicacy at times. For a long time past I have loved you, but would not
confess it. Well, then, you have implored this love on your knees, and I
have refused you; I was blind, as you were a little while since; but as
it was my love that you sought, it is my love I now offer you.”
“Oh! madame, you overwhelm me beneath a load of happiness.”
“Will you be happy, then, if I am yours--entirely?”
“It will be the supremest happiness for me.”
“Take me, then. If, however, for your sake I sacrifice a prejudice, do
you, for mine, sacrifice a scruple.”
“Do not tempt me.”
“Do not refuse me.”
“Think seriously of what you are proposing.”
“Fouquet, but one word. Let it be ‘No,’ and I open this door,” and she
pointed to the door which led into the streets, “and you will never see
me again. Let that word be ‘Yes,’ and I am yours entirely.”
“Elise! Elise! But this coffer?”
“Contains my dowry.”
“It is your ruin,” exclaimed Fouquet, turning over the gold and papers;
“there must be a million here.”
“Yes, my jewels, for which I care no longer if you do not love me, and
for which, equally, I care no longer if you love me as I love you.”
“This is too much,” exclaimed Fouquet. “I yield, I yield, even were it
only to consecrate so much devotion. I accept the dowry.”
“And take the woman with it,” said the marquise, throwing herself into
his arms.