The king, anxious to be again quite alone, in order to reflect well
upon what was passing in his heart, had withdrawn to his own apartments,
where M. de Saint-Aignan had, after his conversation with Madame, gone
to meet him. This conversation has already been related. The favorite,
vain of his twofold importance, and feeling that he had become, during
the last two hours, the confidant of the king, began to treat the
affairs of the court in a somewhat indifferent manner: and, from the
position in which he had placed himself, or rather, where chance had
placed him, he saw nothing but love and garlands of flowers around him.
The king’s love for Madame, that of Madame for the king, that of Guiche
for Madame, that of La Vallière for the king, that of Malicorne for
Montalais, that of Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente for himself, was
not all this, truly, more than enough to turn the head of any courtier?
Besides, Saint-Aignan was the model of courtiers, past, present, and to
come; and, moreover, showed himself such an excellent narrator, and
so discerningly appreciative that the king listened to him with an
appearance of great interest, particularly when he described the excited
manner with which Madame had sought for him to converse about the affair
of Mademoiselle de la Vallière. While the king no longer experienced for
Madame any remains of the passion he had once felt for her, there was,
in this same eagerness of Madame to procure information about him, great
gratification for his vanity, from which he could not free himself. He
experienced this pleasure then, but nothing more, and his heart was not,
for a single moment, alarmed at what Madame might, or might not, think
of his adventure. When, however, Saint-Aignan had finished, the king,
while preparing to retire to rest, asked, “Now, Saint-Aignan, you know
what Mademoiselle de la Vallière is, do you not?”
“Not only what she is, but what she will be.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that she is everything that woman can wish to be--that is to
say, beloved by your majesty; I mean, that she will be everything your
majesty may wish her to be.”
“That is not what I am asking. I do not wish to know what she is to-day,
or what she will be to-morrow; as you have remarked, that is my affair.
But tell me what others say of her.”
“They say she is well conducted.”
“Oh!” said the king, smiling, “that is mere report.”
“But rare enough, at court, sire, to believe when it is spread.”
“Perhaps you are right. Is she well born?”
“Excellently; the daughter of the Marquis de la Vallière, and
step-daughter of that good M. de Saint-Remy.”
“Ah, yes! my aunt’s major-domo; I remember; and I remember now that I
saw her as I passed through Blois. She was presented to the queens. I
have even to reproach myself that I did not on that occasion pay her the
attention she deserved.”
“Oh, sire! I trust that your majesty will now repair time lost.”
“And the report--you tell me--is, that Mademoiselle de la Vallière never
had a lover.”
“In any case, I do not think your majesty would be much alarmed at the
rivalry.”
“Yet, stay,” said the king, in a very serious tone of voice.
“Your majesty?”
“I remember.”
“Ah!”
“If she has no lover, she has, at least, a betrothed.”
“A betrothed!”
“What! Count, do you not know that?”
“No.”
“You, the man who knows all the news?”
“Your majesty will excuse me. You know this betrothed, then?”
“Assuredly! his father came to ask me to sign the marriage contract: it
is--” The king was about to pronounce the Vicomte de Bragelonne’s name,
when he stopped, and knitted his brows.
“It is--” repeated Saint-Aignan, inquiringly.
“I don’t remember now,” replied Louis XIV., endeavoring to conceal an
annoyance he had some trouble to disguise.
“Can I put your majesty in the way?” inquired the Comte de Saint-Aignan.
“No; for I no longer remember to whom I intended to refer; indeed, I
only remember very indistinctly, that one of the maids of honor was to
marry--the name, however, has escaped me.”
“Was it Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente he was going to marry?” inquired
Saint-Aignan.
“Very likely,” said the king.
“In that case, the intended was M. de Montespan; but Mademoiselle de
Tonnay-Charente did not speak of it, it seemed to me, in such a manner
as would frighten suitors away.”
“At all events,” said the king, “I know nothing, or almost nothing,
about Mademoiselle de la Vallière. Saint-Aignan, I rely upon you to
procure me every information about her.”
“Yes, sire, and when shall I have the honor of seeing your majesty
again, to give you the latest news?”
“Whenever you have procured it.”
“I shall obtain it speedily, then, if the information can be as quickly
obtained as my wish to see your majesty again.”
“Well said, count! By the by, has Madame displayed any ill-feeling
against this poor girl?”
“None, sire.”
“Madame did not get angry, then?”
“I do not know; I only know that she laughed continually.”
“That’s well; but I think I hear voices in the ante-rooms--no doubt a
courier has just arrived. Inquire, Saint-Aignan.” The count ran to the
door and exchanged a few words with the usher; he returned to the king,
saying, “Sire, it is M. Fouquet who has this moment arrived, by your
majesty’s orders, he says. He presented himself, but, because of the
lateness of the hour, he does not press for an audience this evening,
and is satisfied to have his presence here formally announced.”
“M. Fouquet! I wrote to him at three o’clock, inviting him to be at
Fontainebleau the following day, and he arrives at Fontainebleau at
two o’clock in the morning! This is, indeed, zeal!” exclaimed the
king, delighted to see himself so promptly obeyed. “On the contrary, M.
Fouquet shall have his audience. I summoned him, and will receive him.
Let him be introduced. As for you, count, pursue your inquiries, and be
here to-morrow.”
The king placed his finger on his lips; and Saint-Aignan, his heart
brimful of happiness, hastily withdrew, telling the usher to introduce
M. Fouquet, who, thereupon, entered the king’s apartment. Louis rose to
receive him.
“Good evening, M. Fouquet,” he said, smiling graciously; “I congratulate
you on your punctuality; and yet my message must have reached you late?”
“At nine in the evening, sire.”
“You have been working very hard lately, M. Fouquet, for I have been
informed that you have not left your rooms at Saint-Mande during the
last three or four days.”
“It is perfectly true, your majesty, that I have kept myself shut up for
the past three days,” replied Fouquet.
“Do you know, M. Fouquet, that I had a great many things to say to you?”
continued the king, with a most gracious air.
“Your majesty overwhelms me, and since you are so graciously disposed
towards me, will you permit me to remind you of the promise made to
grant an audience?”
“Ah, yes! some church dignitary, who thinks he has to thank me for
something, is it not?”
“Precisely so, sire. The hour is, perhaps, badly chosen; but the time
of the companion whom I have brought with me is valuable, and as
Fontainebleau is on the way to his diocese--”
“Who is it, then?”
“The bishop of Vannes, whose appointment your majesty, at my
recommendation, deigned, three months since, to sign.”
“That is very possible,” said the king, who had signed without reading;
“and he is here?”
“Yes, sire; Vannes is an important diocese; the flock belonging to this
pastor needed his religious consolation; they are savages, whom it is
necessary to polish, at the same time that he instructs them, and M.
d’Herblay is unequalled in such kind of missions.”
“M. d’Herblay!” said the king, musingly, as if his name, heard long
since, was not, however, unknown to him.
“Oh!” said Fouquet, promptly, “your majesty is not acquainted with the
obscure name of one of your most faithful and valuable servants?”
“No, I confess I am not. And so he wishes to set off again?”
“He has this very day received letters which will, perhaps, compel him
to leave, so that, before setting off for that unknown region called
Bretagne, he is desirous of paying his respects to your majesty.”
“Is he waiting?”
“He is here, sire.”
“Let him enter.”
Fouquet made a sign to the usher in attendance, who was waiting behind
the tapestry. The door opened, and Aramis entered. The king allowed him
to finish the compliments which he addressed to him, and fixed a long
look upon a countenance which no one could forget, after having once
beheld it.
“Vannes!” he said: “you are bishop of Vannes, I believe?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Vannes is in Bretagne, I think?” Aramis bowed.
“Near the coast?” Aramis again bowed.
“A few leagues from Bell-Isle, is it not?”
“Yes, sire,” replied Aramis; “six leagues, I believe.”
“Six leagues; a mere step, then,” said Louis XIV.
“Not for us poor Bretons, sire,” replied Aramis: “six leagues, on the
contrary, is a great distance, if it be six leagues on land; and an
immense distance, if it be leagues on the sea. Besides, I have the honor
to mention to your majesty that there are six leagues of sea from the
river to Belle-Isle.”
“It is said that M. Fouquet has a very beautiful house there?” inquired
the king.
“Yes, it is said so,” replied Aramis, looking quietly at Fouquet.
“What do you mean by ‘it is said so?’” exclaimed the king.
“He has, sire.”
“Really, M. Fouquet, I must confess that one circumstance surprises me.”
“What may that be, sire?”
“That you should have at the head of the diocese a man like M.
d’Herblay, and yet should not have shown him Belle-Isle.”
“Oh, sire,” replied the bishop, without giving Fouquet time to answer,
“we poor Breton prelates seldom leave our residences.”
“M. de Vannes,” said the king, “I will punish M. Fouquet for his
indifference.”
“In what way, sire?”
“I will change your bishopric.”
Fouquet bit his lips, but Aramis only smiled.
“What income does Vannes bring you in?” continued the king.
“Sixty thousand livres, sire,” said Aramis.
“So trifling an amount as that; but you possess other property, Monsieur
de Vannes?”
“I have nothing else, sire; only M. Fouquet pays me one thousand two
hundred livres a year for his pew in the church.”
“Well, M. d’Herblay, I promise you something better than that.”
“Sire--”
“I will not forget you.”
Aramis bowed, and the king also bowed to him in a respectful manner, as
he was accustomed to do towards women and members of the Church. Aramis
gathered that his audience was at an end; he took his leave of the
king in the simple, unpretending language of a country pastor, and
disappeared.
“He is, indeed, a remarkable face,” said the king, following him with
his eyes as long as he could see him, and even to a certain degree when
he was no longer to be seen.
“Sire,” replied Fouquet, “if that bishop had been educated early in
life, no prelate in the kingdom would deserve the highest distinctions
better than he.”
“His learning is not extensive, then?”
“He changed the sword for the crucifix, and that rather late in life.
But it matters little, if your majesty will permit me to speak of M. de
Vannes again on another occasion--”
“I beg you to do so. But before speaking of him, let us speak of
yourself, M. Fouquet.”
“Of me, sire?”
“Yes, I have to pay you a thousand compliments.”
“I cannot express to your majesty the delight with which you overwhelm
me.”
“I understand you, M. Fouquet. I confess, however, to have had certain
prejudices against you.”
“In that case, I was indeed unhappy, sire.”
“But they exist no longer. Did you not perceive--”
“I did, indeed, sire; but I awaited with resignation the day when the
truth would prevail; and it seems that that day has now arrived.”
“Ah! you knew, then, you were in disgrace with me?”
“Alas! sire, I perceived it.”
“And do you know the reason?”
“Perfectly well; your majesty thought that I had been wastefully lavish
in expenditure.”
“Not so; far from that.”
“Or, rather an indifferent administrator. In a word, you thought
that, as the people had no money, there would be none for your majesty
either.”
“Yes, I thought so; but I was deceived.”
Fouquet bowed.
“And no disturbances, no complaints?”
“And money enough,” said Fouquet.
“The fact is that you have been profuse with it during the last month.”
“I have more, not only for all your majesty’s requirements, but for all
your caprices.”
“I thank you, Monsieur Fouquet,” replied the king, seriously. “I will
not put you to the proof. For the next two months I do not intend to ask
you for anything.”
“I will avail myself of the interval to amass five or six millions,
which will be serviceable as money in hand in case of war.”
“Five or six millions!”
“For the expenses of your majesty’s household only, be it understood.”
“You think war probable, M. Fouquet?”
“I think that if Heaven has bestowed on the eagle a beak and claws, it
is to enable him to show his royal character.”
The king blushed with pleasure.
“We have spent a great deal of money these few days past, Monsieur
Fouquet; will you not scold me for it?”
“Sire, your majesty has still twenty years of youth to enjoy, and a
thousand million francs to lavish in those twenty years.”
“That is a great deal of money, M. Fouquet,” said the king.
“I will economize, sire. Besides, your majesty as two valuable servants
in M. Colbert and myself. The one will encourage you to be prodigal with
your treasures--and this shall be myself, if my services should continue
to be agreeable to your majesty; and the other will economize money for
you, and this will be M. Colbert’s province.”
“M. Colbert?” returned the king, astonished.
“Certainly, sire; M. Colbert is an excellent accountant.”
At this commendation, bestowed by the traduced on the traducer, the king
felt himself penetrated with confidence and admiration. There was not,
moreover, either in Fouquet’s voice or look, anything which injuriously
affected a single syllable of the remark he had made; he did not pass
one eulogium, as it were, in order to acquire the right of making
two reproaches. The king comprehended him, and yielding to so much
generosity and address, he said, “You praise M. Colbert, then?”
“Yes, sire, I praise him; for, besides being a man of merit, I believe
him to be devoted to your majesty’s interests.”
“Is that because he has often interfered with your own views?” said the
king, smiling.
“Exactly, sire.”
“Explain yourself.”
“It is simple enough. I am the man who is needed to make the money come
in; he is the man who is needed to prevent it leaving.”
“Nay, nay, monsieur le surintendant, you will presently say something
which will correct this good opinion.”
“Do you mean as far as administrative abilities are concerned, sire?”
“Yes.”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Really?”
“Upon my honor, sire, I do not know throughout France a better clerk
than M. Colbert.”
This word “clerk” did not possess, in 1661, the somewhat subservient
signification attached to it in the present day; but, as spoken by
Fouquet, whom the king had addressed as the superintendent, it seemed
to acquire an insignificant and petty character, that at this juncture
served admirably to restore Fouquet to his place, and Colbert to his
own.
“And yet,” said Louis XIV., “it was Colbert, however, that,
notwithstanding his economy, had the arrangement of my _fetes_ here at
Fontainebleau; and I assure you, Monsieur Fouquet, that in no way has
he checked the expenditure of money.” Fouquet bowed, but did not reply.
“Is it not your opinion too?” said the king.
“I think, sire,” he replied, “that M. Colbert has done what he had to do
in an exceedingly orderly manner, and that he deserves, in this respect,
all the praise your majesty may bestow upon him.”
The word “orderly” was a proper accompaniment for the word “clerk.” The
king possessed that extreme sensitiveness of organization, that delicacy
of perception, which pierced through and detected the regular order of
feelings and sensations, before the actual sensations themselves, and
he therefore comprehended that the clerk had, in Fouquet’s opinion, been
too full of method and order in his arrangements; in other words, that
the magnificent _fetes_ of Fontainebleau might have been rendered more
magnificent still. The king consequently felt that there was something
in the amusements he had provided with which some person or another
might be able to find fault; he experienced a little of the annoyance
felt by a person coming from the provinces to Paris, dressed out in the
very best clothes which his wardrobe can furnish, only to find that
the fashionably dressed man there looks at him either too much or not
enough. This part of the conversation, which Fouquet had carried on with
so much moderation, yet with extreme tact, inspired the king with the
highest esteem for the character of the man and the capacity of the
minister. Fouquet took his leave at a quarter to three in the morning,
and the king went to bed a little uneasy and confused at the indirect
lesson he had received; and a good hour was employed by him in going
over again in memory the embroideries, the tapestries, the bills of fare
of the various banquets, the architecture of the triumphal arches, the
arrangements for the illuminations and fireworks, all the offspring
of the “Clerk Colbert’s” invention. The result was, the king passed in
review before him everything that had taken place during the last
eight days, and decided that faults could be found in his _fetes_.
But Fouquet, by his politeness, his thoughtful consideration, and his
generosity, had injured Colbert more deeply than the latter, by his
artifice, his ill-will, and his persevering hatred, had ever yet
succeeded in hurting Fouquet.