The dawn of the following day was dark and gloomy, and as every one knew
that the promenade was down in the royal programme, every one’s gaze, as
his eyes were opened, was directed towards the sky. Just above the tops
of the trees a thick, suffocating vapor seemed to remain suspended, with
barely sufficient power to rise thirty feet above the ground under the
influence of the sun’s rays, which was scarcely visible as a faint spot
of lesser darkness through the veil of heavy mist. No dew had fallen
in the morning; the turf was dried up for want of moisture, the flowers
withered. The birds sang less inspiringly than usual upon the boughs,
which remained motionless as the limbs of corpses. The strange confused
and animated murmurs, which seemed born and to exist in virtue of the
sun, that respiration of nature which is unceasingly heard amidst all
other sounds, could not be heard now, and never had the silence been so
profound.
The king had noticed the cheerless aspect of the heavens as he
approached the window immediately upon rising. But as all the
necessary directions had been given respecting the promenade, and
every preparation had been made accordingly, and as, which was far
more imperious than anything else, Louis relied upon this promenade to
satisfy the cravings of his imagination, and we will even already say,
the clamorous desires of his heart--the king unhesitatingly decided
that the appearance of the heavens had nothing whatever to do with the
matter; that the promenade was arranged, and that, whatever the state of
the weather, the promenade should take place. Besides, there are
certain terrestrial sovereigns who seem to have accorded them privileged
existences, and there are certain times when it might almost be supposed
that the expressed wish of an earthly monarch has its influence over the
Divine will. It was Virgil who observed of Augustus: _Nocte pluit tota
redeunt spectacula mane_. [10]
Louis attended mass as usual, but it was evident that his attention was
somewhat distracted from the presence of the Creator by the remembrance
of the creature. His mind was occupied during the service in reckoning
more than once the number of minutes, then of seconds, which separated
him from the blissful moment when the promenade would begin, that is
to say, the moment when Madame would set out with her maids of honor.
Besides, as a matter of course, everybody at the chateau was ignorant
of the interview which had taken place between La Vallière and the king.
Montalais, perhaps, with her usual chattering propensity, might have
been disposed to talk about it; but Montalais on this occasion was held
in check by Malicorne, who had securely fastened on her pretty lips the
golden padlock of mutual interest. As for Louis XIV., his happiness was
so extreme that he had forgiven Madame, or nearly so, her little
piece of malice of the previous evening. In fact, he had occasion to
congratulate himself rather than to complain of it. Had it not been for
her ill-natured action, he would not have received the letter from
La Vallière; had it not been for the letter, he would have had no
interview; and had it not been for the interview he would have remained
undecided. His heart was filled with too much happiness for any
ill-feeling to remain in it, at that moment at least. Instead,
therefore, of knitting his brows into a frown when he perceived his
sister-in-law, Louis resolved to receive her in a more friendly and
gracious manner than usual. But on one condition only, that she would be
ready to set out early. Such was the nature of Louis’s thoughts during
mass; which made him, during the ceremony, forget matters which, in his
character of Most Christian King and of the eldest son of the Church,
ought to have occupied his attention. He returned to the chateau, and
as the promenade was fixed for midday, and it was at present just ten
o’clock, he set to work desperately with Colbert and Lyonne. But even
while he worked Louis went from the table to the window, inasmuch as the
window looked out upon Madame’s pavilion: he could see M. Fouquet in the
courtyard, to whom the courtiers, since the favor shown towards him
on the previous evening, paid greater attention than ever. The king,
instinctively, on noticing Fouquet, turned towards Colbert, who was
smiling, and seemed full of benevolence and delight, a state of feeling
which had arisen from the very moment one of his secretaries had entered
and handed him a pocket-book, which he had put unopened into his pocket.
But, as there was always something sinister at the bottom of any delight
expressed by Colbert, Louis preferred, of the smiles of the two men,
that of Fouquet. He beckoned to the superintendent to come up, and
turning towards Lyonne and Colbert, he said:--“Finish this matter, place
it on my desk, and I will read it at my leisure.” And he left the
room. At the sign the king had made to him, Fouquet had hastened up
the staircase, while Aramis, who was with the superintendent, quietly
retired among the group of courtiers and disappeared without having been
even observed by the king. The king and Fouquet met at the top of the
staircase.
“Sire,” said Fouquet, remarking the gracious manner in which Louis was
about to receive him, “your majesty has overwhelmed me with kindness
during the last few days. It is not a youthful monarch, but a being of
higher order, who reigns over France, one whom pleasure, happiness, and
love acknowledge as their master.” The king colored. The compliment,
although flattering, was not the less somewhat pointed. Louis
conducted Fouquet to a small room that divided his study from his
sleeping-apartment.
“Do you know why I summoned you?” said the king as he seated himself
upon the edge of the window, so as not to lose anything that might be
passing in the gardens which fronted the opposite entrance to Madame’s
pavilion.
“No, sire,” replied Fouquet, “but I am sure for something agreeable, if
I am to judge from your majesty’s gracious smile.”
“You are mistaken, then.”
“I, sire?”
“For I summoned you, on the contrary, to pick a quarrel with you.”
“With me, sire?”
“Yes: and that a serious one.”
“Your majesty alarms me--and yet I was most confident in your justice
and goodness.”
“Do you know I am told, Monsieur Fouquet, that you are preparing a grand
_fete_ at Vaux.”
Fouquet smiled, as a sick man would do at the first shiver of a fever
which has left him but returns again.
“And that you have not invited me!” continued the king.
“Sire,” replied Fouquet, “I have not even thought of the _fete_ you
speak of, and it was only yesterday evening that one of my _friends_,”
Fouquet laid a stress upon the word, “was kind enough to make me think
of it.”
“Yet I saw you yesterday evening, Monsieur Fouquet, and you said nothing
to me about it.”
“How dared I hope that your majesty would so greatly descend from your
own exalted station as to honor my dwelling with your royal presence?”
“Excuse me, Monsieur Fouquet, you did not speak to me about your
_fete_.”
“I did not allude to the _fete_ to your majesty, I repeat, in the
first place, because nothing had been decided with regard to it, and,
secondly, because I feared a refusal.”
“And something made you fear a refusal, Monsieur Fouquet? You see I am
determined to push you hard.”
“The profound wish I had that your majesty should accept my
invitation--”
“Well, Monsieur Fouquet, nothing is easier, I perceive, than our coming
to an understanding. Your wish is to invite me to your _fete_, my own is
to be present at it; invite me and I will go.”
“Is it possible that your majesty will deign to accept?” murmured the
superintendent.
“Why, really, monsieur,” said the king, laughing, “I think I do more
than accept; I rather fancy I am inviting myself.”
“Your majesty overwhelms me with honor and delight,” exclaimed Fouquet,
“but I shall be obliged to repeat what M. Vieuville said to your
ancestor, Henry IV., _Domine non sum dignus_.” [11]
“To which I reply, Monsieur Fouquet, that if you give a _fete_, I will
go, whether I am invited or not.”
“I thank your majesty deeply,” said Fouquet, as he raised his head
beneath this favor, which he was convinced would be his ruin.
“But how could your majesty have been informed of it?”
“By a public rumor, Monsieur Fouquet, which says such wonderful things
of yourself and the marvels of your house. Would you become proud,
Monsieur Fouquet, if the king were to be jealous of you?”
“I should be the happiest man in the world, sire, since the very day
on which your majesty were to be jealous of Vaux, I should possess
something worthy of being offered to you.”
“Very well, Monsieur Fouquet, prepare your _fete_, and open the door of
your house as wide as possible.”
“It is for your majesty to fix the day.”
“This day month, then.”
“Has your majesty any further commands?”
“Nothing, Monsieur Fouquet, except from the present moment until then to
have you near me as much as possible.”
“I have the honor to form one of your majesty’s party for the
promenade.”
“Very good; indeed, I am now setting out; for there are the ladies, I
see, who are going to start.”
With this remark, the king, with all the eagerness, not only of a young
man, but of a young man in love, withdrew from the window, in order
to take his gloves and cane, which his valet held ready for him. The
neighing of the horses and the crunching of the wheels on the gravel of
the courtyard could be distinctly heard. The king descended the stairs,
and at the moment he appeared upon the flight of steps, every
one stopped. The king walked straight up to the young queen. The
queen-mother, who was still suffering more than ever from the illness
with which she was afflicted, did not wish to go out. Maria Theresa
accompanied Madame in her carriage, and asked the king in what direction
he wished the promenade to drive. The king, who had just seen La
Vallière, still pale from the event of the previous evening, get into
a carriage with three of her companions, told the queen that he had no
preference, and wherever she would like to go, there would he be with
her. The queen then desired that the outriders should proceed in the
direction of Apremont. The outriders set off accordingly before the
others. The king rode on horseback, and for a few minutes accompanied
the carriage of the queen and Madame. The weather had cleared up a
little, but a kind of veil of dust, like a thick gauze, was still spread
over the surface of the heavens, and the sun made every atom glisten
within the circuit of its rays. The heat was stifling; but, as the king
did not seem to pay any attention to the appearance of the heavens, no
one made himself uneasy about it, and the promenade, in obedience to the
orders given by the queen, took its course in the direction of Apremont.
The courtiers who followed were in the very highest spirits; it was
evident that every one tried to forget, and to make others forget, the
bitter discussions of the previous evening. Madame, particularly, was
delightful. In fact, seeing the king at the door of her carriage, as she
did not suppose he would be there for the queen’s sake, she hoped that
her prince had returned to her. Hardly, however, had they proceeded a
quarter of a mile on the road, when the king, with a gracious smile,
saluted them and drew up his horse, leaving the queen’s carriage to pass
on, then that of the principal ladies of honor, and then all the others
in succession, who, seeing the king stop, wished in their turn to stop
too; but the king made a sign to them to continue their progress. When
La Vallière’s carriage passed, the king approached it, saluted the
ladies who were inside, and was preparing to accompany the carriage
containing the maids of honor, in the same way he had followed that in
which Madame was, when suddenly the whole file of carriages stopped. It
was probable that Madame, uneasy at the king having left her, had just
given directions for the performance of this maneuver, the direction in
which the promenade was to take place having been left to her. The king,
having sent to inquire what her object was in stopping the cavalcade,
was informed in reply, that she wished to walk. She most likely hoped
that the king, who was following the carriages of the maids of honor on
horseback, would not venture to follow the maids of honor themselves on
foot. They had arrived in the middle of the forest.
The promenade, in fact, was not ill-timed, especially for those who were
dreamers or lovers. From the little open space where the halt had taken
place, three beautiful long walks, shady and undulating, stretched out
before them. These walks were covered with moss or with leaves that
formed a carpet from the loom of nature; and each walk had its horizon
in the distance, consisting of about a hand-breadth of sky, apparent
through the interlacing of the branches of the trees. At the end of
almost every walk, evidently in great tribulation and uneasiness, the
startled deer were seen hurrying to and fro, first stopping for a moment
in the middle of the path, and then raising their heads they fled with
the speed of an arrow or bounded into the depths of the forest, where
they disappeared from view; now and then a rabbit, of philosophical
mien, might be noticed quietly sitting upright, rubbing his muzzle
with his fore paws, and looking about inquiringly, as though wondering
whether all these people, who were approaching in his direction, and
who had just disturbed him in his meditations and his meal, were not
followed by their dogs, or had not their guns under their arms. All
alighted from their carriages as soon as they observed that the queen
was doing so. Maria Theresa took the arm of one of her ladies of honor,
and, with a side glance towards the king, who did not perceive that he
was in the slightest degree the object of the queen’s attention, entered
the forest by the first path before her. Two of the outriders preceded
her majesty with long poles, which they used for the purpose of putting
the branches of the trees aside, or removing the bushes that might
impede her progress. As soon as Madame alighted, she found the Comte
de Guiche at her side, who bowed and placed himself at her disposal.
Monsieur, delighted with his bath of the two previous days, had
announced his preference for the river, and, having given De Guiche
leave of absence, remained at the chateau with the Chevalier de Lorraine
and Manicamp. He was not in the slightest degree jealous. He had been
looked for to no purpose among those present; but as Monsieur was a man
who thought a great deal of himself, and usually added very little to
the general pleasure, his absence was rather a subject of satisfaction
than regret. Every one had followed the example which the queen and
Madame had set, doing just as they pleased, according as chance or fancy
influenced them. The king, we have already observed, remained near La
Vallière, and, throwing himself off his horse at the moment the door of
her carriage was opened, he offered her his hand to alight. Montalais
and Tonnay-Charente immediately drew back and kept at a distance; the
former from calculated, the latter from natural motives. There was this
difference, however, between the two, that the one had withdrawn from
a wish to please the king, the other for a very opposite reason. During
the last half-hour the weather also had undergone a change; the veil
which had been spread over the sky, as if driven by a blast of heated
air, had become massed together in the western part of the heavens;
and afterwards, as if driven by a current of air from the opposite
direction, was now advancing slowly and heavily towards them. The
approach of the storm could be felt, but as the king did not perceive
it, no one thought it proper to do so. The promenade was therefore
continued; some of the company, with minds ill at ease on the subject,
raised their eyes from time to time towards the sky; others, even more
timid still, walked about without wandering too far from the carriages,
where they relied upon taking shelter in case the storm burst. The
greater number of these, however, observing that the king fearlessly
entered the wood with La Vallière, followed his majesty. The king,
noticing this, took La Vallière’s hand, and led her to a lateral
forest-alley; where no one this time ventured to follow him.