THE CHATEAU DE VAUX-LE-VICOMTE.
The chateau of Vaux-le-Vicomte, situated about a league from Melun, had
been built by Fouquet in 1655, at a time when there was a scarcity of
money in France; Mazarin had taken all that there was, and Fouquet
expended the remainder. However, as certain men have fertile faults and
useful vices, Fouquet, in scattering broadcast millions of money in the
construction of this palace, had found a means of gathering, as the
result of his generous profusion, three illustrious men together: Levan,
the architect of the building; Lenotre, the designer of the gardens; and
Lebrun, the decorator of the apartments. If the Chateau de Vaux
possessed a single fault with which it could be reproached, it was its
grand, pretentious character. It is even at the present day proverbial
to calculate the number of acres of roofing, the reparation of which
would, in our age, be the ruin of fortunes cramped and narrowed as the
epoch itself. Vaux-le-Vicomte, when its magnificent gates, supported by
caryatides, have been passed through, has the principal front of the
main building opening upon a vast, so-called court of honor, inclosed by
deep ditches, bordered by a magnificent stone balustrade. Nothing could
be more noble in appearance than the forecourt of the middle, raised
upon the flight of steps, like a king upon his throne, having around it
four pavilions forming the angles, the immense Ionic columns of which
rose majestically to the whole height of the building. The friezes
ornamented with arabesques, and the pediments which crowned the
pilasters, conferred richness and grace upon every part of the building,
while the domes which surmounted the whole added proportion and majesty.
This mansion, built by a subject, bore a far greater resemblance to
those royal residences which Wolsey fancied he was called upon to
construct, in order to present them to his master from the fear of
rendering him jealous.
But if magnificence and splendor were displayed in any one particular
part of this palace more than in another--if anything could be preferred
to the wonderful arrangement of the interior, to the sumptuousness of
the gilding, and to the profusion of the paintings and statues, it would
be the park and gardens of Vaux. The _jets d'eau_, which were regarded
as wonderful in 1653, are still so, even at the present time; the
cascades awakened the admiration of kings and princes; and as for the
famous grotto, the theme of so many poetical effusions, the residence of
that illustrious nymph of Vaux, whom Pellisson made converse with La
Fontaine, we must be spared the description of all its beauties. We will
do as Despreaux did--we will enter the park, the trees of which are of
eight years' growth only, and whose summits even yet, as they proudly
tower aloft, blushingly unfold their leaves to the earliest rays of the
rising sun. Lenotre had accelerated the pleasure of the Mecænas of his
period; all the nursery-grounds had furnished trees whose growth had
been accelerated by careful culture and rich manure. Every tree in the
neighborhood which presented a fair appearance of beauty or stature, had
been taken up by its roots and transplanted to the park. Fouquet could
well afford to purchase trees to ornament his park, since he had bought
up three villages and their appurtenances (to use a legal word) to
increase its extent. M. de Scudery said of this palace, that for the
purpose of keeping the grounds and gardens well watered, M. Fouquet had
divided a river into a thousand fountains, and gathered the waters of a
thousand fountains into torrents. This same Monsieur de Scudery said a
great many other things in his "Clelie" about this palace of Valterre,
the charms of which he describes most minutely. We should be far wiser
to send our curious readers to Vaux to judge for themselves, than to
refer them to the "Clelie" and yet there are as many leagues from Paris
to Vaux as there are volumes of the "Clelie."
This magnificent palace had been got ready for the reception of the
greatest reigning sovereign of the time. M. Fouquet's friends had
transported thither, some their actors and their dresses, others their
troops of sculptors and artists; not forgetting others with their
ready-mended pens--floods of impromptus were contemplated. The cascades,
somewhat rebellious nymphs though they were, poured forth their waters
brighter and clearer than crystal; they scattered over the bronze
tritons and nereids their waves of foam, which glistened like fire in
the rays of the sun. An army of servants were hurrying to and fro in
squadrons in the courtyard and corridors; while Fouquet, who had only
that morning arrived, walked all through the palace with a calm,
observant glance, in order to give his last orders, after his intendants
had inspected everything.
It was, as we have said, the 15th of August. The sun poured down its
burning rays upon the heathen deities of marble and bronze; it raised
the temperature of the water in the conch shells, and ripened, on the
walls, those magnificent peaches, of which the king, fifty years later,
spoke so regretfully, when, at Marly, on an occasion of a scarcity of
the finer sorts of peaches being complained of, in the beautiful gardens
there--gardens which had cost France double the amount that had been
expended on Vaux--the _great king_ observed to some one, "You are far
too young to have eaten any of M. Fouquet's peaches."
Oh! fame! Oh! the blazonry of renown! Oh! the glory of this earth! That
very man whose judgment was so sound and accurate where merit was
concerned--he who had swept into his coffers the inheritance of Nicholas
Fouquet, who had robbed him of Lenotre and Lebrun, and had sent him to
rot for the remainder of his life in one of the state prisons--merely
remembered the peaches of that vanquished, crushed, forgotten enemy! It
was to little purpose that Fouquet had squandered thirty millions of
francs in the fountains of his gardens, in the crucibles of his
sculptors, in the writing-desks of his literary friends, in the
portfolios of his painters; vainly had he fancied that thereby he might
be remembered. A peach--a blushing, rich-flavored fruit, nestling in the
trellis-work on the garden wall, hidden beneath its long green
leaves--this small vegetable production, that a dormouse would nibble up
without a thought, was sufficient to recall to the memory of this great
monarch the mournful shade of the last surintendant of France.
With a perfect reliance that Aramis had made arrangements fairly to
distribute the vast number of guests throughout the palace, and that he
had not omitted to attend to any of the internal regulations for their
comfort, Fouquet devoted his entire attention to the _ensemble_ alone;
in one direction Gourville showed him the preparations which had been
made for the fireworks; in another, Moliere led him over the theater; at
last, after he had visited the chapel, the salons, and the galleries,
and was again going downstairs, exhausted with fatigue, Fouquet saw
Aramis on the staircase. The prelate beckoned to him. The surintendant
joined his friend, and, with him, paused before a large picture scarcely
finished. Applying himself heart and soul to his work, the painter,
Lebrun, covered with perspiration, stained with paint, pale from fatigue
and inspiration of genius, was putting the last finishing touches with
his rapid brush. It was the portrait of the king, whom they were
expecting, dressed in the court-suit which Percerin had condescended to
show beforehand to the bishop of Vannes. Fouquet placed himself before
this portrait, which seemed to live, as one might say, in the cool
freshness of its flesh, and in its warmth of color. He gazed upon it
long and fixedly, estimated the prodigious labor that had been bestowed
upon it, and, not being able to find any recompense sufficiently great
for this Herculean effort, he passed his arm round the painter's neck,
and embraced him. The surintendant, by this action, had utterly ruined a
suit of clothes worth a thousand pistoles, but he had satisfied, more
than satisfied, Lebrun. It was a happy moment for the artist; it was an
unhappy one for M. Percerin, who was walking behind Fouquet, and was
engaged in admiring, in Lebrun's painting, the suit that he had had made
for his majesty, a perfect _objet d'art_, as he called it, which was not
to be matched except in the wardrobe of the surintendant. His distress
and his exclamations were interrupted by a signal which had been given
from the summit of the mansion. In the direction of Melun, in the still
empty open plain, the sentinels of Vaux had perceived the advancing
procession of the king and the queens. His majesty was entering into
Melun with his long train of carriages and cavaliers.
"In an hour--" said Aramis to Fouquet.
"In an hour!" replied the latter, sighing.
"And the people who ask one another what is the good of these royal
fetes!" continued the bishop of Vannes, laughing, with his false smile.
"Alas! I, too, who am not the people, ask the same thing."
"I will answer you in four-and-twenty-hours, monseigneur. Assume a
cheerful countenance, for it should be a day of true rejoicing."
"Well, believe me or not, as you like, D'Herblay," said the
surintendant, with a swelling heart, pointing at the cortège of Louis,
visible in the horizon, "he certainly loves me but very little, nor do I
care much for him; but, I cannot tell you how it is, that since he is
approaching toward my house--"
"Well, what?"
"Well, then, since I know he is on his way here, as my guest, he is more
sacred than ever for me; he is my acknowledged sovereign, and as such is
very dear to me."
"Dear? yes," said Aramis, playing upon the word, as the Abbe Tenay did,
at a later period, with Louis XV.
"Do not laugh, D'Herblay; I feel that if he were really to wish it, I
could love that young man."
"You should not say that to me," returned Aramis, "but rather to M.
Colbert."
"To M. Colbert?" exclaimed Fouquet. "Why so?"
"Because he would allow you a pension out of the king's privy purse, as
soon as he becomes surintendant," said Aramis, preparing to leave as
soon as he had dealt this last blow.
"Where are you going?" returned Fouquet, with a gloomy look.
"To my own apartment, in order to change my costume, monseigneur."
"Whereabouts are you lodging, D'Herblay?"
"In the blue room on the second story."
"The room immediately over the king's room?"
"Precisely."
"You will be subject to very great restraint there. What an idea to
condemn yourself to a room where you cannot stir or move about!"
"During the night, monseigneur, I sleep or read in my bed."
"And your servants?"
"I have only one person with me. I find my reader quite sufficient.
Adieu, monseigneur: do not overfatigue yourself; keep yourself fresh for
the arrival of the king."
"We shall see you by-and-by, I suppose, and shall see your friend De
Valon also?"
"He is lodging next to me, and is at this moment dressing."
And Fouquet, bowing, with a smile, passed on like a commander-in-chief
who pays the different outposts a visit after the enemy has been
signaled in sight.