COLBERT.
History will tell us, or rather history has told us, of the various
events of the following day, of the splendid fetes given by the
surintendant to his sovereign. There was nothing but amusement and
delight allowed to prevail throughout the whole of the following day;
there was a promenade, a banquet, a comedy to be acted, and a comedy,
too, in which, to his great amazement, Porthos recognized M. Coquelin de
Voliere as one of the actors, in the piece called "Les Facheux." Full of
preoccupation, however, from the scene of the previous evening, and
hardly recovered from the effects of the poison which Colbert had then
administered to him, the king, during the whole of the day, so brilliant
in its effects, so full of unexpected and startling novelties, in which
all the wonders of the "Arabian Nights' Entertainments" seemed to be
reproduced for his especial amusement--the king, we say, showed himself
cold, reserved, and taciturn. Nothing could smooth the frowns upon his
face; everyone who observed him noticed that a deep feeling of
resentment, of remote origin, increased by slow degrees, as the source
becomes a river, thanks to the thousand threads of water which increase
its body, was keenly alive in the depths of the king's heart. Toward the
middle of the day only did he begin to resume a little serenity of
manner, and by that time he had, in all probability, made up his mind.
Aramis, who followed him step by step in his thoughts, as in his walk,
concluded that the event that he was expecting would not be long before
it was announced. This time Colbert seemed to walk in concert with the
bishop of Vannes, and had he received for every annoyance which he
inflicted on the king a word of direction from Aramis, he could not have
done better. During the whole of the day the king, who, in all
probability, wished to free himself from some of the thoughts which
disturbed his mind, seemed to seek La Valliere's society as actively as
he seemed to show his anxiety to flee that of M. Colbert or M. Fouquet.
The evening came. The king had expressed a wish not to walk in the park
until after cards in the evening. In the interval between supper and the
promenade, cards and dice were introduced.
The king won a thousand pistoles, and having won them, put them in his
pocket, and then rose, saying, "And now, gentlemen, to the park." He
found the ladies of the court already there. The king, we have before
observed, had won a thousand pistoles, and had put them in his pocket;
but M. Fouquet had somehow contrived to lose ten thousand, so that among
the courtiers there was still left a hundred and ninety thousand francs
profit to divide, a circumstance which made the countenances of the
courtiers and the officers of the king's household the most joyous
countenances in the world. It was not the same, however, with the king's
face; for notwithstanding his success at play, to which he was by no
means insensible, there still remained a slight shade of
dissatisfaction. Colbert was waiting for or upon him at the corner of
one of the avenues; he was most probably waiting there in consequence of
a rendezvous which had been given him by the king, as Louis XIV., who
had avoided him, or who had seemed to avoid him, suddenly made him a
sign, and they then struck into the depths of the park together. But La
Valliere, as well, had observed the king's gloomy aspect and kindling
glances; she had remarked this--and as nothing which lay hidden or
smoldering in his heart was impenetrable to her affection--she
understood that this repressed wrath menaced some one; she prepared to
withstand the current of his vengeance and intercede like an angel of
mercy. Overcome by sadness, nervously agitated, deeply distressed at
having been so long separated from her lover, disturbed at the sight of
that emotion which she had divined, she accordingly presented herself to
the king with an embarrassed aspect, which, in his then disposition of
mind, the king interpreted unfavorably. Then, as they were alone, or
nearly alone, inasmuch as Colbert, as soon as he perceived the young
girl approaching, had stopped and drawn back a dozen paces--the king
advanced toward La Valliere and took her by the hand. "Mademoiselle," he
said to her, "should I be guilty of an indiscretion if I were to inquire
if you were indisposed? for you seem to breathe as if you were
oppressed by some secret cause of uneasiness, and your eyes are filled
with tears."
"Oh! sire, if I be indeed so, and if my eyes are indeed full of tears, I
am sorrowful only at the sadness which seems to oppress your majesty."
"My sadness? You are mistaken, mademoiselle; no, it is not sadness I
experience."
"What is it, then, sire?"
"Humiliation."
"Humiliation? oh! sire, what a word for you to use."
"I mean, mademoiselle, that wherever I may happen to be, no one else
ought to be the master. Well, then, look round you on every side, and
judge whether I am not eclipsed--I, the king of France--before the king
of these wide domains. Oh!" he continued, clenching his hands and teeth,
"when I think that this king--"
"Well, sire?" said Louise, terrified.
"--That this king is a faithless, unworthy servant, who becomes proud
and self-sufficient with property which belongs to me, and which he has
stolen. And, therefore, am I about to change this impudent minister's
fete into a sorrow and mourning, of which the nymph of Vaux, as the
poets say, shall not soon lose the remembrance."
"Oh! your majesty--"
"Well, mademoiselle, are you about to take M. Fouquet's part?" said
Louis, impatiently.
"No, sire; I will only ask whether you are well informed. Your majesty
has more than once learned the value of accusations made at court."
Louis XIV. made a sign for Colbert to approach. "Speak, Monsieur
Colbert," said the young prince, "for I almost believe that Mademoiselle
de la Valliere has need of your assurance before she can put any faith
in the king's word. Tell mademoiselle what M. Fouquet has done; and you,
mademoiselle, will perhaps have the kindness to listen. It will not be
long."
Why did Louis XIV. insist upon it in such a manner? A very simple
reason--his heart was not at rest; his mind was not thoroughly
convinced; he imagined there was some dark, hidden, tortuous intrigue
concealed beneath these thirteen millions of francs; and he wished that
the pure heart of La Valliere, which had revolted at the idea of a theft
or robbery, should approve--even were it only a single word--the
resolution he had taken, and which, nevertheless, he hesitated about
carrying into execution.
"Speak, monsieur," said La Valliere to Colbert, who had advanced;
"speak, since the king wishes me to listen to you. Tell me, what is the
crime with which M. Fouquet is charged?"
"Oh! not very heinous, mademoiselle," he returned, "a simple abuse of
confidence."
"Speak, speak, Colbert; and when you shall have related it, leave us,
and go and inform M. d'Artagnan that I have certain orders to give him."
"M. d'Artagnan, sire!" exclaimed La Valliere; "but why send for M.
d'Artagnan? I entreat you to tell me."
"Pardieu! in order to arrest this haughty, arrogant Titan, who, true to
his menace, threatens to scale my heaven."
"Arrest M. Fouquet, do you say?"
"Ah! does that surprise you?"
"In his own house?"
"Why not? If he be guilty, he is guilty in his own house as anywhere
else."
"M. Fouquet, who at this moment is ruining himself for his sovereign!"
"In plain truth, mademoiselle, it seems as if you were defending this
traitor."
Colbert began to chuckle silently. The king turned round at the sound of
this suppressed mirth.
"Sire," said La Valliere, "it is not M. Fouquet I am defending: it is
yourself."
"Me! you defend me?"
"Sire, you would be dishonoring yourself, if you were to give such an
order."
"Dishonor myself?" murmured the king, turning pale with anger. "In plain
truth, mademoiselle, you show a strange persistence in what you say."
"If I do so, sire, my only motive is that of serving your majesty,"
replied the noble-hearted girl; "for that I would risk, I would
sacrifice my very life, without the slightest reserve."
Colbert seemed inclined to grumble and complain. La Valliere, that
timid, gentle lamb, turned round upon him, and with a glance like
lightning imposed silence upon him. "Monsieur," she said, "when the king
acts well, whether, in doing so, he does either myself or those who
belong to me an injury, I have nothing to say; but were the king to
confer a benefit either upon me or mine, and if he acted badly, I should
tell him so."
"But it appears to me, mademoiselle," Colbert ventured to say, "that I
too love the king."
"Yes, monsieur, we both love him, but each in a different manner,"
replied La Valliere, with such an accent that the heart of the young
king was powerfully affected by it. "I love him so deeply, that the
whole world is aware of it; so purely, that the king himself does not
doubt my affection. He is my king and my master; I am the humblest of
his servants. But he who touches his honor touches my life. Therefore, I
repeat, that they dishonor the king who advise him to arrest M. Fouquet
under his own roof."
Colbert hung down his head, for he felt that the king had abandoned him.
However, as he bent his head, he murmured, "Mademoiselle, I have only
one word to say."
"Do not say it, then, monsieur; for I would not listen to it. Besides,
what could you have to tell me? That M. Fouquet has been guilty of
certain crimes? I know he has, because the king has said so: and from
the moment the king said, 'I think so,' I have no occasion for other
lips to say, 'I affirm it.' But, were M. Fouquet the vilest of men, I
should say aloud, 'M. Fouquet's person is sacred to the king because he
is the king's host. Were his house a den of thieves, were Vaux a cave of
coiners or robbers, his home is sacred, his palace is inviolable, since
his wife is living in it; and that is an asylum which even executioners
would not dare to violate.'"
La Valliere paused, and was silent. In spite of himself, the king could
not but admire her; he was overpowered by the passionate energy of her
voice; by the nobleness of the cause she advocated. Colbert yielded,
overcome by the inequality of the struggle. At last, the king breathed
again more freely, shook his head, and held out his hand to La Valliere.
"Mademoiselle," he said gently, "why do you decide against me? Do you
know what this wretched fellow will do, if I give him time to breathe
again?"
"Is he not a prey which will always be within your grasp?"
"And if he escapes, and takes to flight?" exclaimed Colbert.
"Well, monsieur, it will always remain on record, to the king's eternal
honor, that he allowed M. Fouquet to flee; and the more guilty he may
have been, the greater will the king's honor and glory appear, when
compared with such misery and such shame."
Louis kissed La Valliere's hand, as he knelt before her.
"I am lost!" thought Colbert; then suddenly his face brightened up
again. "Oh! no, no, not yet," he said to himself.
And while the king, protected from observation by the thick covert of an
enormous lime, pressed La Valliere to his breast, with all the ardor of
ineffable affection, Colbert tranquilly looked among the papers in his
pocket-book, and drew out of it a paper folded in the form of a letter,
slightly yellow, perhaps, but which must have been very precious, since
the intendant smiled as he looked at it; he then bent a look, full of
hatred, upon the charming group which the young girl and the king formed
together--a group which was revealed for a moment, as the light of the
approaching torches shone upon it. Louis noticed the light reflected
upon La Valliere's white dress. "Leave me, Louise," he said, "for some
one is coming."
"Mademoiselle, mademoiselle, some one is coming," cried Colbert, to
expedite the young girl's departure.
Louise disappeared rapidly among the trees; and then, as the king, who
had been on his knees before the young girl, was rising from his humble
posture, Colbert exclaimed, "Ah! Mademoiselle de la Valliere has let
something fall."
"What is it?" inquired the king.
"A paper--a letter--something white; look there, sire."
The king stooped down immediately, and picked up the letter, crumpling
it in his hand as he did so; and at the same moment the torches arrived,
inundating the darkness of the scene with a flood of light as bright as
day.