JEALOUSY.
The torches we have just referred to, the eager attention which every
one displayed, and the new ovation paid to the king by Fouquet, arrived
in time to suspend the effect of a resolution which La Valliere had
already considerably shaken in Louis XIV.'s heart. He looked at Fouquet
with a feeling almost of gratitude for having given La Valliere an
opportunity of showing herself so generously disposed, so powerful in
the influence she exercised over his heart. The moment of the last and
greatest display had arrived. Hardly had Fouquet conducted the king
toward the chateau, than a mass of fire burst from the dome of Vaux with
a prodigious uproar, pouring a flood of dazzling light on every side,
and illumining the remotest corners of the gardens. The fireworks began.
Colbert, at twenty paces from the king, who was surrounded and feted by
the owner of Vaux, seemed, by the obstinate persistence of his gloomy
thoughts, to do his utmost to recall Louis's attention, which the
magnificence of the spectacle was already, in his opinion, too easily
diverting. Suddenly, just as Louis was on the point of holding it out to
Fouquet, he perceived in his hand the paper which, as he believed, La
Valliere had dropped at his feet as she hurried away. The still stronger
magnet of love drew the young prince's attention toward the _souvenir_
of his idol: and, by the brilliant light, which increased momentarily
in beauty, and drew forth from the neighboring villages loud
exclamations of admiration, the king read the letter, which he supposed
was a loving and tender epistle which La Valliere had destined for him.
But as he read it, a death-like pallor stole over his face, and an
expression of deep-seated wrath, illumined by the many-colored fires
which rose brightly and soaringly around the scene, produced a terrible
spectacle, which every one would have shuddered at, could they only have
read into his heart, which was torn by the most stormy and most bitter
passions. There was no truce for him now, influenced as he was by
jealousy and mad passion. From the very moment when the dark truth was
revealed to him, every gentler feeling seemed to disappear; pity,
kindness of consideration, the religion of hospitality, all were
forgotten. In the bitter pang which wrung his heart, still too weak to
hide his sufferings, he was almost on the point of uttering a cry of
alarm, and calling his guards to gather round him. This letter which
Colbert had thrown down at the king's feet, the reader has doubtless
guessed, was the same that had disappeared with the porter Toby at
Fontainebleau, after the attempt which Fouquet had made upon La
Valliere's heart. Fouquet saw the king's pallor, and was far from
guessing the evil; Colbert saw the king's anger, and rejoiced inwardly
at the approach of the storm. Fouquet's voice drew the young prince from
his wrathful reverie.
"What is the matter, sire?" inquired the surintendant, with an
expression of graceful interest.
Louis made a violent effort over himself, as he replied, "Nothing."
"I am afraid your majesty is suffering?"
"I am suffering, and have already told you so, monsieur; but it is
nothing."
And the king, without waiting for the termination of the fireworks,
turned toward the chateau. Fouquet accompanied him, and the whole court
followed after them, leaving the remains of the fireworks burning for
their own amusement. The surintendant endeavored again to question
Louis XIV., but could not succeed in obtaining a reply. He imagined
there had been some misunderstanding between Louis and La Valliere in
the park, which had resulted in a slight quarrel; and that the king, who
was not ordinarily sulky by disposition, but completely absorbed by his
passion for La Valliere, had taken a dislike to every one because his
mistress had shown herself offended with him. This idea was sufficient
to console him; he had even a friendly and kindly smile for the young
king, when the latter wished him good-night. This, however, was not all
the king had to submit to; he was obliged to undergo the usual ceremony,
which on that evening was marked by the closest adherence to the
strictest etiquette. The next day was the one fixed for the departure;
it was but proper that the guests should thank their host, and should
show him a little attention in return for the expenditure of his twelve
millions. The only remark, approaching to amiability, which the king
could find to say to M. Fouquet, as he took leave of him, was in these
words, "Monsieur Fouquet, you shall hear from me. Be good enough to
desire M. d'Artagnan to come here."
And the blood of Louis XIV., who had so profoundly dissimulated his
feelings, boiled in his veins; and he was perfectly ready to get M.
Fouquet's throat cut, with the same readiness, indeed, as his
predecessor had caused the assassination of le Maréchal d'Ancre; and so
he disguised the terrible resolution he had formed, beneath one of those
royal smiles which are the lightning flashes indicating _coups d'étát_.
Fouquet took the king's hand and kissed it; Louis shuddered throughout
his whole frame, but allowed M. Fouquet to touch his hand with his lips.
Five minutes afterward, D'Artagnan, to whom the royal order had been
communicated, entered Louis XIV.'s apartment. Aramis and Philippe were
in theirs, still eagerly attentive and still listening with all their
ears. The king did not even give the captain of the musketeers time to
approach his armchair, but ran forward to meet him. "Take care," he
exclaimed, "that no one enters here."
"Very good, sire," replied the captain, whose glance had for a long time
past analyzed the ravages on the king's countenance. He gave the
necessary order at the door; but returning to the king, he said, "Is
there something fresh the matter, your majesty?"
"How many men have you here?" inquired the king, without making any
other reply to the question addressed to him.
"What for, sire?"
"How many men have you, I say?" repeated the king, stamping upon the
ground with his foot.
"I have the musketeers."
"Well; and what others?"
"Twenty guards and thirteen Swiss."
"How many men will be required to--"
"To do what, sire?" replied the musketeer, opening his large, calm eyes.
"To arrest M. Fouquet."
D'Artagnan fell back a step. "To arrest M. Fouquet!" he burst forth.
"Are you going to tell me that it is impossible!" exclaimed the king,
with cold and vindictive passion.
"I never said that anything is impossible," replied D'Artagnan, wounded
to the quick.
"Very well; do it, then."
D'Artagnan turned on his heel, and made his way toward the door; it was
but a short distance, and he cleared it in half a dozen paces; when he
reached it he suddenly paused and said, "Your majesty will forgive me,
but, in order to effect this arrest, I should like written directions."
"For what purpose--and since when has the king's word been insufficient
for you?"
"Because the word of a king, when it springs from a feeling of anger,
may possibly change when the feeling changes."
"A truce to set phrases, monsieur; you have another thought besides
that?"
"Oh, I, at least, have certain thoughts and ideas, which, unfortunately,
others have not," D'Artagnan replied, impertinently.
The king, in the tempest of his wrath, hesitated, and drew back in the
face of D'Artagnan's frank courage, just as a horse crouches on his
haunches under the strong hand of a bold and experienced rider. "What is
your thought?" he exclaimed.
"This, sire," replied D'Artagnan: "you cause a man to be arrested when
you are still under his roof; and passion is alone the cause of that.
When your anger shall have passed away you will regret what you have
done; and then I wish to be in a position to show you your signature. If
that, however, should fail to be a reparation, it will at least show us
that the king is wrong to lose his temper."
"Wrong to lose his temper!" cried the king, in a loud, passionate voice.
"Did not my father, my grandfather too, before me, lose their temper at
times, in Heaven's name?"
"The king your father and the king your grandfather never lost their
temper except when under the protection of their own palace."
"The king is master wherever he may be."
"That is a flattering complimentary phrase which cannot proceed from any
one but M. Colbert: but it happens not to be the truth. The king is at
home in every man's house when he has driven its owner out of it."
The king bit his lips, but said nothing.
"Can it be possible?" said D'Artagnan; "here is a man who is positively
ruining himself in order to please you, and you wish to have him
arrested! Mordioux! Sire, if my name were Fouquet, and people treated me
in that manner, I would swallow at a single gulp all the fireworks and
other things, and I would set fire to them, and blow myself and
everybody else up to the sky. But it is all the same: it is your wish,
and it shall be done."
"Go," said the king; "but have you men enough?"
"Do you suppose I am going to take a whole host to help me? Arrest M.
Fouquet! why, that is so easy that a very child might do it! It is like
drinking a glass of bitters: one makes an ugly face, and that is all."
"If he defends himself?"
"He! not at all likely. Defend himself when such extreme harshness as
you are going to practice makes the man a very martyr! Nay, I am sure
that if he has a million of francs left, which I very much doubt, he
would be willing enough to give it in order to have such a termination
as this. But what does that matter? it shall be done at once."
"Stay," said the king; "do not make his arrest a public affair."
"That will be more difficult."
"Why so?"
"Because nothing is easier than to go up to M. Fouquet in the midst of a
thousand enthusiastic guests who surround him, and say, 'In the king's
name, I arrest you.' But to go up to him, to turn him first one way and
then another, to drive him up into one of the corners of the chess-board
in such a way that he cannot escape; to take him away from his guests,
and keep him a prisoner for you, without one of them, alas! having heard
anything about it; that, indeed, is a real difficulty, the greatest of
all, in truth: and I hardly see how it is to be done."
"You had better say it is impossible, and you will have finished much
sooner. Heaven help me, but I seem to be surrounded by people who
prevent me doing what I wish."
"I do not prevent your doing anything. Are you decided?"
"Take care of M. Fouquet, until I shall have made up my mind by
to-morrow morning."
"That shall be done, sire."
"And return, when I rise in the morning, for further orders; and now
leave me to myself."
"You do not even want M. Colbert, then?" said the musketeer, firing this
last shot as he was leaving the room. The king started. With his whole
mind fixed on the thought of revenge, he had forgotten the cause and
substance of the offense.
"No, no one," he said; "no one here. Leave me."
D'Artagnan quitted the room. The king closed the door with his own
hands, and began to walk up and down his apartment at a furious pace,
like a wounded bull in an arena, dragging after him the colored
streamers and iron darts. At last he began to take comfort in the
expression of his violent feelings.
"Miserable wretch that he is! not only does he squander my finances, but
with his ill-gotten plunder he corrupts secretaries, friends, generals,
artists, and all, and tries to rob me of the one to whom I am most
attached. And that is the reason why that perfidious girl so boldly took
his part! Gratitude! and who can tell whether it was not a stronger
feeling--love itself?" He gave himself up for a moment to his bitter
reflections. "A satyr!" he thought, with that abhorrent hate with which
young men regard those more advanced in life, who still think of love.
"A man who has never found opposition or resistance in any one, who
lavishes his gold and jewels in every direction, and who retains his
staff of painters in order to take the portraits of his mistresses in
the costume of goddesses." The king trembled with passion as he
continued, "He pollutes and profanes everything that belongs to me! He
destroys everything that is mine. He will be my death at last, I know.
That man is too much for me; he is my mortal enemy, and he shall fall! I
hate him--I hate him--I hate him!" and as he pronounced these words, he
struck the arm of the chair in which he was sitting violently over and
over again, and then rose like one in an epileptic fit. "To-morrow!
to-morrow! oh, happy day!" he murmured, "when the sun rises, no other
rival will that bright orb have but me. That man shall fall so low, that
when people look at the utter ruin which my anger shall have wrought,
they will be forced to confess at least that I am indeed greater than
he." The king, who was incapable of mastering his emotions any longer,
knocked over with a blow of his fist a small table placed close to his
bedside, and in the bitterness of feeling from which he was suffering,
almost weeping, and half suffocated by his passion, he threw himself on
his bed, dressed as he was, and bit the sheets in the extremity of his
passion, trying to find repose of body at least there. The bed creaked
beneath his weight, and with the exception of a few broken sounds, which
escaped from his overburdened chest, absolute silence soon reigned in
the chamber of Morpheus.