THE FALSE KING.
In the meantime, usurped royalty was playing out its part bravely at
Vaux. Philippe gave orders that for his _petit lever_, the _grandes
entrées_, already prepared to appear before the king, should be
introduced. He determined to give this order notwithstanding the absence
of M. d'Herblay, who did not return, and our readers know for what
reason. But the prince, not believing that absence could be prolonged,
wished, as all rash spirits do, to try his valor and his fortune when
far from all protection and all counsel. Another reason urged him to
this--Anne of Austria was about to appear; the guilty mother was about
to stand in the presence of her sacrificed son. Philippe was not
willing, if he had a weakness, to render the man a witness of it before
whom he was bound thenceforth to display so much strength. Philippe
opened his folding doors, and several persons entered silently. Philippe
did not stir while his valets-de-chambre dressed him. He had watched,
the evening before, all the habits of his brother, and played the king
in such a manner as to awaken no suspicion. He was then completely
dressed in his hunting costume when he received his visitors. His own
memory and the notes of Aramis announced everybody to him, first of all
Anne of Austria, to whom Monsieur gave his hand, and then Madame with M.
de Saint-Aignan. He smiled at seeing these countenances, but trembled on
recognizing his mother. That figure, so noble, so imposing, ravaged by
pain, pleaded in his heart the cause of that famous queen who had
immolated a child to reasons of state. He found his mother still
handsome. He knew that Louis XIV. loved her, and he promised himself to
love her likewise, and not to prove a cruel chastisement for her old
age. He contemplated his brother with a tenderness easily to be
understood. The latter had usurped nothing over him, had cast no shade
over his life. A separate branch, he allowed the stem to rise without
heeding its elevation or the majesty of its life. Philippe promised
himself to be a kind brother to this prince, who required nothing but
gold to minister to his pleasures. He bowed with a friendly air to
Saint-Aignan, who was all reverences and smiles, and tremblingly held
out his hand to Henrietta, his sister-in-law, whose beauty struck him;
but he saw in the eyes of that princess an expression of coldness which
would facilitate, as he thought, their future relations.
"How much more easy," thought he, "it will be to be the brother of that
woman than her gallant, if she evinces toward me a coldness that my
brother could not have for her, and which is imposed upon me as a duty."
The only visit he dreaded at this moment was that of the queen; his
heart--his mind--had just been shaken by so violent a trial, that in
spite of their firm temperament, they would not, perhaps, support
another shock. Happily the queen did not come. Then commenced, on the
part of Anne of Austria, a political dissertation upon the welcome M.
Fouquet had given to the house of France. She mixed up hostilities with
compliments addressed to the king and questions as to his health, with
little maternal flatteries and diplomatic artifices.
"Well, my son," said she, "are you convinced with regard to Monsieur
Fouquet?"
"Saint-Aignan," said Philippe, "have the goodness to go and inquire
after the queen."
At these words, the first Philippe had pronounced aloud, the slight
difference that there was between his voice and that of the king was
sensible to maternal ears, and Anne of Austria looked earnestly at her
son. Saint-Aignan left the room, and Philippe continued:
"Madame, I do not like to hear M. Fouquet ill-spoken of, you know I do
not--and you have even spoken well of him yourself."
"That is true; therefore I only question you on the state of your
sentiments with respect to him."
"Sire," said Henrietta, "I, on my part, have always liked M. Fouquet. He
is a man of good taste--he is a superior man."
"A surintendant who is never sordid or niggardly," added Monsieur; "and
who pays in gold all the orders I have on him."
"Every one in this thinks too much of himself, and nobody for the
state," said the old queen. "M. Fouquet, it is a fact, M. Fouquet is
ruining the state."
"Well, mother!" replied Philippe, in rather a lower key, "do you
likewise constitute yourself the buckler of M. Colbert?"
"How is that?" replied the old queen, rather surprised.
"Why, in truth," replied Philippe, "you speak that just as your old
friend Madame de Chevreuse would speak."
"Why do you mention Madame de Chevreuse to me!" said she, "and what sort
of humor are you in to-day toward me?"
Philippe continued: "Is not Madame de Chevreuse always in league against
somebody? Has not Madame de Chevreuse been to pay you a visit, mother?"
"Monsieur, you speak to me now in such a manner that I can almost fancy
I am listening to your father."
"My father did not like Madame de Chevreuse, and had good reason for not
liking her," said the prince. "For my part, I like her no better than he
did; and if she thinks proper to come here as she formerly did, to sow
divisions and hatreds under the pretext of begging money--why--"
"Well! what?" said Anne of Austria proudly, herself provoking the storm.
"Well!" replied the young man, firmly, "I will drive Madame de Chevreuse
out of my kingdom--and with her all who meddle with secrets and
mysteries."
He had not calculated the effect of this terrible speech, or perhaps he
wished to judge of the effect of it, like those who, suffering from a
chronic pain, and seeking to break the monotony of that suffering, touch
their wound to procure a sharper pang. Anne of Austria was near
fainting; her eyes, open but meaningless, ceased to see for several
seconds; she stretched out her arms toward her other son, who supported
and embraced her without fear of irritating the king.
"Sire," murmured she, "you treat your mother cruelly."
"In what, madame?" replied he. "I am only speaking of Madame de
Chevreuse; does my mother prefer Madame de Chevreuse to the security of
the state and to the security of my person? Well, then, madame, I tell
you Madame de Chevreuse is returned to France to borrow money, and that
she addressed herself to M. Fouquet to sell him a certain secret."
"A certain secret!" cried Anne of Austria.
"Concerning pretended robberies that Monsieur le Surintendant had
committed, which is false," added Philippe. "M. Fouquet rejected her
offers with indignation, preferring the esteem of the king to all
complicity with intriguers. Then Madame de Chevreuse sold the secret to
M. Colbert, and as she is insatiable, and was not satisfied with having
extorted a hundred thousand crowns from that clerk, she has flown still
higher, and has endeavored to find still deeper springs. Is that true,
madame?"
"You know all, sire," said the queen, more uneasy than irritated.
"Now," continued Philippe, "I have good reason to dislike this fury, who
comes to my court to plan the dishonor of some and the ruin of others.
If God has suffered certain crimes to be committed, and has concealed
them in the shade of His clemency, I will not permit Madame de Chevreuse
to have the power to counteract the designs of God."
The latter part of this speech had so agitated the queen-mother that her
son had pity on her. He took her hand and kissed it tenderly; she did
not feel that in that kiss, given in spite of repulsions and
bitternesses of the heart, there was a pardon for eight years of
horrible suffering. Philippe allowed the silence of a moment to swallow
the emotions that had just developed themselves. Then, with a cheerful
smile:
"We will not go to-day," said he, "I have a plan." And, turning toward
the door, he hoped to see Aramis, whose absence began to alarm him. The
queen-mother wished to leave the room.
"Remain where you are, mother," said he. "I wish you to make your peace
with M. Fouquet."
"I bear no ill-will toward M. Fouquet; I only dreaded his
prodigalities."
"We will put that to rights, and will take nothing of the surintendant
but his good qualities."
"What is your majesty looking for?" said Henrietta, seeing the king's
eyes constantly turned toward the door, and wishing to let fly a little
poisoned arrow at his heart, supposing he was so anxiously expecting
either La Valliere or a letter from her.
"My sister," said the young man, who had divined her thought, thanks to
that marvelous perspicuity of which fortune was from that time about to
allow him the exercise, "my sister, I am expecting a most distinguished
man, a most able counselor, whom I wish to present to you all,
recommending him to your good graces. Ah! come in then, D'Artagnan."
"What does your majesty wish?" said D'Artagnan, appearing.
"Where is Monsieur the bishop of Vannes, your friend?"
"Why, sire--"
"I am waiting for him, and he does not come. Let him be sought for."
D'Artagnan remained for an instant stupefied; but soon, reflecting that
Aramis had left Vaux secretly with a mission from the king, he concluded
that the king wished to preserve the secret of it, "Sire," replied he,
"does your majesty absolutely require M. d'Herblay to be brought to
you?"
"Absolutely is not the word," said Philippe; "I do not want him so
particularly as that; but if he can be found--"
"I thought so," said D'Artagnan to himself.
"Is this M. d'Herblay bishop of Vannes?"
"Yes, madame."
"A friend of M. Fouquet?"
"Yes, madame, an old musketeer."
Anne of Austria blushed.
"One of the four braves who formerly performed such wonders."
The old queen repented of having wished to bite; she broke off the
conversation, in order to preserve the rest of her teeth. "Whatever may
be your choice, sire," said she, "I have no doubt it will be excellent."
All bowed in support of that sentiment.
"You will find in him," continued Philippe, "the depth and penetration
of M. de Richelieu, without the avarice of M. de Mazarin!"
"A prime minister, sire?" said Monsieur in a fright.
"I will tell you all about that, brother; but it is strange that M.
d'Herblay is not here!"
He called out:
"Let M. Fouquet be informed that I wish to speak to him--oh! before you,
before you; do not retire!"
M. de Saint-Aignan returned, bringing satisfactory news of the queen,
who only kept her bed from precaution, and to have strength to carry out
all the king's wishes. While everybody was seeking M. Fouquet and
Aramis, the new king quietly continued his experiments, and everybody,
family, officers, servants, had not the least suspicion, his air, voice,
and manners were so like the king's. On his side, Philippe applying to
all countenances the faithful notice and design furnished by his
accomplice Aramis, conducted himself so as not to give birth to a doubt
in the minds of those who surrounded him. Nothing from that time could
disturb the usurper. With what strange facility had Providence just
reversed the most elevated fortune of the world to substitute the most
humble in its stead! Philippe admired the goodness of God with regard to
himself, and seconded it with all the resources of his admirable nature.
But he felt, at times, something like a shadow gliding between him and
the rays of his new glory. Aramis did not appear. The conversation had
languished in the royal family; Philippe, preoccupied, forgot to dismiss
his brother and Madame Henrietta. The latter were astonished, and began,
by degrees, to lose all patience. Anne of Austria stooped toward her
son's ear, and addressed some words to him in Spanish. Philippe was
completely ignorant of that language, and grew pale at this unexpected
obstacle. But, as if the spirit of the imperturbable Aramis had covered
him with his infallibility, instead of appearing disconcerted, Philippe
rose. "Well! what?" said Anne of Austria.
"What is all that noise?" said Philippe, turning round toward the door
of the second staircase.
And a voice was heard saying, "This way! this way! A few steps more,
sire!"
"The voice of M. Fouquet," said D'Artagnan, who was standing close to
the queen-mother.
"Then M. d'Herblay cannot be far off," added Philippe.
But he then saw what he little thought to see so near to him. All eyes
were turned toward the door at which M. Fouquet was expected to enter;
but it was not M. Fouquet who entered. A terrible cry resounded from all
corners of the chamber, a painful cry uttered by the king and all
present. It is not given to men, even to those whose destiny contains
the strangest elements, and accidents the most wonderful, to contemplate
a spectacle similar to that which presented itself in the royal chamber
at that moment. The half-closed shutters only admitted the entrance of
an uncertain light passing through large velvet curtains lined with
silk. In this soft shade, the eyes were by degrees dilated, and every
one present saw others rather with trust than with positive sight. There
could not, however, escape, in these circumstances, one of the
surrounding details; and the new object which presented itself appeared
as luminous as if it had been enlightened by the sun. So it happened
with Louis XIV., when he showed himself pale and frowning in the doorway
of the secret stairs. The face of Fouquet appeared behind him, impressed
with sorrow and sternness. The queen-mother, who perceived Louis XIV.,
and who held the hand of Philippe, uttered the cry of which we have
spoken, as if she had beheld a phantom. Monsieur was bewildered, and
kept turning his head, in astonishment, from one to the other. Madame
made a step forward, thinking she saw the form of her brother-in-law
reflected in a glass. And, in fact, the illusion was possible. The two
princes, both pale as death--for we renounce the hope of being able to
describe the fearful state of Philippe--both trembling, and clenching
their hands convulsively, measured each other with their looks, and
darted their eyes, like poniards, into each other. Mute, panting,
bending forward, they appeared as if about to spring upon an enemy. The
unheard-of resemblance of countenance, gesture, shape, height, even to
the resemblance of costume, produced by chance--for Louis XIV. had been
to the Louvre and put on a violet-colored dress--the perfect analogy of
the two princes completed the consternation of Anne of Austria. And yet
she did not at once guess the truth. There are misfortunes in life that
no one will accept; people would rather believe in the supernatural and
the impossible. Louis had not reckoned upon these obstacles. He expected
he had only to appear and be acknowledged. A living sun, he could not
endure the suspicion of parity with any one. He did not admit that every
torch should not become darkness at the instant he shone out with his
conquering ray. At the aspect of Philippe, then, he was perhaps more
terrified than any one round him, and his silence, his immobility, were,
this time, a concentration and a calm which precede violent explosions
of passion.
But Fouquet! who could paint his emotion and stupor in presence of this
living portrait of his master! Fouquet thought Aramis was right, that
this newly-arrived was a king as pure in his race as the other, and
that, for having repudiated all participation in this _coup d'état_, so
skillfully got up by the General of the Jesuits, he must be a mad
enthusiast unworthy of ever again dipping his hands in a political work.
And then it was the blood of Louis XIII. which Fouquet was sacrificing
to the blood of Louis XIII.; it was to a selfish ambition he was
sacrificing a noble ambition; it was to the right of keeping he
sacrificed the right of having. The whole extent of his fault was
revealed to him by the simple sight of the pretender. All which passed
in the mind of Fouquet was lost upon the persons present. He had five
minutes to concentrate his meditations upon this point of the case of
conscience; five minutes, that is to say, five ages, during which the
two kings and their family scarcely found time to breathe after so
terrible a shock. D'Artagnan, leaning against the wall, in front of
Fouquet, with his hand to his brow, asked himself the cause of such a
wonderful prodigy. He could not have said at once why he doubted, but he
knew assuredly that he had reason to doubt, and that in this meeting of
the two Louis XIV.'s lay all the difficulty which during late days had
rendered the conduct of Aramis so suspicious to the musketeer. These
ideas were, however, enveloped in thick veils. The actors in this
assembly seemed to swim in the vapors of a confused waking. Suddenly
Louis XIV., more impatient and more accustomed to command, ran to one of
the shutters, which he opened, tearing the curtains in his eagerness. A
flood of living light entered the chamber, and made Philippe draw back
to the alcove. Louis seized upon this movement with eagerness, and
addressing himself to the queen--
"My mother," said he, "do you not acknowledge your son, since every one
here has forgotten his king!" Anne of Austria started, and raised her
arms toward Heaven, without being able to articulate a single word.
"My mother," said Philippe, with a calm voice, "do you not acknowledge
your son?" And this time, in his turn, Louis drew back.
As to Anne of Austria, struck in both head and heart with remorse, she
lost her equilibrium. No one aiding her, for all were petrified, she
sank back in her fauteuil, breathing a weak, trembling sigh. Louis could
not endure this spectacle and this affront. He bounded toward
D'Artagnan, upon whom the vertigo was beginning to gain, and who
staggered as he caught at the door for support.
"A moi! mousquetaire!" said he. "Look us in the face and say which is
the paler, he or I!"
This cry roused D'Artagnan, and stirred in his heart the fiber of
obedience. He shook his head, and, without more hesitation, he walked
straight up to Philippe, upon whose shoulder he laid his hand, saying,
"Monsieur, you are my prisoner!"
Philippe did not raise his eyes toward Heaven, nor stir from the spot,
where he seemed nailed to the floor, his eye intensely fixed upon the
king his brother. He reproached him by a sublime silence with all his
misfortunes past, with all his tortures to come. Against this language
of the soul the king felt he had no power; he cast down his eyes,
dragging away precipitately his brother and sister, forgetting his
mother sitting motionless within three paces of the son whom she left a
second time to be condemned to death. Philippe approached Anne of
Austria, and said to her, in a soft and nobly agitated voice:
"If I were not your son, I should curse you, my mother, for having
rendered me so unhappy."
D'Artagnan felt a shudder pass through the marrow of his bones. He bowed
respectfully to the young prince, and said, as he bent, "Excuse me,
monseigneur, I am but a soldier, and my oaths are his who has just left
the chamber."
"Thank you, M. d'Artagnan. But what is become of M. d'Herblay?"
"M. d'Herblay is in safety, monseigneur," said a voice behind them; "and
no one, while I live and am free, shall cause a hair to fall from his
head."
"Monsieur Fouquet," said the prince, smiling sadly.
"Pardon me, monseigneur," said Fouquet, kneeling, "but he who is just
gone out from hence was my guest."
"Here are," murmured Philippe, with a sigh, "brave friends and good
hearts. They make me regret the world. On, M. d'Artagnan, I follow you."
At the moment the captain of the musketeers was about to leave the room
with his prisoner, Colbert appeared, and, after remitting an order from
the king to D'Artagnan, retired. D'Artagnan read the paper, and then
crushed it in his hand with rage.
"What is it?" asked the prince.
"Read, monseigneur," replied the musketeer.
Philippe read the following words, hastily traced by the hand of the
king:--"M. d'Artagnan will conduct the prisoner to the Iles
Sainte-Marguerite. He will cover his face with an iron vizor, which the
prisoner cannot raise without peril of his life."
"That is just," said Philippe, with resignation, "I am ready."
"Aramis was right," said Fouquet, in a low voice to the musketeer, "this
one is quite as much of a king as the other."
"More," replied D'Artagnan. "He only wants you and me."