THE LAST SUPPER.
The surintendant had no doubt received advice of the approaching
departure, for he was giving a farewell dinner to his friends. From the
bottom to the top of the house, the hurry of the servants bearing
dishes, and the diligence of the _registres_, denoted an approaching
change in both offices and kitchen. D'Artagnan, with his order in his
hand, presented himself at the _bureaux_, when he was told it was too
late to pay cash, the chest was closed. He only replied, "On the king's
service."
The clerk, a little put out by the serious air of the captain, replied,
that "that was a very respectable reason, but that the customs of the
house were respectable likewise; and that, in consequence, he begged the
bearer to call again next day." D'Artagnan asked if he could not see M.
Fouquet. The clerk replied that M. le Surintendant did not interfere
with such details; and rudely closed the outer door in D'Artagnan's
face. But the latter had foreseen this stroke, and placed his boot
between the door and the door-case, so that the lock did not catch, and
the clerk was still nose to nose with his interlocutor. This made him
change his tone, and say, with terrified politeness, "If monsieur wishes
to speak to M. le Surintendant, he must go to the antechambers; these
are the offices, where monseigneur never comes."
"Oh! very well! Where are they?" replied D'Artagnan.
"On the other side of the court," said the clerk, delighted at being
free.
D'Artagnan crossed the court, and fell in with a crowd of servants.
"Monseigneur sees nobody at this hour," he was answered by a fellow
carrying a vermeil dish, in which were three pheasants and twelve
quails.
"Tell him," said the captain, laying hold of the servant by the end of
his dish, "that I am M. d'Artagnan, captain of his majesty's
musketeers."
The fellow uttered a cry of surprise and disappeared; D'Artagnan
following him slowly. He arrived just in time to meet M. Pellisson in
the antechamber; the latter, a little pale, came hastily out of the
dining-room to learn what was the matter. D'Artagnan smiled.
"There is nothing unpleasant, Monsieur Pellisson; only a little order to
receive the money for."
"Ah!" said Fouquet's friend, breathing more freely; and he took the
captain by the hand, and, dragging him behind him, led him into the
dining-room, where a number of friends surrounded the surintendant,
placed in the center, and buried in the cushions of a fauteuil. There
were assembled all the Epicureans who so lately at Vaux did the honors
of the mansion of wit and money of M. Fouquet. Joyous friends, for the
most part faithful, they had not fled their protector at the approach of
the storm, and, in spite of the threatening heavens, in spite of the
trembling earth, they remained there, smiling, cheerful, as devoted to
misfortune as they had been to prosperity. On the left of the
surintendant was Madame de Belliere; on his right was Madame Fouquet; as
if braving the laws of the world, and putting all vulgar reasons of
propriety to silence, the two protecting angels of this man united to
offer him, at the moment of the crisis, the support of their intertwined
arms. Madame de Belliere was pale, trembling, and full of respectful
attentions for Madame la Surintendante, who, with one hand on the hand
of her husband, was looking anxiously toward the door by which
Pellisson had gone out to bring in D'Artagnan. The captain entered at
first full of courtesy, and afterward of admiration, when, with his
infallible glance, he had divined as well as taken in the expression of
every face. Fouquet raised himself up in his chair.
"Pardon me, Monsieur d'Artagnan," said he, "if I did not come to receive
you when coming in the king's name." And he pronounced the last words
with a sort of melancholy firmness, which filled the hearts of his
friends with terror.
"Monseigneur," implied D'Artagnan, "I only come to you in the king's
name to demand payment of an order for two hundred pistoles."
The clouds passed from every brow but that of Fouquet, which still
remained overcast.
"Ah! then," said he, "perhaps you are also setting out for Nantes?"
"I do not know whither I am setting out for, monseigneur."
"But," said Madame Fouquet, recovered from her fright, "you are not
going so soon, Monsieur le Capitaine, as not to do us the honor to take
a seat with us?"
"Madame, I should esteem that a great honor done to me, but I am so
pressed for time, that, you see, I have been obliged to permit myself to
interrupt your repast to procure payment of my note."
"The reply to which shall be gold," said Fouquet, making a sign to his
intendant, who went out with the order which D'Artagnan handed to him.
"Oh!" said the latter, "I was not uneasy about the payment; the house is
good."
A painful smile passed over the pale features of Fouquet.
"Are you in pain?" asked Madame de Belliere.
"Do you feel your attack coming on?" asked Madame Fouquet.
"Neither, thank you both," said Fouquet.
"Your attack?" said D'Artagnan, in his turn; "are you unwell,
monseigneur?"
"I have a tertian fever, which seized me after the fete at Vaux."
"Caught cold in the grottoes, at night, perhaps?"
"No, no; nothing but agitation, that was all."
"The too much heart you displayed in your reception of the king," said
La Fontaine, quietly, without suspicion that he was uttering a
sacrilege.
"We cannot devote too much heart to the reception of our king," said
Fouquet, mildly, to his poet.
"Monsieur meant to say the too great ardor," interrupted D'Artagnan,
with perfect frankness and much amenity. "The fact is, monseigneur, that
hospitality was never practiced as at Vaux."
Madame Fouquet permitted her countenance to show clearly that if Fouquet
had conducted himself well toward the king, the king had not rendered
the like to the minister. But D'Artagnan knew the terrible secret. He
alone with Fouquet knew it; those two men had not, the one the courage
to complain, the other the right to accuse. The captain, to whom the two
hundred pistols were brought, was about to take leave, when Fouquet,
rising, took a glass of wine, and ordered one to be given to D'Artagnan.
"Monsieur," said he, "to the health of the king, _whatever may happen_."
"And to your health, monseigneur, _whatever may happen_," said
D'Artagnan.
He bowed, with these words of evil omen, to all the company, who rose as
soon as they heard the sound of his spurs and boots at the bottom of the
stairs.
"I, for a moment, thought it was me and not my money he wanted," said
Fouquet, endeavoring to laugh.
"You!" cried his friends; "and what for, in the name of Heaven?"
"Oh! do not deceive yourselves, my dear brothers in Epicurus!" said the
superintendent; "I will not make a comparison between the most humble
sinner on the earth and the God we adore, but remember, he gave one day
to his friends a repast which is called the Last Supper, and which was
nothing but a farewell dinner, like that which we are making at this
moment."
A painful cry of denial arose from all parts of the table. "Shut the
doors," said Fouquet, and the servants disappeared. "My friends,"
continued Fouquet, lowering his voice, "what was I formerly? What am I
now? Consult among yourselves, and reply. A man like me sinks when he
does not continue to rise. What shall we say, then, when he really
sinks? I have no more money, no more credit; I have no longer anything
but powerful enemies, and powerless friends."
"Quick!" cried Pellisson, rising. "Since you explain yourself with that
frankness, it is our duty to be frank, likewise. Yes, you are
ruined--yes, you are hastening to your ruin--stop. And, in the first
place, what money have we left?"
"Seven hundred thousand livres," said the intendant.
"Bread," murmured Madame Fouquet.
"Relays," said Pellisson, "relays, and fly!"
"Whither?"
"To Switzerland--to Savoy--but fly!"
"If monseigneur flies," said Madame Belliere, "it will be said that he
was guilty, and was afraid."
"More than that, it will be said that I have carried away twenty
millions with me."
"We will draw up memoirs to justify you," said La Fontaine. "Fly!"
"I will remain," said Fouquet. "And, besides, does not everything serve
me?"
"You have Belle-Isle," cried the Abbe Fouquet.
"And I am naturally going there, when going to Nantes," replied the
surintendant. "Patience, then, patience!"
"Before arriving at Nantes, what a distance!" said Madame Fouquet.
"Yes, I know that well," replied Fouquet. "But what is to be done there?
The king summons me to the States. I know well it is for the purpose of
ruining me; but to refuse to go would be to evince uneasiness."
"Well, I have discovered the means of reconciling everything," cried
Pellisson. "You are going to set out for Nantes."
Fouquet looked at him with an air of surprise.
"But with friends; but in your own carriage as far as Orleans; in your
barge as far as Nantes; always ready to defend yourself, if you are
attacked; to escape, if you are threatened. In fact, you will carry your
money against all chances; and, while flying, you will only have obeyed
the king; then, reaching the sea when you like, you will embark for
Belle-Isle, and from Belle-Isle you will shoot out whenever it may
please you, like the eagle which rushes into space when it has been
driven from its eyrie."
A general assent followed Pellisson's words. "Yes, do so," said Madame
Fouquet to her husband.
"Do so," said Madame Belliere.
"Do it! do it!" cried all his friends.
"I will do so," replied Fouquet.
"This very evening?"
"In an hour?"
"Immediately."
"With seven hundred thousand livres you can lay the foundation of
another fortune," said the Abbe Fouquet. "What is there to prevent our
arming corsairs at Belle-Isle?"
"And if necessary, we will go and discover a new world," added La
Fontaine, intoxicated with projects and enthusiasm.
A knock at the door interrupted this concert of joy and hope. "A courier
from the king," said the master of the ceremonies.
A profound silence immediately ensued, as if the message brought by this
courier was nothing but a reply to all the projects given birth to an
instant before. Every one waited to see what the master would do. His
brow was streaming with perspiration, and he was really suffering from
his fever at that instant. He passed into his cabinet to receive the
king's message. There prevailed, as we have said, such a silence in the
chambers, and throughout the attendance, that from the dining-room could
be heard the voice of Fouquet saying, "That is well, monsieur." This
voice was, however, broken by fatigue, trembling with emotion. An
instant after Fouquet called Gourville, who crossed the gallery amid
the universal expectation. At length, he himself reappeared among his
guests; but it was no longer the same pale, spiritless countenance they
had beheld when he left them; from pale he had become livid; and from
spiritless, annihilated. A living specter, he advanced with his arms
stretched out, his mouth parched, like a shade that comes to salute
friends of former days. On seeing him thus, every one cried out, and
every one rushed toward Fouquet. The latter, looking at Pellisson,
leaned upon the surintendante, and pressed the icy hand of the Marquise
de Belliere.
"Well!" said he, in a voice which had nothing human in it.
"What has happened, my God!" said some one to him.
Fouquet opened his right hand, which was clenched, humid, and displayed
a paper, upon which Pellisson cast a terrified glance. He read the
following lines, written by the king's hand:
"'DEAR AND WELL-BELOVED MONSIEUR FOUQUET--Give us, upon
that which you have left of ours, the sum of seven hundred thousand
livres, of which we stand in need to prepare for our departure.
"'And, as we know your health is not good, we pray God to restore
you to health, and to have you in His holy keeping. LOUIS.
"'The present letter is to serve as a receipt.'"
A murmur of terror circulated through the apartment.
"Well!" cried Pellisson, in his turn, "you have received that letter?"
"Received it, yes!"
"What will you do, then?"
"Nothing, since I have received it."
"But--"
"If I have received it, Pellisson, I have paid it," said the
surintendant, with a simplicity that went to the heart of all present.
"You have paid it!" cried Madame Fouquet. "Then we are ruined!"
"Come, no useless words," interrupted Pellisson. "After money, life.
Monseigneur, to horse! to horse!"
"What, leave us!" at once cried both the women, wild with grief.
"Eh! monseigneur, in saving yourself, you save us all. To horse!"
"But he cannot hold himself on. Look at him."
"Oh! if he takes time to reflect--" said the intrepid Pellisson.
"He is right," murmured Fouquet.
"Monseigneur! monseigneur!" cried Gourville, rushing up the stairs, four
steps at once. "Monseigneur!"
"Well! What?"
"I escorted, as you desired, the king's courier with the money."
"Yes."
"Well! when I arrived at the Palais Royal, I saw--"
"Take breath, my poor friend, take breath; you are suffocating."
"What did you see?" cried the impatient friends.
"I saw the musketeers mounting on horseback," said Gourville.
"There, then!" cried all voices at once; "there, then! is there an
instant to be lost?"
Madame Fouquet rushed downstairs, calling for her horses; Madame de
Belliere flew after her, catching her in her arms, and saying:
"Madame, in the name of his safety, do not show anything, do not
manifest any alarm."
Pellisson ran to have the horses put to the carriages. And, in the
meantime, Gourville gathered in his hat all that the weeping friends
were able to throw into it of gold and silver--the last offering, the
pious alms made to misfortune by poverty. The surintendant, dragged
along by some, carried by others, was shut up in his carriage. Gourville
took the reins, and mounted the box. Pellisson supported Madame Fouquet,
who had fainted. Madame de Belliere had more strength, and was well paid
for it; she received Fouquet's last kiss. Pellisson easily explained
this precipitate departure by saying that an order from the king had
summoned the minister to Nantes.