THE FRIENDS OF M. FOUQUET.
The king had returned to Paris, and with him D'Artagnan, who, in
twenty-four hours, having made with the greatest care all possible
inquiries at Belle-Isle, had learned nothing of the secret so well kept
by the heavy rock of Locmaria, which had fallen on the heroic Porthos.
The captain of the musketeers only knew what those two valiant men--what
these two friends, whose defense he had so nobly taken up, whose lives
he had so earnestly endeavored to save--aided by three faithful
Bretons--had accomplished against a whole army. He had been able to see,
launched on to the neighboring heath, the human remains which had
stained with blood the stones scattered among the flowering broom. He
learned also that a bark had been seen far out at sea, and that, like a
bird of prey, a royal vessel had pursued, overtaken and devoured this
poor little bird which was flying with rapid wings. But there
D'Artagnan's certainties ended. The field of conjectures was thrown open
at this boundary. Now, what could he conjecture? The vessel had not
returned. It is true that a brisk wind had prevailed for three days; but
the corvette was known to be a good sailer and solid in its timbers; it
could not fear gales of wind, and it ought, according to the calculation
of D'Artagnan, to have either returned to Brest, or come back to the
mouth of the Loire. Such were the news, ambiguous, it is true, but in
some degree reassuring to him personally, which D'Artagnan brought to
Louis XIV., when the king, followed by all the court, returned to Paris.
Louis, satisfied with his success, Louis--more mild and more affable
since he felt himself more powerful--had not ceased for an instant to
ride close to the carriage door of Mademoiselle de la Valliere.
Everybody had been anxious to amuse the two queens, so as to make them
forget this abandonment of the son and the husband. Everything breathed
of the future; the past was nothing to anybody. Only that past came like
a painful and bleeding wound to the hearts of some tender and devoted
spirits. Scarcely was the king re-installed in Paris, when he received a
touching proof of this. Louis XIV. had just risen and taken his first
repast, when his captain of the musketeers presented himself before him.
D'Artagnan was pale and looked unhappy. The king, at the first glance,
perceived the change in a countenance generally so unconcerned.
"What is the matter, D'Artagnan?" said he.
"Sire, a great misfortune has happened to me."
"Good heavens! what is that?"
"Sire, I have lost one of my friends, M. de Valon, in the affair of
Belle-Isle."
And, while speaking these words. D'Artagnan fixed his falcon eye upon
Louis XIV., to catch the first feeling that would show itself.
"I knew it," replied the king, quietly.
"You knew it, and did not tell me!" cried the musketeer.
"To what good? Your grief, my friend, is so respectable! It was my duty
to treat it kindly. To have informed you of this misfortune, which I
knew would pain you so greatly, D'Artagnan, would have been, in your
eyes, to have triumphed over you. Yes, I knew that M. de Valon had
buried himself beneath the rocks of Locmaria; I knew that M. d'Herblay
had taken one of my vessels with its crew, and had compelled it to
convey him to Bayonne. But, I was willing you should learn these matters
in a direct manner, in order that you might be convinced my friends are
with me respected and sacred; that always in me the man will immolate
himself to men, while the king is so often found to sacrifice men to his
majesty and power."
"But, sire, how could you know?"
"How do you yourself know, D'Artagnan?"
"By this letter, sire, which M. d'Herblay, free and out of danger,
writes me from Bayonne."
"Look here," said the king, drawing from a casket placed upon the table
close to the seat upon which D'Artagnan was leaning, "here is a letter
copied exactly from that of M. d'Herblay. Here is the very letter, which
Colbert placed in my hands a week before you received yours. I am well
served, you may perceive."
"Yes, sire," murmured the musketeer, "you were the only man whose
fortune was capable of dominating the fortunes and strength of my two
friends. You have used it, sire, but you will not abuse it, will you?"
"D'Artagnan," said the king, with a smile beaming with kindness. "I
could have M. d'Herblay carried off from the territories of the king of
Spain, and brought here alive to inflict justice upon him. But,
D'Artagnan, be assured I will not yield to this first and natural
impulse. He is free, let him continue free."
"Oh, sire! you will not always remain so clement, so noble, so generous
as you have shown yourself with respect to me and M. d'Herblay; you will
have about you counselors who will cure you of that weakness."
"No, D'Artagnan, you are mistaken when you accuse my council of urging
me to pursue rigorous measures. The advice to spare M. d'Herblay comes
from Colbert himself."
"Oh, sire!" said D'Artagnan, extremely surprised.
"As for you," continued the king, with a kindness very uncommon with
him, "I have several pieces of good news to announce to you; but you
shall know them, my dear captain, the moment I have made my accounts all
straight. I have said that I wish to make, and would make, your fortune:
that promise will soon be a reality."
"A thousand times thanks, sire! I can wait. But I implore you, while I
go and practice patience, that your majesty will deign to notice those
poor people who have for so long a time besieged your antechamber, and
come humbly to lay a petition at your feet."
"Who are they?"
"Enemies of your majesty."
The king raised his head.
"Friends of M. Fouquet," added D'Artagnan.
"Their names?"
"M. Gourville, M. Pellisson, and a poet, M. Jean de la Fontaine."
The king took a moment to reflect. "What do they want?"
"I do not know."
"How do they appear?"
"In great affliction."
"What do they say?"
"Nothing."
"What do they do?"
"They weep."
"Let them come in," said the king, with a serious brow.
D'Artagnan turned rapidly on his heel, raised the tapestry which closed
the entrance to the royal chamber, and directing his voice to the
adjoining room, cried, "Introduce!"
The three men D'Artagnan had named soon appeared at the door of the
cabinet in which were the king and his captain. A profound silence
prevailed in their passage. The courtiers, at the approach of the
friends of the unfortunate surintendant of the finances, the courtiers,
we say, drew back, as if fearful of being infected by contagion with
disgrace and misfortune. D'Artagnan, with a quick step, came forward to
take by the hand the unhappy men who stood trembling at the door of the
cabinet; he led them to the front of the fauteuil of the king who,
having placed himself in the embrasure of a window, awaited the moment
of presentation, and was preparing himself to give the supplicants a
rigorously diplomatic reception.
The first of the friends of Fouquet that advanced was Pellisson. He did
not weep, but his tears were only restrained that the king might the
better hear his voice and his prayer. Gourville bit his lips to check
his tears, out of respect for the king. La Fontaine buried his face in
his handkerchief, and the only signs of life he gave were the convulsive
motions of his shoulders, raised by his sobs.
The king had preserved all his dignity. His countenance was impassible.
He had even maintained the frown which had appeared when D'Artagnan had
announced his enemies to him. He made a gesture which signified,
"Speak:" and he remained standing, with his eyes searchingly fixed upon
these desponding men. Pellisson bowed down to the ground, and La
Fontaine knelt as people do in churches. This obstinate silence,
disturbed only by such dismal sighs and groans, began to excite in the
king, not compassion, but impatience.
"Monsieur Pellisson," said he, in a sharp dry tone, "Monsieur Gourville,
and you, Monsieur--" and he did not name La Fontaine, "I cannot, without
sensible displeasure, see you come to plead for one of the greatest
criminals that it is the duty of my justice to punish. A king does not
allow himself to be softened but by tears and remorse; the tears of the
innocent, the remorse of guilty. I have no faith either in the remorse
of M. Fouquet or the tears of his friends, because the one is tainted to
the very heart, and the others ought to dread coming to offend me in my
own palace. For these reasons, I beg you, Monsieur Pellisson, Monsieur
Gourville, and you, Monsieur--to say nothing that will not plainly
proclaim the respect you have for my will."
"Sire," replied Pellisson, trembling at these terrible words, "we are
come to say nothing to your majesty that is not the most profound
expression of the most sincere respect and love which are due to a king
from all his subjects. Your majesty's justice is redoubtable, every one
must yield to the sentences it pronounces. We respectfully bow before
it. Far from us be the idea of coming to defend him who has had the
misfortune to offend your majesty. He who has incurred your displeasure
may be a friend of ours, but he is an enemy to the state. We abandon
him, but with tears, to the severity of the king."
"Besides," interrupted the king, calmed by that supplicating voice, and
those persuasive words, "my parliament will decide. I do not strike
without having weighed a crime; my justice does not wield the sword
without having employed the scales."
"Therefore have we every confidence in that impartiality of the king,
and hope to make our feeble voices heard, with the consent of your
majesty, when the hour for defending an accused friend shall strike for
us."
"In that case, messieurs, what do you ask of me?" said the king, with
his most imposing air.
"Sire," continued Pellisson, "the accused leaves a wife and a family.
The little property he had was scarcely sufficient to pay his debts, and
Madame Fouquet, since the captivity of her husband, is abandoned by
everybody. The hand of your majesty strikes like the hand of God. When
the Lord sends the curse of leprosy or pestilence into a family, every
one flies and shuns the abode of the leprous or the plague-stricken.
Sometimes, but very rarely, a generous physician alone ventures to
approach the accursed threshold, passes it with courage, and exposes his
life to combat death. He is the last resource of the dying, he is the
instrument of heavenly mercy. Sire, we supplicate you, with clasped
hands and bended knees, as a divinity is supplicated! Madame Fouquet
has no longer any friends, no longer any support; she weeps in her poor
deserted house, abandoned by all those who besieged its doors in the
hour of prosperity; she has neither credit nor hope left. At least, the
unhappy wretch upon whom your anger falls, receives from you, however
culpable he may be, the daily bread which is moistened by his tears. As
much afflicted, more destitute than her husband, Madame Fouquet--she who
had the honor to receive your majesty at her table--Madame Fouquet, the
wife of the ancient surintendant of your majesty's finances, Madame
Fouquet has no longer bread."
Here the mortal silence which enchained the breath of Pellisson's two
friends was broken by an outburst of sobs: and D'Artagnan, whose chest
heaved at hearing this humble prayer, turned round toward the angle of
the cabinet to bite his mustache and conceal his sighs.
The king had preserved his eye dry and his countenance severe; but the
color had mounted to his cheeks, and the firmness of his look was
visibly diminished.
"What do you wish?" said he, in an agitated voice.
"We come humbly to ask your majesty," replied Pellisson, upon whom
emotion was fast gaining, "to permit us, without incurring the
displeasure of your majesty, to lend to Madame Fouquet two thousand
pistoles collected among the old friends of her husband, in order that
the widow may not stand in need of the necessaries of life."
At the word _widow_, pronounced by Pellisson while Fouquet was still
alive, the king turned very pale--his pride fell; pity rose from his
heart to his lips; he cast a softened look upon the men who knelt
sobbing at his feet.
"God forbid!" said he, "that I should confound the innocent with the
guilty. They know me but ill who doubt my mercy toward the weak. I
strike none but the arrogant. Do, messieurs, do all that your hearts
counsel you to assuage the grief of Madame Fouquet. Go, messieurs--go!"
The three men arose in silence with dried eyes. The tears had been
dried up by contact with their burning cheeks and eyelids. They had not
the strength to address their thanks to the king, who himself cut short
their solemn reverences by entrenching himself suddenly behind the
fauteuil.
D'Artagnan remained alone with the king. "Well!" said he, approaching
the young prince, who interrogated him with his look. "Well, my master!
If you had not the device which belongs to your sun, I would recommend
you one which M. Conrart should translate into Latin, 'Mild with the
lowly; rough with the strong.'"
The king smiled, and passed into the next apartment after having said to
D'Artagnan, "I give you the leave of absence you must want to put the
affairs of your friend the late M. de Valon in order."