Seneca has observed, and justly, that a great man struggling with
adversity, and bearing its attacks with fortitude, is a sight worthy of
the gods. But a sight, as interesting, if not more so, is that of a
virtuous mind, oppressed by calumny, with the ability to elude its
shafts, yet cheerfully opposing itself to their force, for some secret
but worthy purpose.
Fouquet, intendant of the finances to Lewis the Fourteenth, after living
in the greatest splendor, enjoying the unlimited favour and confidence
of his master, and seeing his levees crowded by the first nobles in the
land, fell into disgrace, and was sent to the Bastile. He experienced
the common fate of all favourites in disgrace; forsaken by his friends,
and persecuted by his foes, the courtiers in general viewed his ruin
with pleasure, and charitably resolved to complete his destruction. The
envious and the disappointed had found means to prejudice his sovereign
against him, and his displeasure was the signal of hatred and
persecution to the fawning crew that surrounded his throne. Adulation is
coeval with monarchy; and no king probably ever deserved implicit
obedience from his subjects more than Lewis the Fourteenth*, on whom
nature had conferred every quality that could excite awe, or command
respect; the majesty of his person seemed one of his first claims to
sovereignty. It has been remarked, that but very few of those who were
so unfortunate to incur the displeasure of this prince, could survive
the loss of his favour†. Fouquet is one of the few. He was well aware,
however, of the extreme danger to which he was exposed; and among an
infinity of motives for serious apprehension, the intendant regarded the
examination of his papers as one of the most certain causes of his ruin.
This consideration greatly encreased the anxiety occasioned by his
confinement; if he could but have destroyed those unfortunate papers
previous to his detention, he should not have so much dreaded the
machinations of his enemies, however ingeniously formed, or inveterately
pursued.
[* The reader must recollect that these are the sentiments of a
Frenchman, before the late revolution! The character of Lewis the
Fourteenth, as a promoter of the arts and sciences, is certainly
respectable--but as a monarch--who should prefer the welfare and
felicity of his subjects to the gratification of his own ambitious
views--it is DETESTABLE!]
[† It is certain that the famous painter, Le Brun, having lost the
favour of Lewis the Fourteenth, who had been particularly kind to
him, died thro’ despair, at the Gobelins. The death of Racine,
the celebrated dramatic poet, which happened not long after the
production of Athalia, one of his best pieces, was owing to the
same cause; and the haughty Louvois only survived his disgrace three
days.]
In the midst of these alarms for his situation, he received the dreadful
news that Pélisson, his secretary, and his friend, had openly declared
himself his accuser, and was soon to be confronted with him. Shocked at
the intelligence, his courage forsook him, and he gave way to despair.
This action of Pélisson’s soon made a noise in the world, and excited
the most lively sensations of resentment in the minds of the public, who
so seldom interest themselves in the fate of the unfortunate. Every body
exclaimed that he was the most base and most criminal of mankind! Loaded
with the benefactions of his master, honoured with his particular
confidence,--his friend, in short--he stands forward in the infamous
light of a public informer, and is about to stab him to the heart.
Pélisson, could not be ignorant of these reports to his prejudice, which
encreased every day; at length they attained to such a height, that some
worthy members of society took the resolution publicly to reproach him
with the baseness of his conduct, wherever they met him. The secretary,
though now an object of contempt, preserved his tranquility, and
appeared wholly indifferent to every thing that was said to him. The few
friends who still remained true to the interests of the unfortunate
minister, went to Pélisson’s house, and by alternate threats,
entreaties, and supplications, endeavoured to deter him from his
purpose, but in vain; he remained firm, and persisted in his resolution
of speaking the truth, and of accusing Fouquet to his face. It must be
observed that the prisoner, during this time, was invisible to every one
but his judges, who were his greatest enemies, and many of whom, in
violation of every principle of justice, had openly declared their
intention of finding him guilty.
At length the day arrived on which Pélisson was to prefer his
accusation, and incur the atrocious sin of ingratitude. The doors of the
Bastile are opened to him: he is confronted with his master, who
exclaims, “Ah Pélisson, is it you? Are you my enemy, too?--Alas!
I mistook you for my friend!”--The secretary, far from being
disconcerted at this exclamation, began to fulfil the task he had
undertaken, with all the impudence of the most hardened calumniator; he
taxed Fouquet with crimes which were totally destitute of foundation,
and which he hastened to contradict, with the manly firmness of
conscious innocence. “That is not true,” said he, interrupting Pélisson,
“you are an impostor, a detestable lyar! Can you advance falsehoods thus
gross, and not blush with shame?”--“Oh,” replied Pélisson, whose
countenance betrayed the most violent indignation, “you would not dare
to contradict me, with so much assurance, if you did not know that your
papers were burnt.”
These last words flashed conviction on the mind of Fouquet, who
immediately perceived the wonderful address of Pélisson, and the
generosity of his soul. He perceived that his secretary, firm and
unshaken in his friendship, had burned his papers, and had conceived the
design--the only one that could be possibly adopted--of becoming the
accuser, in order to gain admittance to his inaccessible prison, that he
might make him acquainted with the important service he had rendered
him. The intendant, ashamed of his unjust suspicions, and anxious to
make amends for them, cast a look on Pélisson, which gave him to
understand that he had perfectly understood him, and was penetrated with
the most lively sensations of gratitude for his conduct.
The secretary, feeling the complete satisfaction at the success of his
project, still continued to expose himself to the scorn and indignation
of the public. Considered as the basest of mankind, he experienced every
species of insult; while conscious integrity insured to him that
serenity of soul, which was regarded as the hardened effrontery of a
mind wholly callous to shame.
It was not till some time after that the truth came to be known. The
scene then changed. Pélisson became the object of general admiration,
and of enthusiastic esteem, that bordered on veneration; but he still
preserved the same serenity of mind, and displayed the same indifference
to merited praise, as he had before shewn to unmerited censure. Whenever
his friends expatiated on his unshaken firmness, and extraordinary
heroism, the worthy stoic replied--“That man must appear of little
consequence in his own eyes, whose moral existence depends merely on the
opinion of others! It is our place to fix a just value on ourselves
before others attempt to appreciate us. I did but fulfil my duty in
serving a man to whom I did not chuse to be an impotent or useless
friend: the title of friend imposes on those who bear it essential
obligations, which I have endeavoured to discharge; I have given more
than my life: I have suffered myself to be polluted by the imputation of
vice and dishonour; because it was the only means of serving the friend
I loved. What made me amends for the mean opinion which the public
entertained of me?--The good opinion I entertained of myself. That paid
me amply for the effects of prejudice which was founded in injustice.
Virtue is but mental fortitude; and I exerted the whole of mine, to be
able to brave the opinion of all mankind. You now see, there are
occasions which require a man to raise himself above that _solemn_
judgment to which every human being must generally submit. You must
permit me, however, to give you one piece of advice. Another time be
less prompt to decide on the merits of a man who enjoys some reputation
for probity; and be assured, that he can never be on a sudden converted
into the vilest of rogues. The friend of Fouquet could not act in a
manner so contrary to his natural disposition.”
Philosophy--adds the relator of this anecdote--will have attained to its
highest degree of perfection, when it shall have enforced the
conviction. That virtue is infinitely superior to talents. By virtue
alone can the duties we owe to society, and to ourselves, be properly
discharged.
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