In the meantime, usurped royalty was playing out its part bravely at
Vaux. Philippe gave orders that for his _petit lever_ the _grandes
entrees_, 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--our readers know the reason. But
the prince, not believing that absence could be prolonged, wished,
as all rash spirits do, to try his valor and his fortune far from all
protection and instruction. 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
whilst 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 thus completely dressed in
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 still so noble and imposing figure, ravaged
by pain, pleaded in his heart the cause of the 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 scourge to her old age. He
contemplated his brother with a tenderness easily to be understood.
The latter had usurped nothing, had cast no shades athwart his life. A
separate tree, he allowed the stem to rise without heeding its elevation
or majestic 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 trembling 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 towards me a coldness that my
brother could not have for her, but 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 M. 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,--a superior man.”
“A superintendent 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 towards 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 its secrets and
mysteries.”
He had not calculated the effect of this terrible speech, or perhaps
he wished to judge 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 nearly
fainting; her eyes, open but meaningless, ceased to see for several
seconds; she stretched out her arms towards her other son, who supported
and embraced her without fear of irritating the king.
“Sire,” murmured she, “you are treating your mother very cruelly.”
“In what respect, 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 of my person? Well, then, madame, I tell you Madame de
Chevreuse has 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 complicity
with such 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 a servant of the state, she has
taken a still bolder flight, in search of surer sources of supply. 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 shame of some and the ruin of others. If
Heaven has suffered certain crimes to be committed, and has concealed
them in the shadow of its clemency, I will not permit Madame de
Chevreuse to counteract the just designs of fate.”
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 repulsion
and bitterness of the heart, there was a pardon for eight years of
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 towards
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 M. Fouquet no ill-will; I only dreaded his prodigalities.”
“We will put that to rights, and will take nothing of the superintendent
but his good qualities.”
“What is your majesty looking for?” said Henrietta, seeing the king’s
eyes constantly turned towards the door, and wishing to let fly a little
poisoned arrow at his heart, supposing he was so anxiously expecting
either La Vallière 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 privately on a mission from the king, he concluded
that the king wished to preserve the secret. “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 the 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 prodigies.”
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
the king’s wishes. Whilst everybody was seeking M. Fouquet and Aramis,
the new king quietly continued his experiments, and everybody, family,
officers, servants, had not the least suspicion of his identity, his
air, his voice, and manners were so like the king’s. On his side,
Philippe, applying to all countenances the accurate descriptions and
key-notes of character supplied 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 loftiest fortune
of the world to substitute the lowliest 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 specter 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 towards 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 towards 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 have beheld so near to him.
All eyes were turned towards 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 given to but few men, even those
whose destiny contains the strangest elements, and accidents the
most wonderful, to contemplate such 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 thick violet velvet curtains lined with silk. In this soft
shade, the eyes were by degrees dilated, and every one present saw
others rather with imagination than with actual 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 though
it shone out in full sunlight. 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, stamped with sorrow and
determination. The queen-mother, who perceived Louis XIV., and who held
the hand of Philippe, uttered a cry of which we have spoken, as if she
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 was looking at the form of her brother-in-law reflected in a mirror.
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--trembling, clenching their hands convulsively,
measured each other with looks, and darted their glances, sharp as
poniards, at each other. Silent, 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 so truly dreadful that no one
will at first accept them; people rather believe in the supernatural and
the impossible. Louis had not reckoned on these obstacles. He expected
that he had only to appear to be acknowledged. A living sun, he could
not endure the suspicion of equality 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 the violent
explosions of concentrated passion.
But Fouquet! who shall 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’etat_,
so skillfully got up by the General of the Jesuits, he must be a mad
enthusiast, unworthy of ever dipping his hands in political grand
strategy 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; to the right of keeping
he sacrificed the right of having. The whole extent of his fault was
revealed to him at simple sight of the pretender. All that passed in the
mind of Fouquet was lost upon the persons present. He had five minutes
to focus meditation on this point of conscience; five minutes, that is
to say five ages, during which the two kings and their family scarcely
found energy 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 doubt and
difficulty that during late days had rendered the conduct of Aramis so
suspicious to the musketeer. These ideas were, however, enveloped in a
haze, a veil of mystery. 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 towards 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 suddenly in head and heart with fell
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 the spectacle and the affront. He bounded
towards D’Artagnan, over whose brain a vertigo was stealing 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 fibers of
obedience. He shook his head, and, without more hesitation, he walked
straight up to Philippe, on whose shoulder he laid his hand, saying,
“Monsieur, you are my prisoner!”
Philippe did not raise his eyes towards Heaven, nor stir from the spot,
where he seemed nailed to the floor, his eye intently fixed upon the
king his brother. He reproached him with a sublime silence for all
misfortunes past, all 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.... What has 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 Ile Sainte-Marguerite.
He will cover his face with an iron vizor, which the prisoner shall
never raise except at 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 every whit as much a king as the other.”
“More so!” replied D’Artagnan. “He wanted only you and me.”