Colbert
Colbert was not far off. During the whole evening he had remained in
one of the corridors, chatting with Bernouin and Brienne, and
commenting, with the ordinary skill of people of a court, upon the news
which developed like air-bubbles upon the water, on the surface of each
event. It is doubtless time to trace, in a few words, one of the most
interesting portraits of the age, and to trace it with as much truth,
perhaps, as contemporary painters have been able to do. Colbert was a
man in whom the historian and the moralist have an equal right.
He was thirteen years older than Louis XIV., his future master. Of
middle height, rather lean than otherwise, he had deep-set eyes, a mean
appearance, his hair was coarse, black and thin, which, say the
biographers of his time, made him take early to the skull-cap. A look
of severity, or harshness even, a sort of stiffness, which, with
inferiors, was pride, with superiors an affectation of superior virtue;
a surly cast of countenance upon all occasions, even when looking at
himself in a glass alone—such is the exterior of this personage. As to
the moral part of his character, the depth of his talent for accounts,
and his ingenuity in making sterility itself productive, were much
boasted of. Colbert had formed the idea of forcing governors of
frontier places to feed the garrisons without pay, with what they drew
from contributions. Such a valuable quality made Mazarin think of
replacing Joubert, his intendant, who had recently died, by M. Colbert,
who had such skill in nibbling down allowances. Colbert by degrees
crept into court, notwithstanding his lowly birth, for he was the son
of a man who sold wine as his father had done, but who afterwards sold
cloth, and then silk stuffs. Colbert, destined for trade, had been
clerk in Lyons to a merchant, whom he had quitted to come to Paris in
the office of a Chatelet procureur named Biterne. It was here he
learned the art of drawing up an account, and the much more valuable
one of complicating it.
This stiffness of manner in Colbert had been of great service to him;
it is so true that Fortune, when she has a caprice, resembles those
women of antiquity, who, when they had a fancy, were disgusted by no
physical or moral defects in either men or things. Colbert, placed with
Michel Letellier, secretary of state in 1648, by his cousin Colbert,
Seigneur de Saint-Penange, who protected him, received one day from the
minister a commission for Cardinal Mazarin. His eminence was then in
the enjoyment of flourishing health, and the bad years of the Fronde
had not yet counted triple and quadruple for him. He was at Sedan, very
much annoyed at a court intrigue in which Anne of Austria seemed
inclined to desert his cause.
Of this intrigue Letellier held the thread. He had just received a
letter from Anne of Austria, a letter very valuable to him, and
strongly compromising Mazarin; but, as he already played the double
part which served him so well, and by which he always managed two
enemies so as to draw advantage from both, either by embroiling them
more and more or by reconciling them, Michel Letellier wished to send
Anne of Austria’s letter to Mazarin, in order that he might be
acquainted with it, and consequently pleased with his having so
willingly rendered him a service. To send the letter was an easy
matter; to recover it again, after having communicated it, that was the
difficulty. Letellier cast his eyes around him, and seeing the black
and meager clerk with the scowling brow, scribbling away in his office,
he preferred him to the best gendarme for the execution of this design.
Colbert was commanded to set out for Sedan, with positive orders to
carry the letter to Mazarin, and bring it back to Letellier. He
listened to his orders with scrupulous attention, required the
instructions to be repeated twice, and was particular in learning
whether the bringing back was as necessary as the communicating, and
Letellier replied sternly, “More necessary.” Then he set out, traveled
like a courier, without any care for his body, and placed in the hands
of Mazarin, first a letter from Letellier, which announced to the
cardinal the sending of the precious letter, and then that letter
itself. Mazarin colored greatly whilst reading Anne of Austria’s
letter, gave Colbert a gracious smile and dismissed him.
“When shall I have the answer, monseigneur?”
“To-morrow.”
“To-morrow morning?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
The clerk turned upon his heel, after making his very best bow. The
next day he was at his post at seven o’clock. Mazarin made him wait
till ten. He remained patiently in the ante-chamber; his turn having
come, he entered; Mazarin gave him a sealed packet. On the envelope of
this packet were these words:—Monsieur Michel Letellier, etc. Colbert
looked at the packet with much attention; the cardinal put on a
pleasant countenance and pushed him towards the door.
“And the letter of the queen-mother, my lord?” asked Colbert.
“It is with the rest, in the packet,” said Mazarin.
“Oh! very well,” replied Colbert, and placing his hat between his
knees, he began to unseal the packet.
Mazarin uttered a cry. “What are you doing?” said he, angrily.
“I am unsealing the packet, my lord.”
“You mistrust me, then, master pedant, do you? Did any one ever see
such impertinence?”
“Oh! my lord, do not be angry with me! It is certainly not your
eminence’s word I place in doubt, God forbid!”
“What then?”
“It is the carefulness of your chancery, my lord. What is a letter? A
rag. May not a rag be forgotten? And look, my lord, look if I was not
right. Your clerks have forgotten the rag; the letter is not in the
packet.”
“You are an insolent fellow, and you have not looked,” cried Mazarin,
very angrily, “begone and wait my pleasure.” Whilst saying these words,
with perfectly Italian subtlety he snatched the packet from the hands
of Colbert, and re-entered his apartments.
But this anger could not last so long as not to be replaced in time by
reason. Mazarin, every morning, on opening his closet door, found the
figure of Colbert like a sentinel behind the bench, and this
disagreeable figure never failed to ask him humbly, but with tenacity,
for the queen-mother’s letter. Mazarin could hold out no longer, and
was obliged to give it up. He accompanied this restitution with a most
severe reprimand, during which Colbert contented himself with
examining, feeling, even smelling, as it were, the paper, the
characters, and the signature, neither more nor less than if he had to
deal with the greatest forger in the kingdom. Mazarin behaved still
more rudely to him, but Colbert, still impassible, having obtained a
certainty that the letter was the true one, went off as if he had been
deaf. This conduct obtained for him afterwards the post of Joubert; for
Mazarin, instead of bearing malice, admired him, and was desirous of
attaching so much fidelity to himself.
It may be judged by this single anecdote, what the character of Colbert
was. Events, developing themselves, by degrees allowed all the powers
of his mind to act freely. Colbert was not long in insinuating himself
into the good graces of the cardinal: he became even indispensable to
him. The clerk was acquainted with all his accounts without the
cardinal’s ever having spoken to him about them. This secret between
them was a powerful tie, and this was why, when about to appear before
the Master of another world, Mazarin was desirous of taking good
counsel in disposing of the wealth he was so unwillingly obliged to
leave in this world. After the visit of Guenaud, he therefore sent for
Colbert, desired him to sit down, and said to him: “Let us converse,
Monsieur Colbert, and seriously, for I am very ill, and I may chance to
die.”
“Man is mortal,” replied Colbert.
“I have always remembered that, M. Colbert, and I have worked with that
end in view. You know that I have amassed a little wealth.”
“I know you have, monseigneur.”
“At how much do you estimate, as near as you can, the amount of this
wealth, M. Colbert?”
“At forty millions, five hundred and sixty thousand, two hundred
livres, nine cents, eight farthings,” replied Colbert.
The cardinal heaved a deep sigh, and looked at Colbert with wonder, but
he allowed a smile to steal across his lips.
“Known money,” added Colbert, in reply to that smile.
The cardinal gave quite a start in bed. “What do you mean by that?”
said he.
“I mean,” said Colbert, “that besides those forty millions, five
hundred and sixty thousand, two hundred livres, nine cents, eight
farthings, there are thirteen millions that are not known.”
“Ouf!” sighed Mazarin, “what a man!”
At this moment the head of Bernouin appeared through the embrasure of
the door.
“What is it?” asked Mazarin, “and why do you disturb me?”
“The Theatin father, your eminence’s director, was sent for this
evening; and he cannot come again to my lord till after to-morrow.”
Mazarin looked at Colbert, who rose and took his hat saying: “I shall
come again, my lord.”
Mazarin hesitated. “No, no,” said he; “I have as much business to
transact with you as with him. Besides, you are my other confessor—and
what I have to say to one the other may hear. Remain where you are,
Colbert.”
“But, my lord, if there be no secret of penitence, will the director
consent to my being here?”
“Do not trouble yourself about that; come into the ruelle.”
“I can wait outside, monseigneur.”
“No, no, it will do you good to hear the confession of a rich man.”
Colbert bowed and went into the ruelle.
“Introduce the Theatin father,” said Mazarin, closing the curtains.