A Quarter of an Hour’s Delay
Fouquet, on leaving his house for the second time that day, felt
himself less heavy and less disturbed than might have been expected. He
turned towards Pellisson, who was meditating in the corner of the
carriage some good arguments against the violent proceedings of
Colbert.
“My dear Pellisson,” said Fouquet, “it is a great pity you are not a
woman.”
“I think, on the contrary, it is very fortunate,” replied Pellisson,
“for, monseigneur, I am excessively ugly.”
“Pellisson! Pellisson!” said the superintendent, laughing: “you repeat
too often you are ‘ugly,’ not to leave people to believe that it gives
you much pain.”
“In fact it does, monseigneur, much pain; there is no man more
unfortunate than I: I was handsome, the smallpox rendered me hideous; I
am deprived of a great means of attraction; now, I am your principal
clerk or something of that sort; I take great interest in your affairs,
and if, at this moment, I were a pretty woman, I could render you an
important service.”
“What?”
“I would go and find the concierge of the Palais. I would seduce him,
for he is a gallant man, extravagantly partial to women; then I would
get away our two prisoners.”
“I hope to be able to do so myself, although I am not a pretty woman,”
replied Fouquet.
“Granted, monseigneur; but you are compromising yourself very much.”
“Oh!” cried Fouquet, suddenly, with one of those secret transports
which the generous blood of youth, or the remembrance of some sweet
emotion, infuses into the heart. “Oh! I know a woman who will enact the
personage we stand in need of, with the lieutenant-governor of the
conciergerie.”
“And, on my part, I know fifty, monseigneur; fifty trumpets, which will
inform the universe of your generosity, of your devotion to your
friends, and, consequently, will ruin you sooner or later in ruining
themselves.”
“I do not speak of such women, Pellisson, I speak of a noble and
beautiful creature who joins to the intelligence and wit of her sex the
valor and coolness of ours; I speak of a woman, handsome enough to make
the walls of a prison bow down to salute her, discreet enough to let no
one suspect by whom she has been sent.”
“A treasure!” said Pellisson, “you would make a famous present to
monsieur the governor of the conciergerie! Peste! monseigneur, he might
have his head cut off; but he would, before dying, have had such
happiness as no man had enjoyed before him.”
“And I add,” said Fouquet, “that the concierge of the Palais would not
have his head cut off, for he would receive of me my horses to effect
his escape, and five hundred thousand livres wherewith to live
comfortably in England: I add, that this lady, my friend, would give
him nothing but the horses and the money. Let us go and seek her,
Pellisson.”
The superintendent reached forth his hand towards the gold and silken
cord placed in the interior of his carriage, but Pellisson stopped him.
“Monseigneur,” said he, “you are going to lose as much time in seeking
this lady as Columbus took to discover the new world. Now, we have but
two hours in which we can possibly succeed; the concierge once gone to
bed, how shall we get at him without making a disturbance? When
daylight dawns, how can we conceal our proceedings? Go, go yourself,
monseigneur, and do not seek either woman or angel to-night.”
“But, my dear Pellisson, here we are before her door.”
“What! before the angel’s door?”
“Why, yes!”
“This is the hotel of Madame de Belliere!”
“Hush!”
“Ah! Good Lord!” exclaimed Pellisson.
“What have you to say against her?”
“Nothing, alas! and it is that which causes my despair. Nothing,
absolutely nothing. Why can I not, on the contrary, say ill enough of
her to prevent your going to her?”
But Fouquet had already given orders to stop, and the carriage was
motionless. “Prevent me!” cried Fouquet; “why, no power on earth should
prevent my going to pay my compliments to Madame de Plessis-Belliere,
besides, who knows that we shall not stand in need of her!”
“No, monseigneur no!”
“But I do not wish you to wait for me, Pellisson,” replied Fouquet,
sincerely courteous.
“The more reason I should, monseigneur; knowing that you are keeping me
waiting, you will, perhaps, stay a shorter time. Take care! You see
there is a carriage in the courtyard: she has some one with her.”
Fouquet leant towards the steps of the carriage. “One word more,” cried
Pellisson; “do not go to this lady till you have been to the concierge,
for Heaven’s sake!”
“Eh! five minutes, Pellisson,” replied Fouquet, alighting at the steps
of the hotel, leaving Pellisson in the carriage, in a very ill-humor.
Fouquet ran upstairs, told his name to the footman, which excited an
eagerness and a respect that showed the habit the mistress of the house
had of honoring that name in her family. “Monsieur le surintendant,”
cried the marquise, advancing, very pale, to meet him; “what an honor!
what an unexpected pleasure!” said she. Then, in a low voice, “Take
care!” added the marquise, “Marguerite Vanel is here!”
“Madame,” replied Fouquet, rather agitated, “I came on business. One
single word, and quickly, if you please!” And he entered the salon.
Madame Vanel had risen, paler, more livid, than Envy herself. Fouquet
in vain addressed her, with the most agreeable, most pacific
salutation; she only replied by a terrible glance darted at the
marquise and Fouquet. This keen glance of a jealous woman is a stiletto
which pierces every cuirass; Marguerite Vanel plunged it straight into
the hearts of the two confidants. She made a courtesy to her friend, a
more profound one to Fouquet, and took leave, under pretense of having
a number of visits to make, without the marquise trying to prevent her,
or Fouquet, a prey to anxiety, thinking further about her. She was
scarcely out of the room, and Fouquet left alone with the marquise,
before he threw himself on his knees, without saying a word. “I
expected you,” said the marquise, with a tender sigh.
“Oh! no,” cried he, “or you would have sent away that woman.”
“She has been here little more than half an hour, and I had no
expectation she would come this evening.”
“You love me just a little, then, marquise?”
“That is not the question now; it is of your danger; how are your
affairs going on?”
“I am going this evening to get my friends out of the prisons of the
Palais.”
“How will you do that?”
“By buying and bribing the governor.”
“He is a friend of mine; can I assist you, without injuring you?”
“Oh! marquise, it would be a signal service; but how can you be
employed without your being compromised? Now, never shall my life, my
power, or even my liberty, be purchased at the expense of a single tear
from your eyes, or of one frown of pain upon your brow.”
“Monseigneur, no more such words, they bewilder me; I have been
culpable in trying to serve you, without calculating the extent of what
I was doing. I love you in reality, as a tender friend; and as a
friend, I am grateful for your delicate attentions—but, alas!—alas! you
will never find a mistress in me.”
“Marquise!” cried Fouquet, in a tone of despair; “why not?”
“Because you are too much beloved,” said the young woman, in a low
voice; “because you are too much beloved by too many people—because the
splendor of glory and fortune wound my eyes, whilst the darkness of
sorrow attracts them; because, in short, I, who have repulsed you in
your proud magnificence; I who scarcely looked at you in your splendor,
I came, like a mad woman, to throw myself, as it were, into your arms,
when I saw a misfortune hovering over your head. You understand me now,
monseigneur? Become happy again, that I may remain chaste in heart and
in thought; your misfortune entails my ruin.”
“Oh! madame,” said Fouquet, with an emotion he had never before felt;
“were I to fall to the lowest degree of human misery, and hear from
your mouth that word which you now refuse me, that day, madame, you
will be mistaken in your noble egotism; that day you will fancy you are
consoling the most unfortunate of men, and you will have said, I love
you, to the most illustrious, the most delighted, the most triumphant
of the happy beings of this world.”
He was still at her feet, kissing her hand, when Pellisson entered
precipitately, crying, in very ill-humor, “Monseigneur! madame! for
Heaven’s sake! excuse me. Monseigneur, you have been here half an hour.
Oh! do not both look at me so reproachfully. Madame, pray who is that
lady who left your house soon after monseigneur came in?”
“Madame Vanel,” said Fouquet.
“Ha!” cried Pellisson, “I was sure of that.”
“Well! what then?”
“Why, she got into her carriage, looking deadly pale.”
“What consequence is that to me?”
“Yes, but what she said to her coachman is of consequence to you.”
“Kind heaven!” cried the marquise, “what was that?”
“To M. Colbert’s!” said Pellisson, in a hoarse voice.
“Bon Dieu!—begone, begone, monseigneur!” replied the marquise, pushing
Fouquet out of the salon, whilst Pellisson dragged him by the hand.
“Am I, then, indeed,” said the superintendent, “become a child, to be
frightened by a shadow?”
“You are a giant,” said the marquise, “whom a viper is trying to bite
in the heel.”
Pellisson continued to drag Fouquet to the carriage. “To the Palais at
full speed!” cried Pellisson to the coachman. The horses set off like
lightning; no obstacle relaxed their pace for an instant. Only, at the
arcade Saint-Jean, as they were coming out upon the Place de Greve, a
long file of horsemen, barring the narrow passage, stopped the carriage
of the superintendent. There was no means of forcing this barrier; it
was necessary to wait till the mounted archers of the watch, for it was
they who stopped the way, had passed with the heavy carriage they were
escorting, and which ascended rapidly towards the Place Baudoyer.
Fouquet and Pellisson took no further account of this circumstance
beyond deploring the minute’s delay they had thus to submit to. They
entered the habitation of the concierge du Palais five minutes after.
That officer was still walking about in the front court. At the name of
Fouquet, whispered in his ear by Pellisson, the governor eagerly
approached the carriage, and, hat in his hand, was profuse in his
attentions. “What an honor for me, monseigneur,” said he.
“One word, monsieur le gouverneur, will you take the trouble to get
into my carriage?” The officer placed himself opposite Fouquet in the
coach.
“Monsieur,” said Fouquet, “I have a service to ask of you.”
“Speak, monseigneur.”
“A service that will be compromising for you, monsieur, but which will
assure to you forever my protection and my friendship.”
“Were it to cast myself into the fire for you, monseigneur, I would do
it.”
“That is well,” said Fouquet; “what I require is much more simple.”
“That being so, monseigneur, what is it?”
“To conduct me to the chamber of Messieurs Lyodot and D’Eymeris.”
“Will monseigneur have the kindness to say for what purpose?”
“I will tell you in their presence, monsieur; at the same time that I
will give you ample means of palliating this escape.”
“Escape! Why, then, monseigneur does not know?”
“What?”
“That Messieurs Lyodot and D’Eymeris are no longer here.”
“Since when?” cried Fouquet, in great agitation.
“About a quarter of an hour.”
“Whither have they gone, then?”
“To Vincennes—to the donjon.”
“Who took them from here?”
“An order from the king.”
“Oh! woe! woe!” exclaimed Fouquet, striking his forehead. “Woe!” and
without saying a single word more to the governor, he threw himself
back in his carriage, despair in his heart, and death on his
countenance.
“Well!” said Pellisson, with great anxiety.
“Our friends are lost. Colbert is conveying them to the donjon. They
crossed our very path under the arcade Saint-Jean.”
Pellisson, struck as by a thunderbolt, made no reply. With a single
reproach he would have killed his master. “Where is monseigneur going?”
said the footman.
“Home—to Paris. You, Pellisson, return to Saint-Mande, and bring the
Abbe Fouquet to me within an hour. Begone!”