The King’s Card-table
Fouquet was present, as D’Artagnan had said, at the king’s card-table.
It seemed as if Buckingham’s departure had shed a balm on the lacerated
hearts of the previous evening. Monsieur, radiant with delight, made a
thousand affectionate signs to his mother. The Count de Guiche could
not separate himself from Buckingham and while playing, conversed with
him upon the circumstance of his projected voyage. Buckingham,
thoughtful, and kind in his manner, like a man who has adopted a
resolution, listened to the count, and from time to time cast a look
full of regret and hopeless affection at Madame. The princess, in the
midst of her elation of spirits, divided her attention between the
king, who was playing with her, Monsieur, who quietly joked her about
her enormous winnings, and De Guiche, who exhibited an extravagant
delight. Of Buckingham she took but little notice; for her, this
fugitive, this exile, was now simply a remembrance, no longer a man.
Light hearts are thus constituted; while they themselves continue
untouched, they roughly break off with every one who may possibly
interfere with their little calculations of selfish comfort. Madame had
received Buckingham’s smiles and attentions and sighs while he was
present; but what was the good of sighing, smiling and kneeling at a
distance? Can one tell in what direction the winds in the Channel,
which toss mighty vessels to and fro, carry such sighs as these. The
duke could not fail to mark this change, and his heart was cruelly
hurt. Of a sensitive character, proud and susceptible of deep
attachment, he cursed the day on which such a passion had entered his
heart. The looks he cast, from time to time at Madame, became colder by
degrees at the chilling complexion of his thoughts. He could hardly yet
despair, but he was strong enough to impose silence upon the tumultuous
outcries of his heart. In exact proportion, however, as Madame
suspected this change of feeling, she redoubled her activity to regain
the ray of light she was about to lose; her timid and indecisive mind
was displayed in brilliant flashes of wit and humor. At any cost she
felt that she must be remarked above everything and every one, even
above the king himself. And she was so, for the queens, notwithstanding
their dignity, and the king, despite the respect which etiquette
required, were all eclipsed by her. The queens, stately and
ceremonious, were softened and could not restrain their laughter.
Madame Henrietta, the queen-mother, was dazzled by the brilliancy which
cast distinction upon her family, thanks to the wit of the
grand-daughter of Henry IV. The king, jealous, as a young man and as a
monarch, of the superiority of those who surrounded him, could not
resist admitting himself vanquished by a petulance so thoroughly French
in its nature, whose energy was more than ever increased by English
humor. Like a child, he was captivated by her radiant beauty, which her
wit made still more dazzling. Madame’s eyes flashed like lightning. Wit
and humor escaped from her scarlet lips, like persuasion from the lips
of Nestor of old. The whole court, subdued by her enchanting grace,
noticed for the first time that laughter could be indulged in before
the greatest monarch in the world, like people who merited their
appellation of the wittiest and most polished people in Europe.
Madame, from that evening, achieved and enjoyed a success capable of
bewildering all not born to those altitudes termed thrones; which, in
spite of their elevation, are sheltered from such giddiness. From that
very moment Louis XIV. acknowledged Madame as a person to be
recognized. Buckingham regarded her as a coquette deserving the
cruelest tortures, and De Guiche looked upon her as a divinity; the
courtiers as a star whose light might some day become the focus of all
favor and power. And yet Louis XIV., a few years previously, had not
even condescended to offer his hand to that “ugly girl” for a ballet;
and Buckingham had worshipped this coquette “on both knees.” De Guiche
had once looked upon this divinity as a mere woman; and the courtiers
had not dared to extol this star in her upward progress, fearful to
disgust the monarch whom such a dull star had formerly displeased.
Let us see what was taking place during this memorable evening at the
king’s card-table. The young queen, although Spanish by birth, and the
niece of Anne of Austria, loved the king, and could not conceal her
affection. Anne of Austria, a keen observer, like all women, and
imperious, like every queen, was sensible of Madame’s power, and
acquiesced in it immediately, a circumstance which induced the young
queen to raise the siege and retire to her apartments. The king hardly
paid any attention to her departure, notwithstanding the pretended
symptoms of indisposition by which it was accompanied. Encouraged by
the rules of etiquette, which he had begun to introduce at the court as
an element of every relation of life, Louis XIV. did not disturb
himself; he offered his hand to Madame without looking at Monsieur his
brother, and led the young princess to the door of her apartments. It
was remarked that at the threshold of the door, his majesty, freed from
every restraint, or not equal to the situation, sighed very deeply. The
ladies present—for nothing escapes a woman’s glance—Mademoiselle
Montalais, for instance—did not fail to say to each other, “the king
sighed,” and “Madame sighed too.” This had been indeed the case. Madame
had sighed very noiselessly, but with an accompaniment very far more
dangerous for the king’s repose. Madame had sighed, first closing her
beautiful black eyes, next opening them, and then, laden, as they were,
with an indescribable mournfulness of expression, she had raised them
towards the king, whose face at that moment visibly heightened in
color. The consequence of these blushes, of these interchanged sighs,
and of this royal agitation, was, that Montalais had committed an
indiscretion which had certainly affected her companion, for
Mademoiselle de la Vallière, less clear sighted, perhaps, turned pale
when the king blushed; and her attendance being required upon Madame,
she tremblingly followed the princess without thinking of taking the
gloves, which court etiquette required her to do. True it is that this
young country girl might allege as her excuse the agitation into which
the king seemed to be thrown, for Mademoiselle de la Vallière, busily
engaged in closing the door, had involuntarily fixed her eyes upon the
king, who, as he retired backwards, had his face towards it. The king
returned to the room where the card-tables were set out. He wished to
speak to the different persons there, but it was easy to see that his
mind was absent. He jumbled different accounts together, which was
taken advantage of by some of the noblemen who had retained those
habits since the time of Monsieur Mazarin—who had a poor memory, but
was a good calculator. In this way Monsieur Manicamp, with a
thoughtless and absent air—for M. Manicamp was the honestest man in the
world appropriated twenty thousand francs, which were littering the
table, and which did not seem to belong to any person in particular. In
the same way, Monsieur de Wardes, whose head was doubtless a little
bewildered by the occurrences of the evening, somehow forgot to leave
behind him the sixty double louis which he had won for the Duke of
Buckingham, and which the duke, incapable, like his father, of soiling
his hands with coin of any sort, had left lying on the table before
him. The king only recovered his attention in some degree at the moment
that Monsieur Colbert, who had been narrowly observant for some
minutes, approached, and, doubtless, with great respect, yet with much
perseverance, whispered a counsel of some sort into the still tingling
ears of the king. The king, at the suggestion, listened with renewed
attention and immediately looking around him, said, “Is Monsieur
Fouquet no longer here?”
“Yes, sire, I am here,” replied the superintendent, till then engaged
with Buckingham, and approached the king, who advanced a step towards
him with a smiling yet negligent air. “Forgive me,” said Louis, “if I
interrupt your conversation; but I claim your attention wherever I may
require your services.”
“I am always at the king’s service,” replied Fouquet.
“And your cash-box too,” said the king, laughing with a false smile.
“My cash-box more than anything else,” said Fouquet, coldly.
“The fact is, I wish to give a fete at Fontainebleau—to keep open house
for fifteen days, and I shall require——” and he stopped glancing at
Colbert. Fouquet waited without showing discomposure; and the king
resumed, answering Colbert’s icy smile, “four million francs.”
“Four million,” repeated Fouquet, bowing profoundly. And his nails,
buried in his bosom, were thrust into his flesh, but the tranquil
expression of his face remained unaltered. “When will they be required,
sire?”
“Take your time,—I mean—no, no, as soon as possible.”
“A certain time will be necessary, sire.”
“Time!” exclaimed Colbert, triumphantly.
“The time, monsieur,” said the superintendent, with the haughtiest
disdain, “simply to count the money: a million can only be drawn and
weighed in a day.”
“Four days then,” said Colbert.
“My clerks,” replied Fouquet, addressing himself to the king, “will
perform wonders on his majesty’s service, and the sum shall be ready in
three days.”
It was for Colbert now to turn pale. Louis looked at him astonished.
Fouquet withdrew without any parade or weakness, smiling at his
numerous friends, in whose countenances alone he read the sincerity of
their friendship—an interest partaking of compassion. Fouquet, however,
should not be judged by his smile, for, in reality he felt as if he had
been stricken by death. Drops of blood beneath his coat stained the
fine linen that clothed his chest. His dress concealed the blood, and
his smile the rage which devoured him. His domestics perceived, by the
manner in which he approached his carriage, that their master was not
in the best of humors: the result of their discernment was, that his
orders were executed with that exactitude of maneuver which is found on
board a man-of-war, commanded during a storm by an ill-tempered
captain. The carriage, therefore, did not simply roll along—it flew.
Fouquet had hardly time to recover himself during the drive; on his
arrival he went at once to Aramis, who had not yet retired for the
night. As for Porthos, he had supped very agreeably off a roast leg of
mutton, two pheasants, and a perfect heap of cray-fish; he then
directed his body to be anointed with perfumed oils, in the manner of
the wrestlers of old; and when this anointment was completed, he had
himself wrapped in flannels and placed in a warm bed. Aramis, as we
have already said, had not retired. Seated at his ease in a velvet
dressing-gown, he wrote letter after letter in that fine and hurried
handwriting, a page of which contained a quarter of a volume. The door
was thrown hurriedly open, and the superintendent appeared, pale,
agitated, anxious. Aramis looked up: “Good-evening,” said he, and his
searching look detected his host’s sadness and disordered state of
mind. “Was your play as good as his majesty’s?” asked Aramis, by way of
beginning the conversation.
Fouquet threw himself upon a couch, and then pointed to the door to the
servant who had followed him; when the servant had left he said,
“Excellent.”
Aramis, who had followed every movement with his eyes, noticed that he
stretched himself upon the cushions with a sort of feverish impatience.
“You have lost as usual?” inquired Aramis, his pen still in his hand.
“Even more than usual,” replied Fouquet.
“You know how to support losses?”
“Sometimes.”
“What, Monsieur Fouquet a bad player!”
“There is play and play, Monsieur d’Herblay.”
“How much have you lost?” inquired Aramis, with a slight uneasiness.
Fouquet collected himself a moment, and then, without the slightest
emotion, said, “The evening has cost me four millions,” and a bitter
laugh drowned the last vibration of these words.
Aramis, who did not expect such an amount, dropped his pen. “Four
millions,” he said; “you have lost four millions,—impossible!”
“Monsieur Colbert held my cards for me,” replied the superintendent,
with a similar bitter laugh.
“Ah, now I understand; so, so, a new application for funds?”
“Yes, and from the king’s own lips. It was impossible to ruin a man
with a more charming smile. What do you think of it?”
“It is clear that your destruction is the object in view.”
“That is your opinion?”
“Still. Besides, there is nothing in it which should astonish you, for
we have foreseen it all along.”
“Yes; but I did not expect four millions.”
“No doubt the amount is serious, but, after all, four millions are not
quite the death of a man, especially when the man in question is
Monsieur Fouquet.”
“My dear D’Herblay, if you knew the contents of my coffers, you would
be less easy.”
“And you promised?”
“What could I do?”
“That’s true.”
“The very day I refuse, Colbert will procure the money; whence I know
not, but he will procure it: and I shall be lost.”
“There is no doubt of that. In how many days did you promise these four
millions?”
“In three days. The king seemed exceedingly pressed.”
“In three days?”
“When I think,” resumed Fouquet, “that just now as I passed along the
streets, the people cried out, ‘There is the rich Monsieur Fouquet,’ it
is enough to turn my brain.”
“Stay, monsieur, the matter is not worth so much trouble,” said Aramis,
calmly, sprinkling some sand over the letter he had just written.
“Suggest a remedy, then, for this evil without a remedy.”
“There is only one remedy for you,—pay.”
“But it is very uncertain whether I have the money. Everything must be
exhausted; Belle-Isle is paid for; the pension has been paid; and
money, since the investigation of the accounts of those who farm the
revenue, is scarce. Besides, admitting that I pay this time, how can I
do so on another occasion? When kings have tasted money, they are like
tigers who have tasted flesh, they devour everything. The day will
arrive—must arrive—when I shall have to say, ‘Impossible, sire,’ and on
that very day I am a lost man.”
Aramis raised his shoulders slightly, saying:
“A man in your position, my lord, is only lost when he wishes to be
so.”
“A man, whatever his position may be, cannot hope to struggle against a
king.”
“Nonsense; when I was young I wrestled successfully with the Cardinal
Richelieu, who was king of France,—nay more—cardinal.”
“Where are my armies, my troops, my treasures? I have not even
Belle-Isle.”
“Bah! necessity is the mother of invention, and when you think all is
lost, something will be discovered which will retrieve everything.”
“Who will discover this wonderful something?”
“Yourself.”
“I! I resign my office of inventor.”
“Then I will.”
“Be it so. But set to work without delay.”
“Oh! we have time enough!”
“You kill me, D’Herblay, with your calmness,” said the superintendent,
passing his handkerchief over his face.
“Do you not remember that I one day told you not to make yourself
uneasy, if you possessed courage? Have you any?”
“I believe so.”
“Then don’t make yourself uneasy.”
“It is decided, then, that, at the last moment, you will come to my
assistance.”
“It will only be the repayment of a debt I owe you.”
“It is the vocation of financiers to anticipate the wants of men such
as yourself, D’Herblay.”
“If obligingness is the vocation of financiers, charity is the virtue
of the clergy. Only, on this occasion, do you act, monsieur. You are
not yet sufficiently reduced, and at the last moment we will see what
is to be done.”
“We shall see, then, in a very short time.”
“Very well. However, permit me to tell you that, personally, I regret
exceedingly that you are at present so short of money, because I was
myself about to ask you for some.”
“For yourself?”
“For myself, or some of my people, for mine or for ours.”
“How much do you want?”
“Be easy on that score; a roundish sum, it is true, but not too
exorbitant.”
“Tell me the amount.”
“Fifty thousand francs.”
“Oh! a mere nothing. Of course one has always fifty thousand francs.
Why the deuce cannot that knave Colbert be as easily satisfied as you
are—and I should give myself far less trouble than I do. When do you
need this sum?”
“To-morrow morning; but you wish to know its destination.”
“Nay, nay, chevalier, I need no explanation.”
“To-morrow is the first of June.”
“Well?”
“One of our bonds becomes due.”
“I did not know we had any bond.”
“Certainly, to-morrow we pay our last third instalment.”
“What third?”
“Of the one hundred and fifty thousand francs to Baisemeaux.”
“Baisemeaux? Who is he?”
“The governor of the Bastile.”
“Yes, I remember. On what grounds am I to pay one hundred and fifty
thousand francs for that man?”
“On account of the appointment which he, or rather we, purchased from
Louviere and Tremblay.”
“I have a very vague recollection of the matter.”
“That is likely enough, for you have so many affairs to attend to.
However, I do not believe you have any affair in the world of greater
importance than this one.”
“Tell me, then, why we purchased this appointment.”
“Why, in order to render him a service in the first place, and
afterwards ourselves.”
“Ourselves? You are joking.”
“Monseigneur, the time may come when the governor of the Bastile may
prove a very excellent acquaintance.”
“I have not the good fortune to understand you, D’Herblay.”
“Monseigneur, we had our own poets, our own engineer, our own
architect, our own musicians, our own printer, and our own painters; we
needed our own governor of the Bastile.”
“Do you think so?”
“Let us not deceive ourselves, monseigneur; we are very much opposed to
paying the Bastile a visit,” added the prelate, displaying, beneath his
pale lips, teeth which were still the same beautiful teeth so much
admired thirty years previously by Marie Michon.
“And you think it is not too much to pay one hundred and fifty thousand
francs for that? I thought you generally put out money at better
interest than that.”
“The day will come when you will admit your mistake.”
“My dear D’Herblay, the very day on which a man enters the Bastile, he
is no longer protected by his past.”
“Yes, he is, if the bonds are perfectly regular; besides, that good
fellow Baisemeaux has not a courtier’s heart. I am certain, my lord,
that he will not remain ungrateful for that money, without taking into
account, I repeat, that I retain the acknowledgments.”
“It is a strange affair! usury in a matter of benevolence.”
“Do not mix yourself up with it, monseigneur; if there be usury, it is
I who practice it, and both of us reap the advantage from it—that is
all.”
“Some intrigue, D’Herblay?”
“I do not deny it.”
“And Baisemeaux an accomplice in it?”
“Why not?—there are worse accomplices than he. May I depend, then, upon
the five thousand pistoles to-morrow?”
“Do you want them this evening?”
“It would be better, for I wish to start early; poor Baisemeaux will
not be able to imagine what has become of me, and must be upon thorns.”
“You shall have the amount in an hour. Ah, D’Herblay, the interest of
your one hundred and fifty thousand francs will never pay my four
millions for me.”
“Why not, monseigneur.”
“Good-night, I have business to transact with my clerks before I
retire.”
“A good night’s rest, monseigneur.”
“D’Herblay, you wish things that are impossible.”
“Shall I have my fifty thousand francs this evening?”
“Yes.”
“Go to sleep, then, in perfect safety—it is I who tell you to do so.”
Notwithstanding this assurance, and the tone in which it was given,
Fouquet left the room shaking his head, and heaving a sigh.