FOUQUET, SUPERINTENDENT OF FINANCE.
Nicholas Fouquet, Marquis de Belle-Isle and Vicomte de Mélun et
Vaux,[3] held the post of Superintendent of Finance under the Regency
of Anne of Austria. He was continued in this important office after
the accession of Louis XIV. Fouquet was insinuating, specious,
hypocritical, and sensual; a munificent patron to those about him, and
an adorer of the beautiful in art and nature. He was, moreover, one of
those courtly financiers so constantly met with before the Revolution,
who, however the country starved, always found funds "for the service
of his Majesty."
[3] Vaux-Praslin, near Mélun, is still a superb château. It was sold by
the son of the Superintendent to the Maréchal de Villars who, in his
turn, sold it to the Duc de Praslin.
In course of time, Louis grew alarmed at Fouquet's reckless
expenditure; his personal magnificence was boundless, but there was not
a _sous_ of state money in reserve. Colbert was consulted by the King.
Colbert was jealous of Fouquet's position; he examined his accounts,
and found them incorrect. The King courteously pointed out the errors
to Fouquet, who persisted in the perfect accuracy of his figures.
Louis, convinced of the Superintendent's dishonesty, resolved to
dismiss him on the first opportunity.
[Illustration: FOUQUET.]
But this falsification of accounts was his least cause of offence to
his Sovereign. Fouquet had presumed to imitate the Olympian tastes
of the _Grand Monarque_. If Louis was a god, his Superintendent was
at least a demi-god, and claimed a demi-god's privilege of "loving
the daughters of men." Unfortunately, too, he dared to raise his
eyes to those particular idols worshipped by the King. His disgrace
was therefore certain. Some indistinct rumours of the danger that
threatened him reached his ears. He was moved, but not alarmed.
He racked his fertile brain how best to recover favour, and he
determined to give so magnificent a fête in honour of the King at
his country-seat, Vaux, near Mélun, as should remove all suspicion
of his loyalty. Such were the customs of the age. Having for years
systematically robbed the State, Fouquet was to reinstate himself in
favour by a still more public theft!
Before Versailles arose on the sand-hills lying between Saint-Cyr
and the wooded uplands of Saint-Cloud, Vaux was the most splendid
palace in France. The architect was Le Vau, celebrated by Boileau.
The _corps de logis_ was surmounted by a dome supported by sixteen
marble arches, resting on pillars; two immense pavilions formed the
wings. The gardens, designed by Le Nôtre, were decorated with statues,
and ballustraded terraces bordering canals, and water-works, in the
Italian fashion—"surprises," as they were called. All was formal and
symmetrical; the very plants and shrubs were only permitted to grow
to order. Nature was banished to the distant woods, which spread in
verdant folds about the rising ground behind the château, and decked
the greensward of the park, ere it reached the waters of the Seine
flowing below.
The fête was fixed for the 17th of August. It was a splendid day; the
sky was unclouded, and the golden sunshine lighted up the deepest
recesses of the forest, when Louis started in the morning from
Fontainebleau, where the Court was then staying. He was escorted by
D'Artagnan and a regiment of musketeers.
There was a goodly company; the King drove La Vallière and the Comtesse
de Guiche in his _calèche_; the Queen-mother came in her coach; other
ladies were in litters. The Queen, who was in an interesting state of
health, stayed at home. Fouquet stood ready, at the grand entrance
of his palace. He received the King kneeling, and presented to him
the golden keys of Vaux. Louis touched them with his fingers, raised
Fouquet from the ground, and in a few gracious words assured him of his
favour and protection; with what truth we shall see. The same ceremony
was repeated by Madame Fouquet to the Queen mother, with a like result.
On entering the vestibule, even the Gallic Jupiter was amazed at
the magnificence of all he saw. The suite of rooms were arranged in
allegorical order, each named after a god or goddess; the ceilings and
walls painted to represent their attributes and the events of their
lives. The sun and moon, the planets and fixed stars, also formed
an important feature in the decorations. The seasons added their
attributes, and together with the winds lent themselves gracefully to
the necessities of the general arrangements. His Majesty was invited
to repose in the billiard-room, dedicated to Hercules, who by a happy
invention prefigured himself. From the billiard-room he entered the
grand saloon, where the sun, in gorgeous colours of saffron, crimson,
and scarlet, covered the entire ceiling. Louis smiled a smile of
gratification; the sun was his acknowledged emblem. Was it possible, he
thought, that Fouquet might be forgiven? The Superintendent advanced.
He bowed to the ground, and asked leave to explain the legend.
"The sun—the centre of the universe, the creator of light, heat, and
life—is your Majesty. Deprived of your gracious presence, we sink into
darkness and death. That star beside the sun is myself, Sire, receiving
light from your Majesty's benignant rays."
Louis frowned, and bit his lip. It seemed to him that the star was
dangerously near the sun; it displeased him. He changed his mind, and
now decided that that too assertative star must be extinguished.
From the saloon, Louis passed into a retiring-room, dedicated to the
Muses and the Virtues, all with open mouths, grouped round a figure of
Fidelity, whose praises they sang.
"Who is represented by fidelity?" asked Louis, turning to the Duc de
Saint-Aignan, in attendance on him.
"I have just been told that Fidelity represents Fouquet himself, your
Majesty."
"What on earth can Fidelity have to do with a Superintendent of
Finance?" muttered Louis, shrugging his shoulders. "And that female
figure conducting Fidelity—who is that?"
"Prudence, I am told," replied Saint-Aignan. "Prudence; and the one on
the other side is Reason."
"Prudence, Reason, and Fidelity guiding Fouquet. _Ma foi_, it is not
bad," and an ironical smile passed over the monarch's face. "But we
have not done with the paintings yet. Who are the others?"
"That figure, Sire, in a golden-coloured robe, is Clio, I am told, the
Muse of History. With one hand she assists Fidelity into heaven, with
the other she records the annals of his life."
"The annals of _his_ life," muttered the King (for Fouquet stood near
at hand, to be summoned by his Sovereign when wanted). "It will be well
for him if history does not record his signal disgrace. He may prove
another Phaeton, this M. Fouquet, and fall from the stars into eternal
darkness. Jupiter still grasps his thunders. Let us leave this room—it
stifles me," said Louis aloud. "What is the meaning of the device of
the serpents I see everywhere?" again inquired Louis of the Duke.
"The serpents represent Colbert, the rival of Fouquet, Sire. Fidelity,
Reason, and Discretion crush these serpents as you see."
"Really, these allegories are charming, M. Fouquet," said Louis, with a
covert sneer, turning towards his host, and speaking in a loud voice,
"but allegories are not always truthful." Fouquet bowed to the ground,
and turned very pale.
After having examined the interior of the château, and partaken of a
sumptuous refection, the King was invited to pass into the garden to
see the illuminations.
There the whole horizon was aglow. On three broad terraces, of the
purest white marble, which extended along the entire façade of the
building, rows of golden candelabra bore myriads of wax lights. Rows of
gigantic orange-trees, in full blossom, shone with orbs of variegated
light, that glittered on the dark surface of the polished leaves.
Below, in a vast square, fashioned into a sunken parterre of flowers,
arranged in various patterns, cunningly concealed lamps of every hue
were hidden among the leaves, their innumerable flamelets forming a
carpet of living fire. Jets of flame leaped from tree to tree. Beyond
the parterre, the broad canal banks blazed and palpitated with fiery
heat. The waters, of a ruddy hue, now reflecting the gorgeous scene,
now riven into _jets d'eau_ and fountains which blaze upwards for an
instant, throwing up clouds of rockets that sport like comets among
the stars, to fall back in cascades of golden sparks. Beyond, in the
woods, each noble forest-tree, in minutest detail of every branch and
twig, stood out in relief against what appeared a vault of fire. Long
vistas led far away among stalwart oaks and feathery limes, growing out
of a sea of flames. All around there was nothing but fire—dazzling,
overwhelming fire. Now it turned to green, then by some magic touch it
changed to blue, then flashed into crimson; while _feux de joie_ and
cannon roared from concealed batteries, and shook the very air. Behind,
the architectural lines of the château were marked by clusters of
golden lamps. Every room shone brighter than at noon, and the central
dome, with its graceful colonnade, blazed like a volcano. On the
terrace, in front of the château, military bands clashed with joyous
symphonies. When these ceased, soft music sounded from out the fiery
woods, from violins and flutes, swelling in the cadences of some tender
melody. The crowd below, changing with the metamorphose of the lights,
formed a fitting fore-ground to this burning perspective. It was a
scene of artificial life after Lancret, backed by a conflagration.
Brocaded trains swept along the fine gravel of the walks. Wreaths of
diamonds sparkled on voluminous wigs, which fell in heavy curls over
neck and shoulders. Long white feathers, and finest Brussels lace,
fringed and decked turned-up hats of velvet. Glittering officers
were side by side with comely pages, brighter than butterflies.
Gold embroideries shone on delicately coloured velvets, satins, and
watered-silks; priceless jewels glittered on knee and shoe, on neck
and arm, on waist and drapery; torsades on hats, and sword-hilts
flashed and multiplied the fiery marvels of the night. Even _le Grand
Monarque_, as he paused upon the terrace to observe the scene, deigned
to express his admiration and surprise. But his praise was scant, his
words cold, he spoke morosely, and his brows were knit.
The more he investigated the magnificence of Vaux, the more he believed
the accusations of Colbert. Fouquet heard the praise; he did not
observe the frown. He was radiant. Louis looked round, anxious to
escape from the glare and the crowd. He longed to retire into some
shady grove with La Vallière. She was very beautiful that evening.
Louis reproached himself for ever having caused her pain. She wore a
dress of white stuff, worked with golden leaves; a blue ribbon, tied in
a knot in front, encircled her small waist. Her light hair, untouched
by powder, and sown with flowers and pearls, fell over her shoulders;
two enormous emeralds hung in her ears. Her arms were uncovered, but
to conceal their thinness, she wore above the elbow a broad circlet of
gold set with opals. Her gloves were of fine Brussels lace, showing the
rosy skin beneath. Her graceful yet dignified manners, her tender blue
eyes, breathing nothing but love and gentleness, her look of patient
goodness, were never more charming than when seen among the painted
and powdered belles of that intriguing Court. It was impossible for
Louis to have a word with her in private. Every feminine eye was bent
upon him. All the ladies—young, old, fair and dark—pressed round him
as he moved among the alleys and terraces of the illuminated garden.
He was the rose that attracted alike the butterflies and the grubs—the
sunshine and the shadow. Like royalty of all ages, Louis soon grew
weary of this espionage, and called for the Duc de Saint-Aignan. He was
nowhere to be found. At last, after having walked up and down the three
terraces, admired the great cascade and the grotto, afterwards to be
repeated at Saint-Cloud, he sought out the Queen-mother. She was seated
on the terrace, surveying the illumination at a distance. Louis leaned
over the marble balustrade near her.
"This is magnificent, my mother," said he; "so magnificent that I
believe every word Colbert has told me. Colbert showed me peculations
on paper; I see them here with my own eyes. Think of the millions
he must have spent! Look at my palace of Saint-Germain—dilapidated,
dismal; Fontainebleau still unfinished. It is shameful! Fouquet is a
mushroom, who has nourished himself out of my revenues. I can crush
him—I _will_ crush him—destroy him!" and the King stamped his foot
savagely on a pavement of coloured marbles.
"My son, do not speak so loudly," replied the Queen.
At this moment Saint-Aignan appeared ascending the steps from below.
"Where have you been, Duke?" asked Louis sharply.
"A thousand pardons, your Majesty. They searched for me in the wrong
place. You will not, however, have reason to regret my absence," and he
gave the King a look full of meaning, and signed to him to move farther
off from all possibility of listeners. "Sire," continued he, "I have
made a discovery."
"A discovery! Where? What have you found?" and Louis drew closer to him.
"Sire, I fear you have a rival," and Saint-Aignan glanced significantly
at the Duchesse de la Vallière, who sat on a settee behind, not far
from the Queen-mother.
"A rival! Ridiculous! You have been asleep and dreaming, Duke."
"No, Sire; on the faith of a peer of France, no. Your Majesty has a
rival, I repeat."
"What do I care for rivals! I have her heart," and Louis glanced
tenderly at La Vallière.
"But is your Majesty so certain?"
"Certain? Ask me if I live!" exclaimed Louis with warmth. "But tell
me what you mean. Speak, Duke, and speak quickly, for we may be
interrupted."
"Well, Sire, some fairy, who I suppose watches over your interests,
told me to wander over the château and examine the more private
chambers. No one was by. Every one was in the garden with your
Majesty to see the illuminations. At the end of a long gallery, in a
distant part of the house, I came upon a boudoir—such a bijou of a
room!—evidently belonging to Fouquet. On the walls hung the portraits
of some of the fairest ladies of the Court. It is a hall of beauty,
Sire."
"Go on," said Louis impatiently; "I understand."
"Among these beauties, Sire, was—well—there was the lady you honour
with your special attentions—Madame la Duchesse—" and Saint-Aignan
stopped, and again indicated La Vallière, who, unconscious of what was
going on, sat near, her delicate cheek resting on her hand.
"You need mention no names, Saint-Aignan. I tell you, I understand,"
replied the King with evident irritation. "And pray what does it matter
if you did find the portrait of that lady there? I see nothing in it
at all remarkable. No hall of beauty would be complete without her
likeness. Who were the other portraits?"
[Illustration: COLBERT.]
"Ah, Sire, that is precisely the point I am coming to. They were all
portraits of ladies who are or have been the acknowledged mistresses
of Fouquet. If Madame la Duchesse de——"
"I beg you again not to mention any names, Duke," broke in the King
haughtily, a storm gathering on his brow.
"If that lady, Sire, had not resembled the others, why should she have
been there?"
To this somewhat daring question Louis did not vouchsafe a reply.
His countenance darkened into an expression of silent rage. His
eyes glittered as he passed his hand over them. When he spoke there
was doubt, anxiety, as well as anger in his voice and manner. "I am
astonished, I confess," said he, speaking very deliberately. "I am
quite at a loss to explain it. Her portrait is there, you say. It
may be, Saint-Aignan. I cannot doubt your word, but—it is impossible
that——" He paused, and his eyes rested on her guileless face.
"Sire, it is not for me to differ from your Majesty," rejoined
Saint-Aignan, fearful lest he had injured himself in the King's opinion
by his over-frankness; "your superior intellect and far-seeing judgment
will unfold to you mysteries impervious to my grosser comprehension;
but I repeat, in the boudoir of M. Fouquet I saw the portrait of Madame
La Duchesse—I beg your Majesty's pardon—placed among those of ladies
whose relations with him are more than equivocal."
"I will speak to the lady myself. She is ignorant of this, I venture
my life," said Louis, his eyes again fixing themselves wistfully
upon La Vallière. "In the meantime, Duke, I thank you for your zeal
in my service. Now, remember, until our return to Fontainebleau
_silence_—absolute silence—or I shall never forgive you." Louis
placed his finger on his lip—Saint-Aignan, glad to end so perilous
an interview, bowed, and immediately fell back among the crowd of
courtiers who hovered about the King.
Louis's blood boiled within him. He had controlled himself in the
presence of Saint-Aignan, but it was with the greatest difficulty he
could any longer restrain his passion. He longed then and there to call
in the musketeers, and arrest Fouquet on the spot. D'Artagnan and his
followers were at hand; it would have been the work of an instant. At a
loss what to do, and feeling the necessity for some expression of the
violent rage he felt, he approached his mother, Anne of Austria, who
was leaning back in her chair, absorbed in a deep reverie. She was only
present at that dazzling fête in body—her mind was far away. To her the
pomps and vanities of the world were become a mockery and a toil; she
longed for the seclusion of the cloister.
"It is all over," whispered the King, and his voice grated huskily in
her ear; "Fouquet will be arrested to-night."
"What has he done?" asked Anne of Austria.
"I have excellent reasons, my mother; besides, Fouquet may escape to
Belle Isle—here I have him, I hold him!" and Louis, in his seat, shook
his fist in his mother's face.
"You are strangely moved, Louis. I do not know your reasons, but I
advise you, for the sake of your own dignity, to choose a more suitable
moment than during a fête at which you are present in his own house."
"Every time is good to catch a traitor."
"Yes; but, my son, there is such a thing as decorum. The Superintendent
has given you a superb fête, which you have accepted. You are under his
roof; you cannot arrest him while you are his guest. It is out of the
question."
"But, my mother, I have reasons of state."
"Then they must wait. What would the Court—what would France—say to
such an act? Take care, my son, that those who may never know your
justification do not condemn your act. Even _you_ are not above public
opinion."
Louis did not reply, but the Queen-mother perceived that her words had
convinced him.
The Court returned to Fontainebleau in the same order as it came.
A _lettre de cachet_, dated the day after the fête, consigned Fouquet
to the fortress of Pignerol. Louise de la Vallière was enabled to
soothe his Majesty's suspicions, with regard to the portrait, by
assuring him that if his indignation had been aroused, her feelings had
been much more grossly outraged.