CHAPTER LXXXVII.
NECTAR AND AMBROSIA.
M. Fouquet held the stirrup of the king, who, having dismounted, bowedmost graciously, and more graciously still held out his hand to him,which Fouquet, in spite of a slight resistance on the king's part,carried respectfully to his lips. The king wished to wait in the firstcourtyard for the arrival of the carriages, nor had he long to wait, forthe roads had been put into excellent order by the surintendant, and astone would hardly have been found of the size of an egg the whole wayfrom Melun to Vaux; so that the carriages, rolling along as though on acarpet, brought the ladies to Vaux, without jolting or fatigue, by eighto'clock. They were received by Madame Fouquet, and at the moment thesemade their appearance, a light as bright as day burst forth from all thetrees, and vases, and marble statues. This species of enchantment lasteduntil their majesties had retired into the palace. All these wonders andmagical effects which the chronicler has heaped up, or rather,preserved, in his recital, at the risk of rivaling the creations of aromancist; these splendors whereby night seemed conquered and naturecorrected; together with every delight and luxury combined for thesatisfaction of all the senses, as well as of the mind, Fouquet did inreal truth offer to his sovereign in that enchanting retreat of which nomonarch could at that time boast of possessing an equal. We do notintend to describe the grand banquet, at which all the royal guests werepresent, nor the concerts, nor the fairy-like and magicaltransformations and metamorphoses; it will be more than enough for ourpurpose to depict the countenance which the king assumed, and which,from being gay, soon wore a gloomy, constrained, and irritatedexpression. He remembered his own residence, royal though it was, andthe mean and indifferent style of luxury which prevailed there, andwhich comprised only that which was merely useful for the royal wants,without being his own personal property. The large vases of the Louvre,the old furniture and plate of Henry II., of Francis I., of Louis XI.,were merely historical monuments of earlier days; they were nothing butspecimens of art, the relics of his predecessors; while with Fouquet,the value of the article was as much in the workmanship as in thearticle itself. Fouquet ate from a gold service, which artists in hisown employ had modeled and cast for himself alone. Fouquet drank winesof which the king of France did not even know the name, and drank themout of goblets each more precious than the whole royal cellar.
What, too, can be said of the apartments, the hangings, the pictures,the servants and officers, of every description, of his household? Whatcan be said of the mode of service in which etiquette was replaced byorder; stiff formality by personal, unrestrained comfort; the happinessand contentment of the guest became the supreme law of all who obeyedthe host. The perfect swarm of busily engaged persons moving aboutnoiselessly; the multitude of guests--who were, however, even lessnumerous than the servants who waited on them--the myriads ofexquisitely prepared dishes, of gold and silver vases; the floods ofdazzling light, the masses of unknown flowers of which the hot-houseshad been despoiled, and which were redundant with all the luxuriance ofunequaled beauty; the perfect harmony of everything which surroundedthem, and which indeed was no more than the prelude of the promisedfete, more than charmed all who were there, and who testified theiradmiration over and over again, not by voice or gesture, but by deepsilence and rapt attention, those two languages of the courtier whichacknowledge the hand of no master powerful enough to restrain them.
As for the king, his eyes filled with tears; he dared not look at thequeen. Anne of Austria, whose pride, as it ever had been, was superiorto that of any creature breathing, overwhelmed her host by the contemptwith which she treated everything handed to her. The young queen,kind-hearted by nature and curious by disposition, praised Fouquet, atewith an exceedingly good appetite, and asked the names of the differentfruits which were placed upon the table. Fouquet replied that he was notaware of their names. The fruits came from his own stores: he had oftencultivated them himself, having an intimate acquaintance with thecultivation of exotic fruits and plants. The king felt and appreciatedthe delicacy of the reply, but was only the more humiliated at it; hethought that the queen was a little too familiar in her manners, andthat Anne of Austria resembled Juno a little too much, in being tooproud and haughty; his chief anxiety, however, was himself, that hemight remain cold and distant in his behavior, bordering slightly on thelimits of extreme disdain or of simple admiration.
But Fouquet had foreseen all that; he was, in fact, one of those men whoforesee everything. The king had expressly declared that so long as heremained under M. Fouquet's roof he did not wish his own differentrepasts to be served in accordance with the usual etiquette, and that hewould, consequently, dine with the rest of the society; but by thethoughtful attention of the surintendant, the king's dinner was servedup separately, if one may so express it, in the middle of the generaltable; the dinner, wonderful in every respect, from the dishes of whichit was composed, comprised everything the king liked, and which hegenerally preferred to anything else. Louis had no excuse--he, indeed,who had the keenest appetite in his kingdom--for saying that he was nothungry. Nay, M. Fouquet even did better still; he certainly, inobedience to the king's expressed desire, seated himself at the table,but as soon as the soups were served, he rose and personally waited onthe king, while Madame Fouquet stood behind the queen-mother's armchair.The disdain of Juno and the sulky fits of temper of Jupiter could notresist this excess of kindly feeling and polite attention. The queen atea biscuit dipped in a glass of San-Lucar wine; and the king ate ofeverything, saying to M. Fouquet: "It is impossible, Monsieur leSurintendant, to dine better anywhere." Whereupon the whole court began,on all sides, to devour the dishes spread before them, with suchenthusiasm that it looked like a cloud of Egyptian locusts settling downupon the uncut crops.
As soon, however, as his hunger was appeased, the king became dull andgloomy again; the more so in proportion to the satisfaction he fanciedhe had manifested, and particularly on account of the deferential mannerwhich his courtiers had shown toward Fouquet. D'Artagnan, who ate a gooddeal and drank but little, without allowing it to be noticed, did notlose a single opportunity, but made a great number of observations whichhe turned to good profit.
When the supper was finished, the king expressed a wish not to lose thepromenade. The park was illuminated; the moon, too as if she had placedherself at the orders of the Lord of Vaux, silvered the trees and lakeswith her bright phosphoric light. The air was soft and balmy; thegraveled walks through the thickly set avenues yielded luxuriously tothe feet. The fete was complete in every respect, for the king, havingmet La Valliere in one of the winding paths of the wood, was able topress her by the hand and say, "I love you," without any one overhearinghim except M. d'Artagnan who followed, and M. Fouquet who preceded him.
The night of magical enchantments stole on. The king having requested tobe shown his room, there was immediately a movement in every direction.The queens passed to their own apartments, accompanied by the music oftheorbos and lutes; the king found his musketeers awaiting him on thegrand flight of steps, for M. Fouquet had brought them on from Melun,and had invited them to supper. D'Artagnan's suspicions at oncedisappeared. He was weary, he had supped well, and wished, for once inhis life, thoroughly to enjoy a fete given by a man who was in everysense of the word a king. "M. Fouquet," he said, "is the man for me."
The king was conducted with the greatest ceremony to the chamber ofMorpheus, of which we owe some slight description to our readers. It wasthe handsomest and the largest in the palace. Lebrun had painted on thevaulted ceiling the happy, as well as disagreeable, dreams with whichMorpheus affects kings as well as other men. Everything that sleep givesbirth to that is lovely, its perfumes, its flowers and nectar, the wildvoluptuousness or deep repose of the senses, had the painter enrichedwith his frescoes. It was a composition as soft and pleasing in one partas dark and gloomy and terrible in another. The poisoned chalice, theglittering dagger suspended over the head of the sleeper; wizards andphantoms with hideous masks, those half di
m shadows, more terrific thanthe brightness of flame or the blackness of night; these, and such asthese, he had made the companions of his more pleasing pictures. Nosooner had the king entered the room than a cold shiver seemed to passthrough him, and on Fouquet asking him the cause of it, the kingreplied, as pale as death:
"I am sleepy, that is all."
"Does your majesty wish for your attendants at once."
"No; I have to talk with a few persons first," said the king. "Will youhave the goodness to tell M. Colbert I wish to see him." Fouquet bowedand left the room.
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