“Oh! it is a mere nothing,” replied the poet; “if your creditors will only wait a couple of years, I shall have written a hundred other tales, which, at two editions each, will pay off the debt.”
7
La Fontaine In the Character of a Negotiator
FOUQUET PRESSED LA FONTAINE’S hand most warmly, saying to him, “My dear poet, write a hundred other tales, not only for the eighty pistoles which each of them will produce you, but, still more, to enrich our language with a hundred other masterpieces of composition.”
“Oh! oh!” said La Fontaine, with a little air of pride “you must not suppose that I have only brought this idea and the eighty pistoles to the Surintendant.”
“Oh! indeed,” was the general acclamation from all parts of the room. “M. de la Fontaine is in funds to-day.”
“Heaven bless the idea, if it only brings us one or two millions,” said Fouquet gaily.
“Exactly,” replied La Fontaine.
“Quick, quick!” cried the assembly.
“Take care,” said Pélisson in La Fontaine’s ear; “you have had a most brilliant success up to the present moment, so do not go too far.”
“Not at all, Monsieur Pélisson; and you, who are a man of decided taste, will be the first to approve of what I have done.”
“We are talking of millions, remember,” said Gourville.
“I have fifteen hundred thousand francs here, Monsieur Gourville,” he replied, striking himself on the chest.
“The deuce take this Gascon from Château-Thierry!” cried Loret.
“It is not the pocket you should touch, but the brain,” said Fouquet.
“Stay a moment, Monsieur le Surintendant,” added La Fontaine; “you are not Procureur-Général—you are a poet.”
“True, true!” cried Loret, Conrart, and every person present connected with literature.
“You are, I repeat, a poet, and a painter, a sculptor, a friend of the arts and sciences, but, acknowledge that you are no lawyer.”
“Oh! I do acknowledge it,” replied M. Fouquet smiling.
“If you were to be nominated at the Academy, you would refuse, I think.”
“I think I should, with all due deference to the academicians.”
“Very good; if therefore you do not wish to belong to the Academy, why do you allow yourself to form one of the Parliament?”
“Oh! oh!” said Pélisson, “we are talking politics.”
“I wish to know whether the barrister’s gown does or does not become M. Fouquet.”
“There is no question of the gown at all,” retorted Pélisson, annoyed at the laughter of those who were present.
“On the contrary, it is the gown,” said Loret.
“Take the gown away from the Procureur-Général,” said Conrart, “and we have M. Fouquet left us still, of whom we have no reason to complain; but, as he is no Procureur-Général without his gown, we agree with M. de la Fontaine, and pronounce the gown to be nothing but a bugbear.”
“Fugiunt risus leporesque,” said Loret.
“The smiles and the graces,” said some one present.
“That is not the way,” said Pélisson gravely, “that I translate lepores.”
“How do you translate it?” said La Fontaine.
“Thus: The hares run away as soon as they see M. Fouquet.” A burst of laughter, in which the Surintendant joined, followed this sally.
“But why hares?” objected Conrart, vexed.
“Because the hare will be the very one who will not be over-pleased to see M. Fouquet surrounded by all the attributes which his Parliamentary strength and power confer on him.”
“Oh! oh!” murmured the poets.
“Quo non ascendant,” said Conrart, “seems impossible to me, when one is fortunate enough to wear the gown of the Procureur-General.”
“On the contrary, it seems so to me without that gown,” said the obstinate Pélisson; “what is your opinion, Gourville?”
“I think the gown in question is a very good thing,” replied the latter; “but I equally think a million and a half is far better than the gown.”
“And I am of Gourville’s opinion,” exclaimed Fouquet, stopping the discussion by the expression of his own opinion, which would necessarily bear down all the others.
“A million and a half,” Pélisson grumbled out; “now I happen to know an Indian fable—”
“Tell it me,” said La Fontaine; “I ought to know it, too.”
“Tell it, tell it,” said the others.
‘There was a tortoise, which was as usual well protected by its shell,” said Pélisson; “whenever its enemies threatened it, it took refuge within its covering. One day some one said to it, ‘You must feel very hot in such a house as that in the summer, and you are altogether prevented showing off your graces; there is a snake here, who will give you a million and a half for your shell.’ ”
“Good!” said the Surintendant, laughing.
“Well, what next?” said La Fontaine, much more interested in the apologue than its moral.
“The tortoise sold his shell and remained naked and defenceless. A vulture happened to see him and, being hungry, broke the tortoise’s back with a blow of his beak and devoured it. The moral is, that M. Fouquet should take very good care to keep his gown.”
La Fontaine understood the moral seriously. “You forget Eschylus,” he said to his adversary.
“What do you mean?”
“Eschylus was bald-headed, and a vulture—your vulture probably—who was a great amateur in tortoises, mistook at a distance his head for a block of stone, and let a tortoise, which was shrunk up in his shell, fall upon it.”
“Yes, yes, La Fontaine is right,” resumed Fouquet, who had become very thoughtful; “whenever a vulture wishes to devour a tortoise, he well knows how to break his shell; and but too happy is that tortoise which a snake pays a million and a half for his envelope. If any one were to bring me a generous-hearted snake like the one in your fable, Pélisson, I would give him my shell.”
“Rara avis interris!” cried Conrart.
“And like a black swan, is he not?” added La Fontaine; “well, then, the bird in question, black and very rare, is already found.”
“Do you mean to say that you have found a purchaser for my post of procureur-général?” exclaimed Fouquet.
“I have, monsieur.”
“But the Surintendant never said that he wished to sell,” resumed Pélisson.
“I beg your pardon,” said Conrart, “you yourself spoke about it, even—”
“Yes, I am a witness to that,” said Gourville.
“He seems very tenacious about his brilliant idea,” said Fouquet, laughing. “Well, La Fontaine, who is the purchaser?”
“A perfectly black bird, for he is a counsellor belonging to the Parliament, an excellent fellow.”
“What is his name?”
“Vanel.”
“Vanel!” exclaimed Fouquet, “Vanel, the husband of—”
“Precisely, her husband; yes, monsieur.”
“Poor fellow!” said Fouquet, with an expression of great interest.
“He wishes to be everything that you have been, monsieur,” said Gourvile, “and to do everything that you have done.”
“It is very agreeable; tell us all about it, La Fontaine.”
“It is very simple. I see him occasionally, and a short time ago I met him, walking about on the Place de la Bastille, at the very moment when I was about to take the small carriage to come down here to Saint-Mandé.”
“He must have been watching his wife,” interrupted Loret.
“Oh, no!” said Fouquet, “he is far from being jealous. He accosted me, embraced me, and took me to the inn called L’Image Saint-Fiacre, and told me all about his troubles.”
“He has his troubles, then?”
“Yes; his wife wants to make him ambitious.”
“Well, and he told you—”
“That some one had sp
oken to him about a post in the Parliament; that M. Fouquet’s name had been mentioned; that ever since, Madame Vanel dreams of nothing else but being called Madame le Procureuse-Générale, and that it makes her ill and keeps her awake every night she does not dream of it.”
“The deuce!”
“Poor woman!” said Fouquet.
“Wait a moment. Conrart is always telling me that I do not know how to conduct matters of business; you will see how I managed this one.”
“Well, go on.”
“‘I suppose you know,’ said I to Vanel, ‘that the value of a post such as that which M. Fouquet holds is by no means trifling.’ ”
“‘How much do you imagine it to be?’ he said.”
“‘M. Fouquet, I know, has refused seventeen hundred thousand francs.’”
“‘My wife,’ replied Vanel, ‘had estimated it at about fourteen hundred thousand.’”
“‘Ready money?’ I asked.”
“‘Yes; she has sold some property of hers in Guienne, and has received the purchase-money.’ ”
“That’s a pretty sum to touch all at once,” said the Abbé Fouquet, who had not hitherto said a word.
“Poor Madame Vanel!” murmured Fouquet. Pélisson shrugged his shoulders, as he whispered in Fouquet’s ear, “That woman is a perfect fiend.”
“That may be; and it will be delightful to make use of this fiend’s money to repair the injury which an angel has done herself for me.”
Pélisson looked with a surprised air at Fouquet, whose thoughts were from that moment fixed upon a fresh object in view.
“Well!” inquired La Fontaine, “what about my negotiation?”
“Admirable, my dear poet.”
“Yes,” said Gourville; “but there are some people who are anxious to have the steed who have not money enough to pay for the bridle.”
“And Vanel would draw back from his offer if he were to be taken at his word,” continued the Abbé Fouquet.
“I do not believe it,” said La Fontaine.
“What do you know about it?”
“Why, you have not yet heard the dénouement of my story.”
“If there is a dénouement why do you beat about the bush so much?”
“Semper ad eventum. Is that correct?” said Fouquet, with the air of a nobleman who condescends to barbarisms. To which the Latinists present answered with loud applause.
“My dénouement,” cried La Fontaine, “is, that Vanel, that determined blackbird, knowing that I was coming to Saint-Mandé, implored me to bring him with me, and, if possible, to present him to M. Fouquet.”
“So that—”
“So that he is here; I left him in that part of the grounds called Bel-Air. Well, M. Fouquet, what is your reply?”
“Well, it is not respectful towards Madame Vanel that her husband should run the risk of catching cold outside my house; send for him, La Fontaine, since you know where he is.”
“I will go there myself.”
“And I will accompany you,” said the Abbé Fouquet; “I can carry the money bags.”
“No jesting,” said Fouquet seriously; “let the business be a serious one, if it is to be one at all. But first of all, let us show we are hospitable. Make my apologies, La Fontaine, to M. Vanel, and tell him how distressed I am to have kept him waiting, but that I was not aware he was there.”
La Fontaine set off at once, fortunately accompanied by Gourville, for, absorbed in his own calculations, the poet would have mistaken the route, and was hurrying as fast as he could towards the village of Saint-Mandé. Within a quarter of an hour afterwards, M. Vanel was introduced into the Surintendant’s cabinet. When Fouquet saw him enter, he called to Pélisson, and whispered a few words in his ear. “Do not lose a word of what I am going to say: let all the silver and gold plate, together with the jewels of every description, be packed up in the carriage. You will take the black horses; the jeweller will accompany you; and you will postpone the supper until Madame de Bellière’s arrival.”
“Will it be necessary to inform Madame de Bellière of it?” said Pélisson.
“No; that will be useless; I will do that. So, away with you, my dear friend.”
Pélisson set off, not quite clear as to his friend’s meaning or intention, but confident, like every true friend, in the judgment of the man he was blindly obeying. It is that which constitutes the strength of such men; distrust only arises in the minds of inferior natures.
Vanel bowed low to the Surintendant, and was about to begin a speech.
“Do not trouble yourself, monsieur,” said Fouquet politely; “I am told that you wish to purchase a post I hold. How much can you give me for it?”
“It is for you, monseigneur, to fix the amount you require. I know that offers of purchase have already been made to you for it.”
“Madame Vanel, I have been told, values it at fourteen hundred thousand livres.”
“That is all we have.”
“Can you give me the money immediately?”
“I have not the money with me,” said Vanel, frightened almost by the unpretending simplicity, amounting to greatness, of the man, for he had expected disputes, and difficulties, and opposition of every kind.
“When will you be able to have it?”
“Whenever you please, monseigneur”; for he began to be afraid that Fouquet was trifling with him.
“If it were not for the trouble you would have in returning to Paris, I would say at once; but we will arrange that the payment and the signature shall take place at six o’clock to-morrow morning.”
“Very good,” said Vanel, as cold as ice, and feeling quite bewildered.
“Adieu, Monsieur Vanel, present my humble respects to Madame Vanel,” said Fouquet, as he rose; upon which Vanel, who felt the blood rushing up to his head, for he was quite confounded by his success, said seriously to the Surintendant, “Will you give me your word, monseigneur, upon this affair?”
Fouquet turned round his head, saying “Pardieu, and you, monsieur?”
Vanel hesitated, trembled all over, and at last finished by hesitatingly holding out his hand. Fouquet opened and nobly extended his own; this loyal hand lay for a moment in Vanel’s moist hypocritical palm, and he pressed it in his own, in order the better to convince himself of its truth. The Surintendant gently disengaged his hand as he again said “Adieu.” And then Vanel ran hastily to the door, hurried along the vestibules, and fled away as quickly as he could.
8
Madame de Belliere’s Plate and Diamonds
HARDLY HAD FOUQUET DISMISSED Vanel, than he began to reflect for a few moments:—“A man never can do too much for the woman he has once loved. Marguerite wishes to be the wife of a procureur-général—and why not confer this pleasure upon her? And, now that the most scrupulous and sensitive conscience will be unable to reproach me with anything, let my thoughts be bestowed on her who has shown so much devotion for me. Madame de Bellière ought to be there by this time,” he said, as he turned towards the secret door.
After he had locked himself in, he opened the subterranean passage, and rapidly hastened towards the means of communicating between the house at Vincennes and his own residence. He had neglected to apprise his friend of his approach, by ringing the bell, perfectly assured that she would never fail to be exact at the rendezvous; as, indeed, was the case, for she was already waiting. The noise the Surintendant made aroused her; she ran to take from under the door the letter that he had thrust there, and which simply said, “Come, marquise; we are waiting supper for you.” With her heart filled with happiness Madame de Bellière ran to her carriage in the Avenue de Vincennes, and in a few minutes she was holding out her hand to Gourville, who was standing at the entrance, where, in order the better to please his master, he had stationed himself to watch her arrival. She had not observed that Fouquet’s black horses had arrived at the same time, smoking and covered with foam, having returned to Saint-Mandé with Pélisson and the very jeweller to whom Madame de
Bellière had sold her plate and her jewels. Pélisson introduced the goldsmith into the cabinet, which Fouquet had not yet left. The Surintendant thanked him for having been good enough to regard as a simple deposit in his hands the valuable property which he had every right to sell; and he cast his eyes on the total of the account, which amounted to thirteen hundred thousand francs. Then, going for a few moments to his desk, he wrote an order for fourteen hundred thousand francs, payable at sight, at his treasury, before twelve o’clock the next day.
“A hundred thousand francs profit!” cried the goldsmith. “Oh, monseigneur, what generosity!”
“Nay, nay, not so, monsieur,” said Fouquet, touching him on the shoulder; “there are certain kindnesses which can never be repaid. The profit is about that which you would have made; but the interest of your money still remains to be arranged.” And, saying this, he unfastened from his sleeve a diamond button, which the goldsmith himself had often valued at three thousand pistoles. “Take this,” he said to the goldsmith, “in remembrance of me. And farewell; you are an honest man.”
“And you, monseigneur,” cried the goldsmith, completely overcome, “are the noblest man that ever lived.”
Fouquet let the worthy goldsmith pass out of the room by a secret door, and then went to receive Madame de Bellière, who was already surrounded by all the guests. The Marquise was always beautiful, but now her loveliness was more dazzling than ever. “Do you not think, gentlemen,” said Fouquet, “that Madame is more than usually beautiful this evening? And do you happen to know why?”
“Because Madame is really the most beautiful of all women,” said some one present.
“No; but because she is the best. And yet—”
“Yet?” said the Marquise, smiling.
“And yet, all the jewels which Madame is wearing this evening are nothing but false stones.” At this remark the Marquise blushed most painfully.
“Oh, oh!” exclaimed all the guests, “that can very well be said of one who has the finest diamonds in Paris.”
“Well?” said Fouquet to Pélisson, in a low tone.
“Well, at last I have understood you,” returned the latter; “and you have done excellently well.”
Man in the Iron Mask (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 10