This magnificent palace had been got ready for the reception of the greatest reigning sovereign of the time. M. Fouquet’s friends had transported thither, some their actors and their dresses, others their troops of sculptors and artists; not forgetting others with their ready-mended pens,—floods of impromptus were contemplated. The cascades, somewhat rebellious, nymphs though they were, poured forth their waters brighter and clearer than crystal; they scattered over the bronze tritons and nereids their waves of foam, which glistened like fire in the rays of the sun. An army of servants were hurrying to and fro in squadrons in the courtyard and corridors; while Fouquet, who had only that morning arrived, walked all through the palace with a calm, observant glance, in order to give his last orders, after his intendants had inspected everything.
It was the 15th of August. The sun poured down its burning rays upon the heathen deities of marble and bronze; it raised the temperature of the water in the conch shells, and ripened on the walls, those magnificent peaches, of which the King, fifty years later, spoke so regretfully, when, at Marly, on an occasion of a scarcity of the finer sorts of peaches being complained of, in the beautiful gardens there—gardens which had cost France double the amount that had been expended on Vaux,—the great King observed to someone, “You are far too young to have eaten any of M. Fouquet’s peaches.”
Oh! fame! Oh! the blazonry of renown! Oh! the glory of this earth! That very man whose judgment was so sound and accurate where merit was concerned—he who had swept into his coffers the inheritance of Nicholas Fouquet, who had robbed him of Lenôtre and Lebrun, and had sent him to rot for the remainder of his life in one of the state prisons—merely remembered the peaches of that vanquished, crushed, forgotten enemy. It was to little purpose that Fouquet had squandered thirty millions of francs in the fountains of his gardens, in the crucibles of his sculptors, in the writing desks of his literary friends, in the portfolios of his painters; vainly had he fancied that thereby he might be remembered. A peach—a blushing, rich-flavoured fruit, nestling in the trellis-work on the garden-wall, hidden beneath its long, green leaves,—this small vegetable production, that a dormouse would nibble up without a thought, was sufficient to recall to the memory of this great monarch the mournful shade of the last surintendant of France.
With a perfect reliance that Aramis had made arrangements fairly to distribute the vast number of guests throughout the palace, and that he had not omitted to attend to any of the internal regulations for their comfort, Fouquet devoted his entire attention to the ensemble alone; in one direction Gourville showed him the preparations which had been made for the fireworks; in another, Molière led him over the theatre; at last, after he had visited the chapel, the salons, and the galleries, and was again going downstairs, exhausted with fatigue, Fouquet saw Aramis on the staircase. The prelate beckoned to him. The Surintendant joined his friend, and, with him, paused before a large picture scarcely finished. Applying himself heart and soul to his work, the painter, Lebrun, covered with perspiration, stained with paints, pale from fatigue and inspiration of genius, was putting the last finishing touches with his rapid brush. It was the portrait of the King, whom they were expecting, dressed in the court-suit which Percerin had condescended to show beforehand to the Bishop of Vannes. Fouquet placed himself before this portrait, which seemed to live, as one might say, in the cool freshness of its flesh, and in its warmth of colour. He gazed upon it long and fixedly, estimated the prodigious labour that had been bestowed upon it, and, not being able to find any recompense sufficiently great for this Herculean effort, he passed his arm round the painter’s neck, and embraced him. The Surintendant, by this action, had utterly ruined a suit of clothes worth a thousand pistoles, but he had satisfied, more than satisfied, Lebrun. It was a happy moment for the artist; it was an unhappy one for M. Percerin, who was walking behind Fouquet, and was engaged in admiring, in Lebrun’s painting, the suit that he had had made for His Majesty, a perfect objet d’art, as he called it, which was not to be matched except in the wardrobe of the Surintendant. His distress and his exclamations were interrupted by a signal which had been given from the summit of the mansion. In the direction of Mélun, in the still empty, open plain, the sentinels of Vaux had perceived the advancing procession of the King and the Queens. His Majesty was entering into Mélun, with his long train of carriages and cavaliers.
“In an hour—” said Aramis to Fouquet.
“In an hour!” replied the latter, sighing.
“And the people who ask one another what is the good of these royal fêtes!” continued the Bishop of Vannes, laughing, with his false smile.
“Alas! I, too, who am not the people, ask the same thing.”
“I will answer you in four-and-twenty hours, monseigneur. Assume a cheerful countenance, for it should be a day of true rejoicing.”
“Well, believe me or not, as you like, d’Herblay,” said the Surintendant, with a swelling heart, pointing at the cortège of Louis, visible in the horizon, “he certainly loves me but very little, nor do I care much for him; but I cannot tell you how it is, that since he is approaching towards my house—”
“Well, what?”
“Well, then, since I know he is on his way here, as my guest, he is more sacred than ever for me; he is my acknowledged sovereign, and as such is very dear to me.”
“Dear? yes,” said Aramis, playing upon the word, as the Abbé Terrayab did, at a later period, with Louis XV.
“Do not laugh, d’Herblay; I feel that if he were really to wish it, I could love that young man.”
“You should not say that to me,” returned Aramis, “but rather to M. Colbert.”
“To M. Colbert!” exclaimed Fouquet. “Why so?”
“Because he would allow you a pension out of the King’s privy purse, as soon as he becomes Surintendant,” said Aramis, preparing to leave as soon as he had dealt this last blow.
“Where are you going?” returned Fouquet, with gloomy look.
“To my own apartment, in order to change my costume, monseigneur.”
“Whereabouts are you lodging, d’Herblay?”
“In the blue room on the second storey.”
“The room immediately over the King’s room?”
“Precisely.”
“You will be subject to very great restraint there. What an idea to condemn yourself to a room where you cannot stir or move about.”
“During the night, monseigneur, I sleep or read in my bed.”
“And your servants?”
“I have only one person with me. I find my reader quite sufficient. Adieu, monseigneur; do not overfatigue yourself; keep yourself fresh for the arrival of the King.”
“We shall see you by-and-by, I suppose, and shall see our friend du Vallon also?”
“He is lodging next to me, and is at this moment dressing.”
And Fouquet, bowing, with a smile, passed on like a commander-in-chief who pays the different outposts a visit after the enemy has been signalled in sight.
40
The Wine of Mélun
THE KING HAD, IN point of fact, entered Mélun with the intention of merely passing through the city. The youthful monarch was most eagerly anxious for amusements; only twice during the journey had he been able to catch a glimpse of La Vallière, and, suspecting that his only opportunity of speaking to her would be after nightfall, in the gardens, and after the ceremonial of reception had been gone through, he had been very desirous to arrive at Vaux as early as possible. But he reckoned without his captain of the musketeers, and without M. Colbert. Like Calypso, who could not be consoled at the departure of Ulysses, our Gascon could not control himself for not having guessed why Aramis had asked Percerin to show him the King’s new costumes. “There is not a doubt,” he said to himself, “that my friend the Bishop of Vannes had some motive in that;” and then he began to rack his brains most uselessly. D‘Artagnan, so intimately acquainted with all the court intrigues, who knew the position of Fouquet better even than F
ouquet himself did, had conceived the strangest fancies and suspicions at the announcement of the fêtes, which would have ruined a wealthy man, and which became impossible—utter madness, even,—for a man so destitute as he was. And then, the presence of Aramis, who had returned from Belle-Isle, and been nominated by Monsieur Fouquet inspector-general of all the arrangements; his perseverance in mixing himself up with all the Surintendant’s affairs; his visits to Baisemeaux; —all this suspicious singularity of conduct had excessively troubled and tormented d’Artagnan during the last several weeks.
“With men of Aramis’s stamp,” he said, “one is never the stronger except sword in hand. So long as Aramis continued a soldier, there was hope of getting the better of him; but since he has covered his cuirass with a stole, we are lost. But what can Aramis’s object possibly be?” And d‘Artagnan plunged again into deep thought. “What does it matter to me, after all,” he continued, “if his only object is to overthrow M. Colbert? And what else can he be after?” And d’Artagnan rubbed his forehead—that fertile land—whence the ploughshare of his nails had turned up so many and such admirable ideas in his time. He, at first, thought of talking the matter over with Colbert, but his friendship for Aramis, the oath of earlier days, bound him too strictly. He revolted at the bare idea of such a thing, and, besides, he hated the financier too cordially. Then again, he wished to unburden his mind to the King; but yet the King would not be able to understand the suspicions, which had not even a shadow of reality at their base. He resolved to address himself to Aramis, directly, the first time he met him. “I will take him,” said the musketeer, “between a couple of candles, suddenly, and when he least expects it, I will place my hand upon his heart, and he will tell me—What will he tell me? Yes, he will tell me something, for, mordioux! there is something in it, I know.”
Somewhat calmer, d’Artagnan made every preparation for the journey, and took the greatest care that the military household of the King, as yet very inconsiderable in numbers, should be well officered and well disciplined in its meagre and limited proportions. The result was that through the captain’s arrangements, the King, on arriving at Mélun, saw himself at the head of the musketeers, his Swiss guards, as well as a picket of the French guards. It might almost have been called a small army. M. Colbert looked at the troops with great delight; he even wished there had been a third more in number.
“But why?” said the King.
“In order to show greater honour to M. Fouquet,” replied Colbert.
“In order to ruin him the sooner,” thought d’Artagnan.
When this little army appeared before Mélun, the chief magistrates came out to meet the King, and to present him with the keys of the city, and invited him to enter the Hotel de Ville, in order to partake of the wine of honour. The King, who expected to pass through the city and to proceed to Vaux without delay, became quite red in the face from vexation.
“Who was fool enough to occasion this delay?” muttered the King between his teeth, as the chief magistrate was in the middle of a long address.
“Not I, certainly,” replied d’Artagnan, “but I believe it was M. Colbert.”
Colbert, having heard his name pronounced, said, “What was M. d’Artagnan good enough to say?”
“I was good enough to remark, that it was you who stopped the King’s progress, so that he might taste the vin de Brie. Was I right?”
“Quite so, monsieur.”
“In that case, then, it was you whom the King called some name or other.”
“What name?”
“I hardly know; but wait a moment—idiot, I think it was—no, no, it was fool or stupid. Yes; His Majesty said that the man who had thought of the vin de Mélun was something of the sort.”
D‘Artagnan, after this broadside, quietly caressed his moustache; M. Colbert’s large head seemed to become larger and larger than ever. D’Artagnan, seeing how ugly anger made him, did not stop half-way. The orator still went on with his speech, while the King’s colour was visibly increasing.
“Mordioux!” said the musketeer coolly, “the King is going to have an attack of determination of blood to the head. Where the deuce did you get hold of that idea, Monsieur Colbert? You have no luck.”
“Monsieur,” said the financier, drawing himself up, “my zeal for the King’s service inspired me with the idea.”
“Bah!”
“Monsieur, Mélun is a city, an excellent city, which pays well, and which it would be imprudent to displease.”
“There, now; I, who do not pretend to be a financier, saw only one idea in your idea.”
“What was that, monsieur?”
“That of causing a little annoyance to M. Fouquet, who is making himself quite giddy on his donjons yonder, in waiting for us.”
This was a home-stroke, hard enough in all conscience. Colbert was completely thrown out of the saddle by it, and retired, thoroughly discomfited. Fortunately, the speech was now at an end; the King drank the wine which was presented to him, and then every one resumed the progress through the city. The King bit his lips in anger, for the evening was closing in, and all hope of a walk with La Vallière was at an end. In order that the whole of the King’s household should enter Vaux, four hours at least were necessary, owing to the different arrangements. The King, therefore, who was boiling with impatience, hurried forward as much as possible, in order to reach it before nightfall. But, at the moment he was setting off again, other and fresh difficulties arose.
“Is not the King going to sleep at Mélun?” said Colbert, in a low tone of voice to d’Artagnan.
M. Colbert must have been badly inspired that day, to address himself in that manner to the chief of the musketeers; for the latter guessed that the King’s intention was very far from that of remaining where he was. D‘Artagnan would not allow him to enter Vaux except he were well and strongly accompanied; and desired that His Majesty would not enter except with all the escort. On the other hand, he felt that these delays would irritate that impatient character beyond measure. In what way could he possibly reconcile these two difficulties? D’Artagnan took up Colbert’s remark, and determined to repeat it to the King.
“Sire,” he said, “M. Colbert has been asking me if your Majesty does not intend to sleep at Mélun.”
“Sleep at Mélun? What for?” exclaimed Louis XIV. “Sleep at Mélun! Who, in Heaven’s name, can have thought of such a thing, when M. Fouquet is expecting us this evening?”
“It was simply,” returned Colbert quickly, “the fear of causing your Majesty any delay; for, according to established etiquette, you cannot enter any place, with the exception of your own royal residences, until the soldiers’ quarters have been marked out by the quarter-master, and the garrison properly distributed.”
D‘Artagnan listened with the greatest attention, biting his moustache to conceal his vexation; and the Queens listened attentively also. They were fatigued, and would have liked to have gone to rest without proceeding any farther; and especially, in order to prevent the King walking about in the evening with M. de Saint-Aignan and the ladies of the court; for, if etiquette required the Princesses to remain within their own rooms, the ladies in waiting, as soon as they had performed the services required of them, had no restriction placed upon them, but were at liberty to walk about as they pleased. It will easily be conjectured that all these rival interests, gathering together in vapours, must necessarily produce clouds, and that the clouds would be followed by a tempest. The King had no moustache to gnaw, and therefore kept biting the handle of his whip instead, with ill-concealed impatience. How could he get out of it? D’Artagnan looked as agreeable as possible, and Colbert as sulky as he could. Whom was there he could get in a passion with?
Man in the Iron Mask (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 37