Part 32

— My God!

— The faithful, on the contrary, treasure such secrets preciously; then, one day, they come to their queen and say: 'Madame, I am growing old, I feel ill; there is danger of death for me, danger of revelation for the secret of Your Majesty; take then this dangerous paper and burn it yourself.'

— A dangerous paper! Which one?

— As for me, I have but one, it is true, but it is quite dangerous.

— Oh! duchess, speak, speak!

— It is this note... dated August 2, 1644, in which you recommended that I go to Noisy-le-Sec to see that dear and unhappy child. There is this in your hand, madame: 'Dear unhappy child.'

A deep silence fell at that moment: the queen was sounding the abyss, Mme de Chevreuse was laying her snare.

— Yes, unhappy, most unhappy! murmured Anne of Austria; what a sad life that poor child led, to end in so cruel a fate!

— He is dead? cried the duchess with a curiosity whose sincere accent the queen avidly seized upon.

— Dead of consumption, dead forgotten, withered, dead like those poor flowers given by a lover and which the mistress lets perish in a drawer to hide them from all the world.

— Dead! repeated the duchess with an air of discouragement which would have greatly rejoiced the queen, had it not been tempered by a mixture of doubt. Dead at Noisy-le-Sec?

— But yes, in the arms of his governor, a poor honest servant, who did not long survive him.

— That is understandable: such a mourning and such a secret are so heavy to bear.

The queen did not trouble herself to note the irony of this reflection. Mme de Chevreuse continued.

— Well! madame, I inquired, some years ago, at Noisy-le-Sec itself, as to the fate of that most unhappy child. I was told that he was not thought to be dead, which is why I did not at first grieve with Your Majesty. Oh! certainly, had I believed it, never would an allusion to that deplorable event have come to awaken the most legitimate sorrows of Your Majesty.

— You say the child was not thought to be dead at Noisy?

— No, madame.

— What then was said of him?

— It was said... No doubt they were mistaken.

— Speak nevertheless.

— It was said that one evening, around 1645, a beautiful and majestic lady, which was remarked despite the mask and mantle that concealed her, a lady of high quality, of very high quality no doubt, had come in a carriage to the crossroads, the same, you know, where I awaited news of the young prince, when Your Majesty deigned to send me there.

— Well?

— And that the governor had taken the child to that lady.

— After?

— The next day, governor and child had left the country.

— You see well! there is truth in that, since, indeed, the poor child died of one of those strokes of lightning which cause that, up to seven years, according to physicians, the life of children hangs by a thread.

— Oh! what Your Majesty says is the truth; none knows it better than you, madame; none believes it more than I. But admire the strangeness...

'What now?' thought the queen.

— The person who had reported these details to me, who had gone to inquire after the child's health, this person...

— You had entrusted such a care to someone? Oh! duchess!

— Someone as mute as Your Majesty, as myself; let us say it was myself, madame. This someone, I say, passing some time after through Touraine...

— In Touraine?

— Recognized the governor and the child, pardon! thought to recognize them, both alive, both gay and happy and flourishing, the one in his green old age, the other in his blooming youth! Judge, from that, what are the rumors that circulate, have faith then, after that, in anything that happens in this world. But I weary Your Majesty. Oh! that is not my intention, and I shall take my leave of her after renewing to her the assurance of my respectful devotion.

— Stay, duchess; let us speak a little of you.

— Of me? Oh! madame, do not lower your gaze so far.

— Why not? Are you not my oldest friend? Do you bear me a grudge, duchess?

— I! my God, for what reason? Should I have come near Your Majesty, if I had cause to resent her?

— Duchess, the years overtake us; we must draw close against the death that threatens.

— Madame, you overwhelm me with these sweet words.

— None has ever loved me, served me as you have, duchess.

— Your Majesty remembers?

— Always... Duchess, a proof of friendship.

— Ah! madame, my whole being belongs to Your Majesty.

— This proof, let us see!

— Which?

— Ask me for something.

— Ask?

— Oh! I know that you are the most disinterested soul, the greatest, the most royal.

— Do not praise me too much, madame, said the duchess uneasily.

— I shall never praise you as much as you deserve.

— With age, with misfortunes, one changes greatly, madame.

— God hear you, duchess!

— How so?

— Yes, the duchess of former times, the beautiful, the proud, the adored Chevreuse would have answered me ungratefully: 'I want nothing of you.' Blessed then be misfortunes, if they have come, since they will have changed you, and perhaps you will answer me: 'I accept.'

The duchess softened her glance and her smile; she was under the spell and no longer hid it.

— Speak, dear, said the queen, what do you want?

— Must I then explain myself?...

— Without hesitation.

— Well! Your Majesty can give me an ineffable joy, an incomparable joy.

— Let us see, said the queen, a little chilled by uneasiness. But, before all else, my good Chevreuse, remember that I am at the mercy of a son as I was once at the mercy of a husband.

— I shall spare you, dear queen.

— Call me Anne, as of old; it will be a sweet echo of beautiful youth.

— So be it. Well! my venerated mistress, beloved Anne...

— Do you still know Spanish?

— Always.

— Ask me then in Spanish.

— Here it is: do me the honor of coming to spend a few days at Dampierre.

— Is that all? cried the queen, stupefied.

— Yes.

— Nothing but that?

— Good God! would you have the idea that I am not asking you there for the most enormous favor? If such is the case, you no longer know me. Do you accept?

— Yes, with all my heart.

— Oh! thank you!

— And I shall be happy, continued the queen with distrust, if my presence can be of some use to you.

— Useful? cried the duchess laughing. Oh! no, no, agreeable, sweet, delicious, yes, a thousand times yes. It is promised then?

— It is sworn.

The duchess threw herself upon the beautiful hand of the queen and covered it with kisses.

'She is a good woman at heart, thought the queen, and... generous in spirit.'

— Your Majesty, resumed the duchess, would consent to give me fifteen days?

— Yes, certainly! Why?

— Because, said the duchess, knowing me to be in disgrace, none would lend me the hundred thousand écus I need to repair Dampierre. But, when it becomes known that it is to receive Your Majesty there, all the funds of Paris will flow to me.

— Ah! said the queen, gently moving her head with understanding, a hundred thousand écus! it takes a hundred thousand écus to repair Dampierre?

— Just so many.

— And no one will lend them to you?

— No one.

— I shall lend them, myself, if you wish, duchess.

— Oh! I should not dare.

— You would be wrong.

— Truly?

— Word of a queen!... A hundred thousand écus is really not much.

— Is it not?

— No. Oh! I know that you have never made your discretion pay what it is worth. Duchess, push this table to me, that I may make you out a draft on M. Colbert; no, on M. Fouquet, who is a far more gallant gentleman.

— Does he pay?

— If he does not pay, I shall pay; but it would be the first time he refused me.

The queen wrote, gave the note to the duchess, and dismissed her after gaily embracing her.

Chapter CLXXXIV — How Jean de La Fontaine Wrote His First Tale

All these intrigues are exhausted; the human mind, so manifold in its displays, has been able to develop at ease within the three frames our narrative has furnished it.

Perhaps politics and intrigues will still be in question in the picture we are preparing, but the springs thereof shall be so hidden that one will see only flowers and paintings, absolutely as in those fairground theaters where there appears upon the stage a colossus who walks moved by the small legs and slender arms of a child hidden within his frame.

We return to Saint-Mandé, where the surintendant receives, according to his custom, his chosen society of epicureans.

For some time, the master has been sorely tried. Each feels at home the distress of the minister. No more great and mad assemblies. Finance was a pretext for Fouquet, and never, as Gourville wittily says, was a pretext more fallacious; of finances, not a shadow.

M. Vatel exerts himself to sustain the reputation of the house. However the gardeners, who supply the offices, complain of a ruinous delay. The Spanish wine shippers frequently send mandates that no one pays. The fishermen whom the surintendant retains on the coasts of Normandy calculate that, were they reimbursed, the return of the sum would allow them to retire ashore. The tide, which later must kill Vatel, the tide does not arrive at all.

However, for the day of ordinary reception, the friends of Fouquet present themselves more numerous than usual. Gourville and the abbé Fouquet discuss finance, that is to say the abbé borrows a few pistoles from Gourville. Pélisson, seated with crossed legs, finishes the peroration of a discourse by which Fouquet must reopen the Parliament.

And this discourse is a masterpiece, because Pélisson makes it for his friend, that is to say he puts into it all that, certainly, he would not go seeking for himself. Soon, quarreling over easy rhymes, arrive from the depths of the garden Loret and La Fontaine.

The painters and musicians make their way in turn toward the dining hall. When eight o'clock strikes, they will sup.

The surintendant never keeps one waiting.

It is half past seven; the appetite announces itself quite gallantly.

When all the guests are gathered, Gourville goes straight to Pélisson, draws him from his reverie and leads him to the middle of a salon whose doors he has closed.

— Well! said he, what is new?

Pélisson, raising his intelligent and gentle head:

— I have borrowed, said he, twenty-five thousand livres from my aunt. Here they are in cashier's notes.

— Good, replied Gourville, there lacks but one hundred ninety-five thousand livres for the first payment.

— Payment of what? asked La Fontaine in the tone he used to say: 'Have you read Baruch?'

— There is my absent-minded one again, said Gourville. What! it is you who told us that the little estate of Corbeil was to be sold by a creditor of M. Fouquet; it is you who proposed the subscription of all the friends of Epicurus; it is you who said you would have a corner of your house at Château-Thierry sold to furnish your share, and you come today saying: 'Payment of what?'

A universal laugh greeted this sally and made La Fontaine blush.

— Pardon, pardon, said he, it is true, I had not forgotten. Oh! no; only...

— Only, you no longer remembered, replied Loret.

— There is the truth. The fact is he is right. Between forgetting and no longer remembering, there is a great difference.

— Then, added Pélisson, you bring this obolus, price of the corner of land sold?

— Sold? No.

— You have not sold your close? asked Gourville astonished, for he knew the poet's disinterestedness.

— My wife would not have it, answered the latter.

Fresh laughter.

— However, you went to Château-Thierry for that? he was answered.

— Certainly, and on horseback.

— Poor Jean!

— Eight different horses: I was broken.

— Excellent friend!... And there you rested?

— Rested? Ah! yes indeed! There, I had plenty of work.

— How so?

— My wife had coquetted with the man to whom I wished to sell the land. This man went back on his word; I challenged him to a duel.

— Very well! said the poet; and you fought?

— It appears not.

— You know nothing of it then?

— No, my wife and her family meddled in it. I had a quarter of an hour with sword in hand; but I was not wounded.

— And the adversary?

— The adversary neither; he had not come to the field.

— Admirable! cried they on all sides; you must have been furious?

— Very much so; I had caught a cold; I came home, and my wife scolded me.

— In earnest?

— In earnest. She threw a loaf at my head, a great loaf.

— And you?

— I? I overturned the whole table upon her body, and upon the bodies of her guests; then I remounted my horse, and here I am.

None could have kept a straight face at the account of this comic heroide. When the hurricane of laughter had somewhat calmed:

— Is that all you brought back? they said to La Fontaine.

— Oh! not at all, I had an excellent idea.

— Speak.

— Have you remarked that in France much light poetry is made?

— But yes, replied the assembly.

— And, pursued La Fontaine, that very little of it is printed?

— The laws are harsh, it is true.

— Well! rare merchandise is dear merchandise, thought I. Which is why I set myself to compose a little poem extremely licentious.

— Oh! oh! dear poet.

— Extremely bawdy.

— Oh! oh!

— Extremely cynical.

— Devil! devil!

— I put into it, continued the poet coldly, all the gallant words I could find.

Each one writhed with laughter, while this good poet thus hung the sign upon his merchandise.

— And, he pursued, I applied myself to surpass all that Boccaccio, Aretino, and other masters have done in this genre.

— Good God! cried Pélisson; but he shall be damned!

— You think? asked La Fontaine naively; I swear to you I did not do that for myself, but uniquely for M. Fouquet.

This mirific conclusion crowned the satisfaction of those present.

— And I sold this opuscule eight hundred livres the first edition, cried La Fontaine rubbing his hands. Books of piety are bought for half less.

— It had been better, said Gourville laughing, to make two books of piety.

— That is too long and not diverting enough, replied La Fontaine tranquilly; my eight hundred livres are in this little bag; I offer them.

And he indeed placed his offering into the hands of the treasurer of the epicureans.

Then it was Loret's turn, who gave a hundred fifty livres; the others exhausted themselves likewise. There were, all told, forty thousand livres in the purse.

Never did more generous pence resound in the divine balances where charity weighs good hearts and good intentions against the false coins of hypocritical devotees.

They were still ringing the écus when the surintendant entered, or rather slipped into the hall. He had heard everything.

One saw this man, who had moved so many billions, this rich man who had exhausted all pleasures and all honors, this immense heart, this fertile brain which had, like two avid crucibles, devoured the material and moral substance of the first kingdom of the world, one saw Fouquet cross the threshold with eyes full of tears, dip his white and fine fingers into the gold and silver.

— Poor alms, said he in a tender and moved voice, you will disappear in the smallest fold of my empty purse; but you have filled to the brim that which none shall ever exhaust: my heart! Thank you, my friends, thank you!

And, as he could not embrace all those who were there and who wept a little too, philosophers though they were, he embraced La Fontaine saying to him:

— Poor fellow who let himself be beaten by his wife for me, and damned by his confessor!

— Pooh! it is nothing, answered the poet; let your creditors wait two years, I shall have made a hundred other tales which, at two editions each, will pay the debt.

Chapter CLXXXV — La Fontaine the Negotiator

Fouquet pressed the hand of La Fontaine with a charming effusion...

— My dear poet, said he to him, make us a hundred other tales, not only for the eighty pistoles each will bring, but also to enrich our language with a hundred masterpieces.

— Oh! oh! said La Fontaine puffing up, one must not believe I brought only this idea and these eighty pistoles to M. the surintendant.

— Oh! but, cried they on all sides, M. de La Fontaine is in funds today.

— Blessed be the idea, if it brings me one or two millions, said Fouquet gaily.

— Precisely, replied La Fontaine.

— Quick, quick! cried the assembly.

— Take care, said Pélisson at La Fontaine's ear, you have had great success until now, do not overshoot the mark.

— No, Monsieur Pélisson, and you who are a man of taste, you will approve me first of all.

— It is a matter of millions? said Gourville.

— I have there fifteen hundred thousand livres, Monsieur Gourville.

And he struck his breast.

— The devil take the Gascon of Château-Thierry! cried Loret.

— It was not the pocket that should be touched, said Fouquet, it is the brain.

— See here, added La Fontaine, Monsieur the surintendant, you are not an attorney general, you are a poet.

— That is true! cried Loret, Conrart, and all the men of letters there present.

— You are, I say, a poet and a painter, a statuary, a friend of arts and sciences; but, confess it yourself, you are not a man of the robe.

— I confess it, replied M. Fouquet smiling.

— They would put you in the Academy and you would refuse, would you not?

— I believe so, notwithstanding the academicians.

— Well! why, not wishing to be part of the Academy, do you let yourself go to be part of the Parliament?

— Oh! oh! said Pélisson, we speak politics?

— I ask, pursued La Fontaine, whether the robe becomes or does not become M. Fouquet.

— It is not of the robe that we speak, retorted Pélisson, vexed at the assembly's laughter.

— On the contrary, it is of the robe, said Loret.

— Take the robe from the attorney general, said Conrart, we have M. Fouquet, of which we do not complain; but as there is no attorney general without a robe, we declare, following M. de La Fontaine, that certainly the robe is a scarecrow.

— _Fugiunt risus leporesque_, said Loret.

— Laughter and graces, said a scholar.

— I, pursued Pélisson gravely, do not translate _lepores_ thus.

— And how do you translate it? asked La Fontaine.

— I translate it thus: 'The hares flee at sight of M. Fouquet.'

Bursts of laughter, in which the surintendant took his part.

— Why hares? objected Conrart piqued.

— Because the hare shall be he who does not rejoice to see M. Fouquet in the attributes of his parliamentary force.

— Oh! oh! murmured the poets.

— _Quo non ascendam?_ said Conrart, seems impossible with a prosecutor's robe.

— And to me, without that robe, said the obstinate Pélisson. What think you, Gourville?

— I think the robe is good, replied the latter; but I think equally that a million and a half would be better than the robe.

— And I am of Gourville's opinion, cried Fouquet, cutting short the discussion with his opinion, which must necessarily dominate all others.

— A million and a half! grumbled Pélisson; pardieu! I know an Indian fable...

— Tell it me, said La Fontaine; I ought to know it too.

— The tortoise had a shell, said Pélisson; she took refuge therein when her enemies threatened her. One day, someone said to her: 'You are very warm in summer in that house, and you are much prevented from showing your graces. There is the grass-snake who will give you a million and a half for your shell.'

— Good! said the surintendant laughing.

— After? said La Fontaine, interested by the apologue far more than by the morality.

— The tortoise sold her shell and remained naked. A vulture saw her; he was hungry; he broke her back with a blow of his beak and devoured her.

— O _muthos déloï?_... said Conrart.

— That M. Fouquet will do well to keep his robe.

La Fontaine took the morality in earnest.

— You forget Aeschylus, said he to his adversary.

— What means that?

— Aeschylus the Bald.

— After?

— Aeschylus, upon whose skull a vulture, your vulture probably, a great lover of tortoises, from on high took a stone, and launched upon that skull a tortoise all curled in its shell.

— Eh! my God! La Fontaine is right, resumed Fouquet become pensive, every vulture, when he hungers for tortoises, knows well to break their shell gratis; too happy the tortoises whose envelope a grass-snake pays a million and a half. Let there be brought me a generous grass-snake like that of your fable, Pélisson, and I give him my shell.

— _Rara avis in terris!_ cried Conrart.

— And like a black swan, is it not? added La Fontaine. Well! yes, precisely, a bird all black and very rare; I have found it.

— You have found a buyer for my attorney's office? cried Fouquet.

— Yes, monsieur.

— But M. the surintendant never said he must sell, resumed Pélisson.

— Pardon me: you yourself spoke of it, said Conrart.

— I am witness, said Gourville.

— It is due to the fine speeches he makes me, said Fouquet laughing. This buyer, let us see, La Fontaine?

— A bird all black, a councillor at the Parliament, a worthy man.

— Who is called?

— Vanel.

— Vanel! cried Fouquet, Vanel! the husband of...

— Precisely, her husband; yes, monsieur.

— That good man! said Fouquet with interest, he wishes to be attorney general?

— He wishes to be all that you are, monsieur, said Gourville, and to do absolutely what you have done.

— Oh! but this is most amusing: tell us then of this, La Fontaine.

— It is quite simple. I see him from time to time. Sometimes I meet him: he was loafing on the Place de la Bastille, precisely at the moment I was going to take the little carriage of Saint-Mandé.

— He must have been watching for his wife, surely, interrupted Loret.

— Oh! my God, no, said Fouquet simply; he is not jealous.

— He accosts me then, embraces me, leads me to the Cabaret de l'_Image-Saint-Fiacre_, and speaks to me of his troubles.

— He has troubles?

— Yes, his wife gives him ambition.

— And he tells you?...

— That he was spoken to of an office in the Parliament; that the name of M. Fouquet was pronounced, that since that time Mme Vanel dreams of being called Mme the Attorney General, and that she dies every night she does not dream it.

— Poor woman! said Fouquet.

— Wait. Conrart always tells me I know not how to do business: you shall see how I conducted this one.

— Let us see!

— Do you know, said I to Vanel, that an office like M. Fouquet's is dear?

— About how much? said he.

— M. Fouquet refused seventeen hundred thousand livres for it.

— My wife, replied Vanel, had put that at around fourteen hundred thousand.

— Cash? I said to him.

— Yes; she has sold an estate in Guienne, she has realized.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”