Part 21

— Do not go further, said Fouquet, burning with generous ideas; I understand you and I guess everything. You went to the king when the news of my arrest reached you; you implored him, he refused to hear you, he too; then you made the threat of the secret, the threat of revelation, and Louis XIV, terrified, had to grant to the terror of your indiscretion what he refused to your generous intercession. I understand, I understand! you hold the king; I understand!

— You do not understand at all, replied Aramis, and once again you interrupt me, my friend. And then, allow me to tell you, you neglect logic too much and do not make enough use of your memory.

— How?

— You know upon what I insisted at the beginning of our conversation?

— Yes, the hatred of His Majesty for me, an invincible hatred! but what hatred could resist the threat of such a revelation?

— Such a revelation? Ah! there is where you lack logic. What! you admit that, if I had made such a revelation to the king, I could still be alive at this hour?

— It is not ten minutes since you were with the king.

— Be it so! he would not have had time to have me killed; but he would have had time to have me gagged and thrown into a dungeon. Come, some firmness in your reasoning, by God!

And, by this thoroughly musketeer word, a lapse of a man who never forgot himself, Fouquet had to understand to what degree of exaltation the calm, impenetrable Bishop of Vannes had just attained. He shuddered at it.

— And then, resumed the latter after mastering himself, would I be the man I am? would I be a true friend if I exposed you, whom the king already hates, to a still more dreadful sentiment of the young king? To have robbed him, that is nothing; to have courted his mistress, that is little; but to hold in your hands his crown and his honor—come now! he would rather tear your heart out with his own hands!

— You have let him see nothing of the secret?

— I would rather have swallowed all the poisons Mithridates drank in twenty years to try not to die.

— What have you done, then?

— Ah! now we come to it, my lord. I believe I am going to awaken some interest in you. You are still listening to me, are you not?

— If I am listening! Speak.

Aramis took a turn about the room, assured himself of solitude, of silence, and came back to place himself near the armchair in which Fouquet awaited his revelations with profound anxiety.

— I forgot to tell you, resumed Aramis, addressing Fouquet, who listened to him with extreme attention, I forgot a remarkable particular concerning these twins: it is that God made them so alike one to the other, that He alone, if He cited them before His tribunal, would know to distinguish one from the other. Their mother could not do it.

— Is it possible! cried Fouquet.

— Same nobility in the features, same gait, same stature, same voice.

— But thought? but intelligence? but knowledge of life?

— Oh! in that, inequality, my lord. Yes, for the prisoner of the Bastille is of an incontestable superiority over his brother, and if, from prison, that poor victim passed to the throne, France would not, perhaps since its origin, have encountered a master more powerful by genius and nobility of character.

Fouquet let his brow fall into his hands for a moment, overwhelmed by this immense secret. Aramis drew near him:

— There is yet inequality, said he, pursuing his tempting work, inequality for you, my lord, between the two twins, sons of Louis XIII: it is that the last born does not know M. Colbert.

Fouquet rose at once with pale and altered features. The blow had struck, not full in the heart, but full in the mind.

— I understand you, said he to Aramis: you propose a conspiracy to me.

— Almost.

— One of those attempts which, as you said at the beginning of this interview, change the destiny of empires.

— And of superintendents; yes, my lord.

— In a word, you propose to me to effect a substitution of the son of Louis XIII who is prisoner today for the son of Louis XIII who sleeps in the chamber of Morpheus at this moment?

Aramis smiled with the sinister brightness of his sinister thought.

— So be it! said he.

— But, resumed Fouquet after a painful silence, you have not reflected that this political work is of a nature to overturn the whole kingdom, and that, to tear up this tree by the infinite roots called a king, to replace it by another, the earth will never be so firm that the new king is assured against the wind that will remain from the old storm and against the oscillations of his own mass.

Aramis continued to smile.

— Think, then, continued M. Fouquet, warming with that force of talent which digs out a project and matures it in a few seconds, and with that breadth of view which foresees all its consequences and embraces all its results, think that we must assemble the nobility, the clergy, the third estate, depose the reigning prince, trouble by an awful scandal the tomb of Louis XIII, lose the life and honor of a woman, Anne of Austria, the life and peace of another woman, Marie-Thérèse, and that, all this finished, if we finish it...

— I do not understand you, said Aramis coldly. There is not a useful word in all that you have just said.

— What! said the surprised superintendent; you do not discuss the practice, a man like you? You confine yourself to the childish joys of a political illusion, and you neglect the chances of execution, that is to say, reality; is that possible?

— My friend, said Aramis, laying stress on the word with a sort of disdainful familiarity, how does God go about substituting one king for another?

— God! cried Fouquet, God gives an order to His agent, who seizes the condemned, carries him off and seats the triumphant one upon the become-empty throne. But you forget that this agent is called death. Oh! my God! M. d'Herblay, would you by chance have the idea...

— It is not a question of that, my lord. Truly, you go beyond the mark. Who speaks to you of sending death to King Louis XIV? who speaks to you of following the example of God in the strict practice of His works? No. I wished to tell you that God does things without upheaval, without scandal, without effort, and that men inspired by God succeed like Him in what they undertake, in what they attempt, in what they do.

— What do you mean?

— I wished to tell you, my friend, resumed Aramis with the same intonation he had given to that word friend when he pronounced it for the first time, I wished to tell you that, if there has been upheaval, scandal and even effort in the substitution of the prisoner for the king, I challenge you to prove it to me.

— What's that? cried Fouquet, whiter than the handkerchief with which he wiped his temples. You say?...

— Go into the king's chamber, continued Aramis tranquilly, and, you who know the mystery, I challenge you to perceive that the prisoner of the Bastille is lying in his brother's bed.

— But the king? stammered Fouquet, seized with horror at this news.

— Which king? said Aramis in his gentlest accent, the one who hates you or the one who loves you?

— The king... of yesterday?...

— The king of yesterday? Be reassured; he has gone to take, at the Bastille, the place his victim had occupied too long.

— Just Heaven! And who led him there?

— I.

— You?

— Yes, and in the simplest way. I carried him off this night, and, while he went down again into the shadow, the other went up again into the light. I do not believe it made any noise. A lightning without thunder never wakes anyone.

Fouquet uttered a hollow cry, as if struck by an invisible blow, and, taking his head in his two clenched hands:

— You have done that? murmured he.

— Rather cleverly. What do you think of it?

— You have dethroned the king? you have imprisoned him?

— It is done.

— And the deed was accomplished here, at Vaux?

— Here, at Vaux, in the chamber of Morpheus. Did it not seem built in foresight of such an act?

— And this took place?

— This night.

— This night?

— Between midnight and one o'clock.

Fouquet made a movement as if to throw himself upon Aramis; he restrained himself.

— At Vaux! in my house!... said he in a strangled voice.

— But I believe so. It is especially your house, since M. Colbert can no longer have it stolen from you.

— It is then in my house that this crime was executed.

— This crime! said Aramis stupefied.

— This abominable crime! pursued Fouquet, growing more and more exalted, this crime more execrable than an assassination! this crime which dishonors my name forever and vows me to the horror of posterity.

— Come, you are delirious, sir, replied Aramis in an unsteady voice, you speak too loud: take care!

— I shall cry so loud that the universe will hear me.

— M. Fouquet, take care!

Fouquet turned toward the prelate, whom he looked full in the face.

— Yes, said he, you have dishonored me in committing this treason, this foul deed, upon my guest, upon him who rested peacefully under my roof! oh! woe is me!

— Woe upon him who meditated, under your roof, the ruin of your fortune, of your life! do you forget that?

— He was my guest, he was my king!

Aramis rose, his eyes bloodshot, his mouth convulsive.

— Have I to do with a madman? said he.

— You have to do with an honest man.

— Fool!

— With a man who will prevent you from consummating your crime.

— Fool!

— With a man who had rather die, who had rather kill you than allow his dishonor to be consummated.

And Fouquet, precipitating himself upon his sword, replaced by d'Artagnan at the bedside, waved resolutely in his hands the glittering steel blade.

Aramis frowned, slipped a hand into his breast, as if seeking a weapon there. This movement escaped not Fouquet. Also, noble and superb in his magnanimity, he threw his sword far from him, which went rolling into the space between bed and wall, and, approaching Aramis, so as to touch his shoulder with his unarmed hand:

— Sir, said he, it would be sweet to me to die here not to survive my opprobrium, and, if you have yet some friendship for me, I beseech you, give me death.

Aramis remained silent and motionless.

— You answer nothing?

Aramis gently raised his head, and one saw the flash of hope rekindle once more in his eyes.

— Reflect, said he, my lord, upon all that awaits us. This justice being done, the king lives yet, and his imprisonment saves your life.

— Yes, replied Fouquet, you could act in my interest, but I do not accept your service. However, I will not ruin you. You are going to leave this house.

Aramis stifled the flash which sprang from his broken heart.

— I am hospitable to all, continued Fouquet with an inexpressible majesty; you shall not be more sacrificed, you, than shall be he whose loss you had consummated.

— You shall be, said Aramis in a hollow and prophetic voice; you shall be, you shall be!

— I accept the omen, M. d'Herblay; but nothing shall stop me. You are going to quit Vaux, you are going to quit France; I give you four hours to put yourself beyond the king's reach.

— Four hours? said Aramis, railing and incredulous.

— Word of Fouquet! none shall follow you before that delay. You shall therefore have four hours' start over all those the king might wish to send after you.

— Four hours! repeated Aramis, roaring.

— It is more than enough to embark you and reach Belle-Île, which I give you for refuge.

— Ah! murmured Aramis.

— Belle-Île is mine for you, as Vaux is mine for the king. Go, d'Herblay, go! as long as I live, not a hair of your head shall fall.

— Thanks! said Aramis with a gloomy irony.

— Depart then, and give me your hand that both of us may run, you to the safety of your life, I to the safety of my honor.

Aramis withdrew from his bosom the hand he had hidden there. It was red with his blood; he had plowed his breast with his nails, as to punish the flesh for having engendered so many projects vainer, madder, more perishable than the life of man. Fouquet felt horror, felt pity: he opened his arms to Aramis.

— I had no weapon, murmured the latter, fierce and terrible as the shade of Dido.

Then, without touching Fouquet's hand, he turned away his gaze and made two steps backward. His last word was an imprecation; his last gesture was the anathema traced by that reddened hand, staining Fouquet's face with a few droplets of his blood.

And both rushed out of the chamber by the secret stairway, which led to the inner courts.

Fouquet ordered his best horses, and Aramis stopped at the foot of the stairway leading to Porthos's chamber. He reflected long, while Fouquet's carriage quitted at full gallop the paving of the principal court.

— Depart alone?... said Aramis to himself. Warn the prince?... Oh! fury!... Warn the prince, and then what to do?... Depart with him?... Drag everywhere this accusing testimony?... War?... Implacable civil war?... Without resource, alas!... Impossible!... What will he do without me?... Oh! without me, he will crumble like me... Who knows?... Let destiny be accomplished!... He was condemned, let him remain condemned!... God!... Demon!... Dark and mocking power called the genius of man, thou art but a breath more uncertain, more useless than the wind in the mountain; thou art named chance, thou art nothing; thou embracest all with thy breath, thou liftest the quarters of rock, the mountain itself, and all at once thou breakest before the cross of dead wood, behind which lives another invisible power... which thou didst perhaps deny, and which avenges itself on thee, and which crushes thee without even doing thee the honor of saying its name!... Lost!... I am lost!... What to do?... Go to Belle-Île?... Yes. And Porthos who will remain here, and speak, and tell all to everyone! Porthos, who will perhaps suffer!... I will not that Porthos suffer. He is one of my members: his pain is mine. Porthos shall depart with me, Porthos shall follow my destiny. It must be.

And Aramis, all intent on the fear of meeting someone to whom this haste might seem suspect, Aramis climbed the stairway without being perceived by anyone.

Porthos, but just returned from Paris, already slept the sleep of the just. His enormous body forgot fatigue, as his spirit forgot thought.

Aramis entered light as a shadow, and placed his nervous hand upon the giant's shoulder.

— Come, cried he, come, Porthos, come!

Porthos obeyed, rose, opened his eyes before having opened his intelligence.

— We are departing, said Aramis.

— Ah! said Porthos.

— We depart on horseback, swifter than we have ever run.

— Ah! repeated Porthos.

— Dress yourself, friend.

And he helped the giant to dress, and put into his pockets his gold and his diamonds.

While he was engaged in this operation, a slight noise attracted his thought.

D'Artagnan was looking from the doorframe.

Aramis started.

— What the devil are you doing there, so agitated? said the musketeer.

— Hush! breathed Porthos.

— We are departing on a mission, added the bishop.

— You are very fortunate! said the musketeer.

— Pah! said Porthos, I feel tired; I had rather have slept; but the king's service!...

— Did you see M. Fouquet? said Aramis to d'Artagnan.

— Yes, in his carriage, this instant.

— And what did he say to you?

— He bade me farewell.

— That is all?

— What would you have him say to me otherwise? Do I not count for nothing since you are all in favor?

— Listen, said Aramis, embracing the musketeer, your good time is returned; you shall no longer have to be jealous of anyone.

— Indeed!

— I predict for you this day an event which will double your position.

— Truly!

— You know that I know the news?

— Oh! yes!

— Come, Porthos, are you ready? Let us depart!

— Let us depart!

— And let us embrace d'Artagnan.

— Pardieu!

— The horses?

— There is no lack of them here. Will you have mine?

— No, Porthos has his own stable. Farewell! farewell!

The two fugitives mounted on horseback under the eyes of the captain of the musketeers, who held the stirrup for Porthos and followed his friends with his gaze, until he had seen them disappear.

"On any other occasion," thought the Gascon, "I would say those fellows are running away; but today, politics being so changed, this is called going on a mission. So be it. Let us to our affairs."

And he re-entered his lodging philosophically.

Chapter CCXXVIII — How the orders were obeyed at the Bastille

Fouquet burned the pavement. By the way, he agitated with horror at the idea of what he had just learned.

What then, thought he, was the youth of these prodigious men, who, at an already feeble age, still know how to compose such plans and execute them without flinching?

At times, he asked himself if all that Aramis had told him were not a dream, if the fable were not the snare itself, and if, on arriving at the Bastille, he, Fouquet, were not going to find an order of arrest which would send him to join the dethroned king.

In this idea, he gave some sealed orders upon his route, while they harnessed the horses. These orders were addressed to M. d'Artagnan and to all the chiefs of corps whose fidelity could not be suspect.

"In this way," said Fouquet to himself, "prisoner or not, I shall have rendered the service I owe to the cause of honor. The orders will arrive only after me if I return free, and, consequently, they will not have been opened. I will take them back. If I am long, it is that misfortune will have befallen me. Then I shall have help for myself and for the king."

Thus prepared, he arrived before the Bastille. The superintendent had made five leagues and a half the hour.

All that had never happened to Aramis happened in the Bastille to M. Fouquet. M. Fouquet might well name himself, might well make himself recognized, he could never be admitted.

By dint of soliciting, threatening, ordering, he decided a sentinel to warn a subordinate officer who warned the major. As for the governor, one would not even have dared disturb him for that.

Fouquet, in his carriage, at the fortress gate, champed his bit and awaited the return of this subordinate officer, who reappeared at last with a rather surly air.

— Well! said Fouquet impatiently, what did the major say?

— Well! _monsieur_, replied the soldier, M. the major laughed in my face. He told me that M. Fouquet is at Vaux, and that, were he in Paris, M. Fouquet would not be rising at this hour.

— By God! you are a flock of knaves! cried the minister, springing out of the carriage.

And, before the subordinate officer had time to close the gate, Fouquet introduced himself through the gap, and ran forward, despite the cries of the soldier who called for help.

Fouquet gained ground, little caring for the cries of this man, who, having finally caught up with Fouquet, repeated to the sentinel of the second gate:

— To you, to you, sentinel!

The sentinel crossed his pike upon the minister; but the latter, robust and agile, moreover carried away by anger, tore the pike from the soldier's hands and rudely caressed his shoulders with it. The subordinate officer, who approached too near, had his share of the distribution: both uttered furious cries, at the noise of which all the first guardhouse of the outwork turned out.

Among these people, there was one who recognized the superintendent and cried:

— My lord!... Ah! my lord!... Stop, you others!

And he effectively stopped the guards who were preparing to avenge their comrades.

Fouquet commanded that the grating be opened to him; but the standing orders were objected.

He ordered that the governor be warned; but the latter was already informed of all the noise at the gate; at the head of a picket of twenty men, he came running, followed by his major, in the persuasion that an attack was taking place against the Bastille.

Baisemeaux also recognized Fouquet, and let fall his sword which he already held wholly raised.

— Ah! my lord, stammered he, what apologies!...

— Sir, said the superintendent, red with heat and all in sweat, I compliment you: your service is done marvelously.

Baisemeaux paled, believing these words were but irony, presage of some furious anger. But Fouquet had recovered his breath, beckoning the sentinel and the subordinate officer, who were rubbing their shoulders.

— There are twenty pistoles for the sentinel, said he, fifty for the officer. My compliments, gentlemen! I shall speak of it to the king. To us two, M. de Baisemeaux.

And, amid a murmur of general satisfaction, he followed the governor to the Government house.

Baisemeaux already trembled with shame and uneasiness. The morning visit of Aramis seemed to him to have, from this moment, consequences of which a functional could, with good reason, be terrified.

It was yet something else when Fouquet, in a brusque voice and with an imperious glance:

— Sir, said he, you saw M. d'Herblay this morning?

— Yes, my lord.

— Well! sir, do you not have horror of the crime of which you have made yourself accomplice?

"So far, so good!" thought Baisemeaux.

Then he added aloud:

— But what crime, my lord?

— There is here enough to have you broken on the wheel, sir, think of it! But this is not the moment to grow angry. Conduct me at once to the prisoner.

— To which prisoner? said Baisemeaux, trembling.

— You play the ignorant, so be it! It is the best you can do. Indeed, if you avowed such complicity, it would be all over with you. I am willing, then, to appear to give credit to your ignorance.

— I pray you, my lord...

— That is well. Conduct me to the prisoner.

— To Marchiali?

— What is Marchiali?

— It is the detainee brought this morning by M. d'Herblay.

— He is called Marchiali? said the superintendent, troubled in his convictions by the naive assurance of Baisemeaux.

— Yes, my lord, it is under this name he was registered here.

Fouquet looked to the bottom of Baisemeaux's heart. He read, with that habit of men given by the use of power, an absolute sincerity. Besides, in observing this physiognomy for a minute, how believe that Aramis had taken such a confidant?

— It is, said he to the governor, the prisoner whom M. d'Herblay had taken away the day before yesterday?

— Yes, my lord.

— And whom he brought back this morning? added Fouquet quickly, who at once understood the mechanism of Aramis's plan.

— That is it; yes, my lord.

— And he is called Marchiali?

— Marchiali. If Monseigneur comes here to take him from me, so much the better; for I was about to write again concerning him.

— What is he doing, then?

— Since this morning, he displeases me extremely; he has fits of rage enough to make one believe the Bastille will crumble by his doing.

— I am going to rid you of him, indeed, said Fouquet.

— Ah! so much the better.

— Conduct me to his prison.

— My lord will give me the order...

— What order?

— An order of the king.

— Wait that I sign one for you.

— That would not suffice, my lord; I must have the king's order.

— You who are so scrupulous, said he, for letting prisoners out, show me then the order with which this one had been delivered.

Baisemeaux showed the order to deliver Seldon.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”