Part 37

— Ah! mon Dieu! cried Pellisson.

— What have you to say against her? asked Fouquet.

— Nothing, alas! which is what drives me to despair. Nothing, absolutely nothing... Would that I could tell you, on the contrary, enough ill of her to keep you from going up to her rooms!

But Fouquet had already given the order to stop; the carriage stood motionless.

— Keep me from it! said Fouquet; no power on earth would keep me, do you see, from paying a compliment to Mme du Plessis-Bellière; besides, who knows if we may not have need of her! Will you come up with me?

— No, my lord, no.

— But I do not wish you to wait for me, Pellisson, replied Fouquet with sincere courtesy.

— All the more reason, my lord; knowing that you make me wait, you will stay less long up there... Take care! you see a carriage in the courtyard; she has someone with her!

Fouquet leaned toward the carriage step.

— One more word, cried Pellisson: go to that lady's only on your way back from the Conciergerie, I beg you!

— Eh! five minutes, Pellisson, replied Fouquet, alighting at the very threshold of the hôtel.

Pellisson remained in the depths of the carriage, his brow furrowed.

Fouquet went up to the marquise, gave his name to the valet, which aroused an eagerness and respect that testified to the habit the mistress of the house had formed of having that name respected and loved within her walls.

— Monsieur le surintendant! cried the marquise, advancing very pale to meet Fouquet. What an honor! what an unexpected visit! said she. Then in a low voice:

— Take care! added the marquise, Marguerite Vanel is with me.

— Madame, answered Fouquet, troubled, I came on business... A single pressing word.

And he entered the salon.

Mme Vanel had risen, paler, more livid than Envy itself.

Fouquet addressed to her in vain one of the most charming, most peaceable salutes; she answered it only with a terrible glance, cast upon the marquise and upon Fouquet. That sharpened look of a jealous woman is a stiletto that finds the flaw in every cuirass; Marguerite Vanel plunged it at a stroke into the hearts of the two confidants. She made a reverence to her friend, a deeper one to Fouquet, and took her leave, under pretext of a great number of visits to pay, before the marquise, bewildered, or Fouquet, seized with unease, had thought to detain her. Scarcely had she gone, than Fouquet, left alone with the marquise, sank at her knees without speaking a word.

— I was expecting you, replied the marquise with a gentle smile.

— Oh! no, said he, for you would have sent that woman away.

— She arrived barely a quarter of an hour ago, and I could not suspect she would come this evening.

— You love me a little then, marquise?

— That is not the matter, monsieur, it is your dangers; how stand your affairs?

— I am going this evening to tear my friends from the prisons of the palace.

— How so?

— By buying, by seducing the governor.

— He is a friend of mine; may I help you without harming you?

— Oh! marquise, it would be a signal service; but how employ you without compromising you? Never shall my life, nor my power, nor even my liberty, be redeemed, if a tear must fall from your eyes, if a sorrow must cloud your brow.

— My lord, do not say those words that intoxicate me; I am guilty of having wished to serve you, without calculating the reach of my step. I love you, indeed, as a tender friend, and, as a friend, I am grateful to you for your delicacy; but alas!... alas! never shall you find in me a mistress.

— Marquise!... cried Fouquet in a voice of despair, why?

— Because you are too much loved, said the young woman in a low voice, because you are by too many people... because the blaze of glory and fortune wounds my eyes, while somber sorrow draws them; because, finally, I who repulsed you in your sumptuous magnificence, I who scarce looked upon you when you shone resplendent, was, like a woman bewildered, to cast myself, as it were, into your arms when I saw a misfortune hovering over your head... You understand me now, my lord... Become happy again, that I may become chaste again of heart and thought: your unhappiness would be my ruin.

— Oh! madame, said Fouquet with an emotion he had never felt, though I should fall to the lowest degree of human misery, I shall hear from your lips that word you refuse me, and that day, madame, you will have deceived yourself in your noble selfishness; that day, you will believe you console the most unhappy of men, and you will have said: 'I love you!' to the most illustrious, the most smiling, the most triumphant of the happy of this world!

He was still at her feet, kissing her hand, when Pellisson entered precipitately, crying with vexation:

— My lord! madame! for mercy's sake, madame! pardon me... My lord, it is half an hour you have been here... Oh! do not both look at me thus with an air of reproach... madame, I beg you, who is that lady who left your house at my lord's entrance?

— Mme Vanel, said Fouquet.

— There! cried Pellisson, I was sure of it!

— Well! what of it?

— Well! she got into her carriage, all pale.

— What is that to me! said Fouquet.

— Yes, but what matters to you is what she said to her coachman.

— What, in Heaven's name? cried the marquise.

— 'To M. Colbert's!' said Pellisson in a raucous voice.

— Great God! depart! depart, my lord! answered the marquise, pushing Fouquet out of the salon, while Pellisson dragged him by the hand.

— Truly, said the surintendant, am I a child to be frightened by a shadow?

— You are a giant, said the marquise, whom a viper seeks to bite on the heel.

Pellisson continued to drag Fouquet to the carriage.

— To the palace, at full speed! cried Pellisson to the coachman.

The horses set off like lightning; no obstacle slowed their pace for a single instant. Only, at the Saint-Jean archway, when they were about to emerge upon the Place de Grève, a long file of cavalry, barring the narrow passage, stopped the surintendant's carriage. No means of forcing that barrier; they had to wait until the mounted archers of the watch, for such they were, had passed, with the massive cart they escorted and which was climbing rapidly toward the Place Baudoyer.

Fouquet and Pellisson paid heed to this event only to deplore the minute of delay they were forced to suffer. They entered the concierge's lodgings at the palace five minutes later.

That officer was still walking in the first courtyard. At the name of Fouquet, breathed in his ear by Pellisson, the governor approached the carriage with eagerness, and, hat in hand, multiplied his reverences.

— What an honor for me, my lord! said he.

— A word, Monsieur le Gouverneur. Will you do me the favor of entering my carriage?

The officer came to sit facing Fouquet in the heavy vehicle.

— Monsieur, said Fouquet, I have a service to ask of you.

— Speak, my lord.

— A service compromising for you, monsieur, but which assures you forever my protection and my friendship.

— Were it to cast myself into the fire for you, my lord, I would do it.

— Good, said Fouquet; what I ask of you is simpler.

— That being so, my lord; what is it about?

— To conduct me to the chambers of MM. Lyodot and d'Eymeris.

— Does my lord wish to explain why?

— I will tell you in their presence, monsieur, at the same time that I shall give you all means to palliate this escape.

— Escape! But does my lord not know then?

— What?

— MM. Lyodot and d'Eymeris are no longer here.

— Since when? cried Fouquet, trembling.

— These past quarter of an hour.

— Where then are they?

— At Vincennes, in the donjon.

— Who took them from here?

— An order of the king.

— Misfortune! cried Fouquet, striking his brow, misfortune!

And, without another word to the governor, he regained his carriage, despair in his soul, death upon his face.

— Well? said Pellisson with anxiety.

— Well! our friends are lost! Colbert is taking them to the donjon. It was they we crossed under the Saint-Jean archway.

Pellisson, stricken as by a thunderbolt, made no reply. A reproach would have killed his master.

— Where does my lord go? asked the footman.

— Home, to Paris; you, Pellisson, return to Saint-Mandé, bring me the abbé Fouquet within the hour. Go!

Chapter LX — Plan of Battle

The night was already well advanced when the abbé Fouquet arrived at his brother's.

Gourville had accompanied him. These three men, pale with the weight of coming events, resembled less three powers of the day than three conspirators united by a single thought of violence.

Fouquet walked for a long while, his eye fixed upon the parquet, his hands wrung one against the other.

At length, taking his courage amid a great sigh:

— Abbé, said he, you spoke to me today of certain people you keep in your pay?

— Yes, monsieur, replied the abbé.

— Precisely, who are these people?

The abbé hesitated.

— Come now! no fear, I am not threatening; no bravado, I am not jesting.

— Since you ask the truth, monsieur, here it is: I have a hundred and twenty friends or companions of pleasure who are devoted to me as thieves to the gallows.

— And you can count on them?

— In all things.

— And you will not be compromised?

— I shall not even appear.

— And these are men of resolution?

— They would burn Paris if I promised them they would not be burned.

— The thing I ask of you, abbé, said Fouquet, wiping the sweat that fell from his face, is to launch your hundred and twenty men upon the people I shall point out to you, at a given moment... Is that possible?

— It will not be the first time such a thing has happened to them, monsieur.

— Good; but will these bandits attack... the armed force?

— It is their habit.

— Then, gather your hundred and twenty men, abbé.

— Good! Where?

— On the road to Vincennes, tomorrow, at two o'clock precisely.

— To carry off Lyodot and d'Eymeris?... There are blows to be struck?

— Many. Are you afraid?

— Not for myself, but for you.

— Your men will then know what they do?

— They are too intelligent not to guess it. Now, a minister who makes riot against his king... exposes himself.

— What matters it to you, if I pay?... Besides, if I fall, you fall with me.

— It would then be more prudent, monsieur, not to stir, to let the king take this small satisfaction.

— Mark this well, abbé, that Lyodot and d'Eymeris at Vincennes are a prelude of ruin for my house. I repeat, me arrested, you will be imprisoned; me imprisoned, you will be exiled.

— Monsieur, I am at your orders. Have you any to give me?

— What I said: I wish that tomorrow the two financiers they seek to make victims, when there are so many unpunished criminals, be torn from the fury of my enemies. Take your measures accordingly. Is it possible?

— It is possible.

— Show me your plan.

— It is of a rich simplicity. The ordinary guard at executions is twelve archers.

— There will be a hundred tomorrow.

— I count on it; I say more, there will be two hundred.

— Then you have not enough with a hundred and twenty men?

— Pardon me. In any crowd of a hundred thousand spectators, there are ten thousand bandits or cutpurses; only, they dare not take the initiative.

— Well?

— There will therefore be tomorrow, on the Place de Grève, which I choose for the ground, ten thousand auxiliaries to my hundred and twenty men. The attack begun by these, the others will finish it.

— Good! but what shall be done with the prisoners on the Place de Grève?

— Here: they will be made to enter some house upon the square; there, it would take a siege to get them out... And, see here, another idea, yet more sublime: certain houses have two exits, one upon the square, the other upon the rue de la Mortellerie, or de la Vannerie, or de la Tixeranderie. The prisoners, entered by one, will leave by the other.

— But say something positive.

— I am thinking.

— And I, cried Fouquet, I find. Listen well to what comes to me at this moment.

— I listen.

Fouquet made a sign to Gourville, who seemed to understand.

— A friend of mine sometimes lends me the keys of a house he rents in the rue Baudoyer, and whose spacious gardens extend behind a certain house on the Place de Grève.

— There is our affair, said the abbé. Which house?

— A fairly well-patronized tavern, whose sign bears the image of Our Lady.

— I know it, said the abbé.

— This tavern has windows on the square, an exit onto a courtyard, which should lead to my friend's gardens by a communicating door.

— Good!

— Enter by the tavern, have the prisoners enter, defend the door while you make them flee by the garden of the Place Baudoyer.

— It is true, monsieur, you would make an excellent general, like Monsieur le Prince.

— Do you understand?

— Perfectly.

— How much do you need to make your bandits drunk with wine and satisfy them with gold?

— Oh! monsieur, what an expression! Oh! monsieur, if they heard you! Some among them are very touchy.

— I mean that they must be brought to no longer know heaven from earth, for I shall fight tomorrow against the king, and when I fight, I mean to conquer, do you hear?

— It shall be done, monsieur... Give me, monsieur, your other ideas.

— That concerns you.

— Then give me your purse.

— Gourville, count out a hundred thousand livres to the abbé.

— Good... and let us spare nothing, eh?

— Nothing.

— That's the spirit!

— My lord, objected Gourville, if this is known, we lose our heads over it.

— Eh! Gourville, replied Fouquet, purple with anger, you move my pity; speak for yourself, my dear. But my head of mine does not wobble thus upon my shoulders. Come, abbé, is it settled?

— It is settled.

— At two o'clock, tomorrow?

— At noon, because it is now necessary to prepare our auxiliaries in secret.

— That is true: spare not the taverner's wine.

— I shall spare neither his wine nor his house, rejoined the abbé with a snicker. I have my plan, I tell you; leave me to set to work, and you shall see.

— Where will you station yourself?

— Everywhere, and nowhere.

— And how shall I be informed?

— By a courier whose horse shall stand in your friend's very garden. By the way, the name of this friend?

Fouquet looked again at Gourville. The latter came to the master's aid, saying:

— Accompany Monsieur l'Abbé for several reasons; only, the house is recognizable: the Image of Our Lady in front, a garden, the only one in the quarter, behind.

— Good, good. I go to warn my soldiers.

— Accompany him, Gourville, said Fouquet, and count him the money. A moment, abbé... a moment, Gourville... What turn shall we give this abduction?

— A very natural one, monsieur... The riot.

— The riot, on what pretext? For, after all, if ever the people of Paris are disposed to do their court to the king, it is when he hangs financiers.

— I shall arrange that... said the abbé.

— Yes, but you will arrange it ill and it will be guessed.

— Not at all, not at all... I have yet another idea.

— Speak.

— My men will cry: 'Colbert! Long live Colbert!' and throw themselves upon the prisoners as if to tear them to pieces and snatch them from the gallows, too mild a punishment.

— Ah! there is an idea, indeed, said Gourville. Pest! Monsieur l'Abbé, what imagination!

— Monsieur, one is worthy of the family, replied the abbé proudly.

— Rogue! murmured Fouquet.

Then he added:

— It is ingenious! Do it and shed no blood.

Gourville and the abbé departed together, much busied. The surintendant lay upon cushions, half watching over the sinister projects of the morrow, half dreaming of love.

Chapter LXI — The Tavern of the Image-of-Our-Lady

At two o'clock the next day, fifty thousand spectators had taken position upon the square around two gibbets that had been raised in the Grève between the quai de la Grève and the quai Pelletier, one beside the other, backed against the parapet of the river.

That morning also, all the sworn criers of the good city of Paris had traversed the quarters of the cité, above all the markets and the faubourgs, announcing in their raucous and tireless voices the great justice done by the king upon two prevaricators, two thieves who starved the people. And this people whose interests were so warmly taken, lest they fail in respect to their king, left shop, stall, workshop, in order to go testify a little gratitude to Louis XIV, absolutely as would guests who feared to commit an impoliteness in not presenting themselves at the house of one who had invited them.

According to the tenor of the decree, which the criers read aloud and ill, two traitants, engrossers of money, dilapidators of royal funds, extortioners and forgers, were to suffer the capital penalty in the Place de Grève, 'their names affixed upon their heads,' said the decree. As for these names, the decree made no mention of them. The curiosity of the Parisians was at its height, and, as we have said, an immense crowd awaited with febrile impatience the hour fixed for the execution. The news had already spread that the prisoners, transferred to the château of Vincennes, would be conducted from that prison to the Place de Grève. Also the faubourg and the rue Saint-Antoine were thronged, for the population of Paris, on these days of great execution, divides into two categories: those who wish to see the condemned pass, these are the timid and gentle hearts, but curious of philosophy, and those who wish to see the condemned die, these are the hearts greedy of emotion.

That day, M. d'Artagnan, having received his final instructions from the king and taken leave of his friends, and for the moment their number was reduced to Planchet, traced for himself the plan of his day as must do any occupied man whose instants are counted, because he values their importance.

— The departure is, said he, fixed at daybreak, three o'clock in the morning; I therefore have fifteen hours before me. Let us note six hours of sleep which are indispensable to me, six; one hour of meal, seven; one hour of visit to Athos, eight; two hours for the unforeseen. Total: ten.

There remain therefore five hours.

One hour to collect, that is to say to have my money refused at M. Fouquet's; another to go seek that money at M. Colbert's and receive his questions and his grimaces; one hour to oversee my arms, my clothes and have my boots greased. There still remain two hours. Mordioux! how rich I am!

And saying this, d'Artagnan felt a strange joy, a joy of youth, a perfume of those beautiful and happy years of old rise to his head and intoxicate him.

— During these two hours, I shall go, said the musketeer, to collect my quarter's rent of the Image-of-Our-Lady. That will be merry. Three hundred seventy-five livres! Mordioux! how astonishing! If the poor man who has but one livre in his pocket had a livre and twelve deniers, that would be justice, that would be excellent; but never does such a windfall come to the poor. The rich, on the contrary, makes himself revenues with his money, which he does not touch... There are three hundred seventy-five livres falling to me from the sky.

'I shall therefore go to the Image-of-Our-Lady, and I shall drink with my tenant a glass of Spanish wine which he will not fail to offer me.

'But there must be order, Monsieur d'Artagnan, there must be order.

'Let us then organize our time and distribute its employment.

'Article first. Athos.

'Art. 2. The Image-of-Our-Lady.

'Art. 3. M. Fouquet.

'Art. 4. M. Colbert.

'Art. 5. Supper.

'Art. 6. Clothes, boots, horses, portmanteau.

'Art. 7 and last. Sleep.

In consequence of this disposition, d'Artagnan went straight to the Comte de La Fère, to whom modestly and naïvely he recounted a part of his good adventures.

Athos had not been without unease since the day before concerning this visit of d'Artagnan to the king; but four words sufficed him as explanation.

Athos guessed that Louis had charged d'Artagnan with some important mission and did not even try to make him confess the secret. He recommended him to take care, discreetly offered to accompany him if the thing were possible.

— But, dear friend, said d'Artagnan, I am not leaving.

— How! you come to say farewell and you are not leaving?

— Oh! yes indeed, yes indeed, replied d'Artagnan, reddening a little, I am leaving to make a purchase.

— That is another thing. Then I change my formula. Instead of: 'Do not get yourself killed,' I shall say: 'Do not get yourself robbed.'

— My friend, I shall have you warned if I settle my mind on some property; then you will do me the service of advising me.

— Yes, yes, said Athos, too delicate to permit himself the compensation of a smile.

Raoul imitated the paternal reserve. D'Artagnan understood that it was too mysterious to quit friends under a pretext without even telling them the road one took.

— I have chosen Le Mans, said he to Athos. Is it not a good country?

— Excellent, my friend, replied the count, without making him remark that Le Mans was in the same direction as Touraine, and that by waiting at most two days he could travel with a friend.

But d'Artagnan, more embarrassed than the count, dug at each new explanation the bog into which he slowly sank.

— I shall leave tomorrow at daybreak, said he at last. Until then, Raoul, will you come with me?

— Yes, Monsieur le Chevalier, said the young man, if Monsieur le Comte has no need of me.

— No, Raoul; I have audience today with Monsieur, brother of the king, that is all.

Raoul asked his sword of Grimaud, who brought it to him forthwith.

— Then, added d'Artagnan, opening his two arms to Athos, farewell, dear friend!

Athos embraced him long, and the musketeer, who well understood his discretion, slipped into his ear:

— State affair!

To which Athos answered only with a handclasp yet more significant.

Then they parted. Raoul took the arm of his old friend, who led him by the rue Saint-Honoré.

— I am taking you to the god Plutus, said d'Artagnan to the young man; prepare yourself; all day you shall see crowns piled up. How changed I am, my God!

— Oh! oh! here is much people in the street, said Raoul.

— Is it a procession, today? asked d'Artagnan of a lounger.

— Monsieur, it is a hanging, replied the passerby.

— How! a hanging, said d'Artagnan, in the Grève?

— Yes, monsieur.

— The devil take the knave who gets himself hanged on the day I need to go collect my rent term! cried d'Artagnan. Raoul, have you seen a hanging?

— Never, monsieur... God be thanked!

— That is youth for you... If you were on guard at the trench, as I was, and an spy... But, see here, forgive me, Raoul, I ramble... You are right, it is hideous to see a hanging... At what hour will they hang, monsieur, if you please?

— Monsieur, resumed the lounger with deference, charmed as he was to strike up conversation with two men of the sword, it should be for three o'clock.

— Oh! it is but half past one, let us stretch our legs, we shall arrive in time to collect my three hundred seventy-five livres and set off again before the arrival of the patient.

— Patients, monsieur, continued the bourgeois, for they are two.

— Monsieur, I render you a thousand thanks, said d'Artagnan, who, with age, had become of a refined politeness.

And dragging Raoul, he directed himself rapidly toward the quarter of the Grève.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”