Part 21

— You estimate eight hundred thousand livres?…

— About that.

— That is what I thought. But the settings are separate.

— As always, madame, were I called upon to sell or buy, I should content myself, for profit, with the gold alone of these settings; I should still have a good twenty-five thousand livres.

— That is pretty!

— Yes, madame, very pretty.

— Do you accept the profit on condition of turning the jewels into ready money?

— But, madame! cried the goldsmith in alarm, you are not selling your diamonds, I suppose?

— Silence, Monsieur Faucheux, do not trouble yourself about that, merely answer me. You are an honest man, supplier to my house for thirty years, you knew my father and mother, as your father and mother served theirs. I speak to you as to a friend; do you accept the gold of the settings against a sum in ready money which you will place in my hands?

— Eight hundred thousand livres! but that is enormous!

— I know it.

— Impossible to raise!

— Oh, no.

— But madame, think of the effect that the rumor of a sale of your jewels would produce in the world!

— No one would know… You will have made for me as many false ornaments resembling the real ones. Answer nothing, I wish it. Sell retail, sell only the stones.

— That way, it is easy… The gentleman seeks cases, loose stones for Madame’s toilette. There is competition. I shall easily place six hundred thousand livres’ worth with the gentleman. I am sure yours are the finest.

— When?

— Within three days.

— Well! the rest, you will place with private individuals; for the present, draw me up a guaranteed deed of sale… payment within four days.

— Madame, madame, reflect, I beg of you… You will lose a hundred thousand livres, if you hurry.

— I shall lose two hundred thousand if need be. I wish all to be done this evening. Do you accept?

— I accept, Madame la Marquise… I do not conceal that I shall gain by this five thousand pistoles.

— So much the better! how shall I have the money?

— In gold or in notes of the Bank of Lyon, payable at Monsieur Colbert’s.

— I accept, said the marquise quickly; return home and bring the sum in notes promptly, do you hear?

— Yes, madame; but, for pity’s sake…

— Not another word, Monsieur Faucheux. By the way, the silverware, which I forgot… How much is mine worth?

— Fifty thousand livres, madame.

— That makes a million, said the marquise to herself. Monsieur Faucheux, you will also have the goldsmith’s work and the silverware with all the plate taken. I plead a recasting for models more to my taste… Melt down, I say, and render me the value in gold… at once.

— Very well, Madame la Marquise.

— You will put this gold in a coffer; you will have this gold accompanied by one of your clerks and without my people seeing it; this clerk will await me in a carriage.

— That of Madame Faucheux? said the goldsmith.

— If you wish, I will take it from your house.

— Yes, Madame la Marquise.

— Take three of my people to carry the silverware to your house.

— Yes, madame.

The marquise rang.

— The cart, she said, at the disposal of Monsieur Faucheux.

The goldsmith bowed and went out, ordering the cart to follow him closely and announcing himself that the marquise was having her plate melted down to have newer.

Three hours later, she went to Monsieur Faucheux and received from him eight hundred thousand livres in notes of the Bank of Lyon, two hundred fifty thousand livres in gold, enclosed in a coffer which a clerk bore with difficulty to Madame Faucheux’s carriage.

For Madame Faucheux had a coach. Daughter of a president of accounts, she had brought thirty thousand écus to her husband, syndic of the goldsmiths. The thirty thousand écus had borne fruit for twenty years. The goldsmith was a millionaire and modest. For himself, he had made the purchase of a venerable carriage, manufactured in 1648, ten years after the birth of the king. This carriage, or rather this rolling house, was the admiration of the quarter; it was covered with allegorical paintings and clouds strewn with stars of gold and gilded silver.

It was in this somewhat grotesque equipage that the noble woman mounted, facing the clerk, who hid his knees for fear of brushing the marquise’s robe.

It was this same clerk who said to the coachman, proud to drive a marquise: Road to Saint-Mandé!

Chapter CII — The Dowry

Monsieur Faucheux’s horses were honest horses of Perche, with big knees and legs somewhat swollen. Like the carriage, they dated from the other half of the century.

They did not run, then, like Monsieur Fouquet’s English horses.

Thus they took two hours to reach Saint-Mandé.

It may be said that they walked majestically.

Majesty excludes movement.

The marquise stopped before a well-known door, though she had seen it but once, it will be remembered, in a circumstance no less painful than that which brought her there again.

She drew a key from her pocket, introduced it with her little white hand into the lock, pushed the door which yielded without noise, and gave order to the clerk to carry the small coffer to the first floor.

But the weight of this coffer was such that the clerk was forced to have himself helped by the coachman.

The coffer was deposited in that small cabinet, antechamber or rather boudoir, adjoining the salon where we have seen Monsieur Fouquet at the marquise’s feet.

Madame de Bellière gave a louis to the coachman, a charming smile to the clerk, and dismissed them both.

Behind them, she closed the door again and thus awaited, alone and barricaded. No servant appeared within.

But everything was prepared as if an invisible genius had divined the needs and desires of the guest or rather hostess who was expected.

The fire laid, the candles in the candelabra, the refreshments on the shelf, the books on the tables, the fresh flowers in the Japan vases.

It was like an enchanted house.

The marquise lit the candelabra, breathed the perfume of the flowers, sat down and soon fell into a deep reverie.

But this reverie, wholly melancholy, was imbued with a certain sweetness.

She saw before her a treasure displayed in that chamber. A million which she had torn from her fortune as the reaper tears a cornflower from its crown.

She fashioned the sweetest dreams.

She thought especially and above all of the means of leaving all this money to Monsieur Fouquet without his being able to know whence the gift came. This means was the one which naturally had presented itself first to her mind.

But, though, on reflection, the thing had seemed difficult to her, she did not despair of attaining this end.

She was to ring to call Monsieur Fouquet, and flee happier than if, instead of giving a million, she found a million herself.

But, since she had arrived there, since she had seen this so coquettish boudoir, which one would have said a chambermaid had just cleared of the last atom of dust; when she had seen this so well-kept salon, which one would have said she had chased the fairies who dwelt there, she asked herself if already the glances of those she had made flee, genies, fairies, sprites or human creatures, had not recognized her.

Then Fouquet would know all; what he would not know, he would guess; Fouquet would refuse to accept as a gift what he might perhaps have accepted as a loan, and, thus conducted, the enterprise would miss its aim as well as its result.

It was necessary, then, that the step be seriously taken to succeed. It was necessary that the superintendent understand all the gravity of his position to submit to the generous caprice of a woman; it was necessary, finally, to persuade him, all the charm of an eloquent friendship, and, if that were not enough, all the intoxication of an ardent love that nothing would turn from its absolute desire to convince.

Indeed, was not the superintendent known as a man full of delicacy and dignity? Would he let himself be loaded with the spoils of a woman? No, he would struggle, and if a voice in the world could vanquish his resistance, it was the voice of the woman he loved.

Now, another doubt, a cruel doubt which passed into the heart of Madame de Bellière with the pain and sharp cold of a dagger: Did he love?

Would that light spirit, that fickle heart resolve to fix itself a moment, were it but to contemplate an angel?

Was it not with Fouquet, despite all his genius, despite all his probity, as with conquerors who shed tears upon the battlefield when they have won the victory?

“Well! it is of that I must enlighten myself, it is on that I must judge him, said the marquise. Who knows if this much-coveted heart is not a vulgar heart full of alloy, who knows if this spirit will not prove, when I apply the touchstone to it, of a trivial and inferior nature? Come! come! she cried, it is too much doubt, too much hesitation, the test! the test!”

She looked at the clock.

“There, seven o’clock, he must have arrived, it is the hour of the signings. Come!”

And, rising with a feverish impatience, she walked toward the mirror, in which she smiled at herself with the energetic smile of devotion; she pressed the spring and drew the button of the bell.

Then, as if exhausted in advance by the struggle she had just engaged, she went to kneel distraught before a vast armchair, where her head buried itself in her trembling hands.

Ten minutes later, she heard the spring of the door creak.

The door rolled on its invisible hinges.

Fouquet appeared.

He was pale; he was bowed under the weight of a bitter thought.

He did not run; he came, that was all.

The preoccupation must have been powerful indeed for that man of pleasure, for whom pleasure was all, to come so slowly to such a summons.

Indeed, the night, fertile in painful dreams, had thinned his features usually so nobly careless, had traced around his eyes orbits of bistre.

He was still handsome, still noble, and the melancholy expression of his mouth, an expression so rare in this man, gave his physiognomy a new character which rejuvenated it.

Dressed in black, his chest all swollen with laces ravaged by his anxious hand, the superintendent stopped, his eye full of reverie, on the threshold of that chamber where so often he had come to seek the expected happiness.

This dreary sweetness, this smiling sadness replacing the exaltation of joy, produced upon Madame de Bellière, who looked at him from afar, an indefinable effect.

A woman’s eye knows how to read all pride or all suffering upon the features of the man she loves; one would say that by reason of their weakness, God has wished to grant women more than He grants other creatures.

They can hide their feelings from the man; the man cannot hide his from them.

The marquise guessed at a single glance all the unhappiness of the superintendent.

She guessed a night passed without sleep, a day passed in disappointments.

Thereupon she was strong, she felt that she loved Fouquet beyond all things.

She rose, and, approaching him:

— You wrote me this morning, she said, that you were beginning to forget me, and that I, whom you had not seen again, had no doubt finished thinking of you. I come to give you the lie, monsieur, and that the more surely in that I read a thing in your eyes.

— Which, madame? asked Fouquet in astonishment.

— It is that you have never loved me so much as at this hour; just as you must read in my bearing, I, that I have not forgotten you.

— Oh! you, marquise, said Fouquet, whose noble face was illuminated for an instant by a flash of joy, you, you are an angel, and men have not the right to doubt you! They have then but to humble themselves and ask grace!

— Grace be then accorded you!

Fouquet would have knelt.

— No, she said, beside me, sit down. Ah! there is a wicked thought passing into your mind!

— And how do you see that, madame?

— By your smile, which has just spoiled all your physiognomy. Come, what are you thinking of? Speak, be frank, no secrets between friends?

— Well! madame, tell me then why this rigor of three or four months.

— This rigor?

— Yes; did you not forbid me to visit you?

— Alas! my friend, said Madame de Bellière with a deep sigh, because your visit to my house caused you a great misfortune, because one watches over my house, because the same eyes that saw you might see you again, because I find it less dangerous for you that I come here, than that you come to my house; finally, because I find you unhappy enough not to wish to increase your unhappiness…

Fouquet trembled.

These words had just recalled him to the cares of the superintendency, he who for some minutes remembered only the hopes of the lover.

— Unhappy, I? he said, attempting a smile. But truly, marquise, you would make me believe it with your sadness. Are these beautiful eyes lifted upon me only to pity me? Oh! I expect another sentiment from them.

— It is not I who am sad, monsieur: look in that mirror; it is you.

— Marquise, I am a little pale, it is true, but it is excess of work; the king asked me for money yesterday.

— Yes, four millions; I know that.

— You know it! cried Fouquet, surprised. And how do you know it? It is only at play, after the departure of the queens and in presence of a single person, that the king…

— You see that I know it; that suffices, does it not? Well! continue, my friend: it is that the king asked you…

— Well! you understand, marquise, one had to procure it, then have it counted, then registered, it is long. Since the death of Monsieur de Mazarin, there is a little fatigue and embarrassment in the financial service. My administration finds itself overloaded, that is why I sat up last night.

— So that you have the sum? asked the marquise, anxious.

— It would be a fine thing, marquise, replied Fouquet gaily, that a superintendent of finances should not have four poor millions in his coffers.

— Yes, I believe you have them or that you will have them.

— How, that I will have them?

— It is not long since he had already had two millions asked of you.

— It seems to me, on the contrary, that it is a century ago, marquise; but let us speak no more of money, if you please.

— On the contrary, let us speak of it, my friend.

— Oh!

— Listen, I came only for that.

— But what can you mean? asked the superintendent, whose eyes expressed an anxious curiosity.

— Monsieur, is the superintendency an irremovable office?

— Marquise!

— You see that I answer you, and frankly too.

— Marquise, you surprise me, you speak to me like a backer.

— It is quite simple: I wish to place money with you, and, naturally, I desire to know if you are secure.

— Truly, marquise, I am lost and no longer know where you would arrive.

— Seriously, my dear Monsieur Fouquet, I have some funds which embarrass me. I am weary of buying lands and desire to charge a friend with making my money yield.

— But that is not pressing, I imagine? said Fouquet.

— On the contrary, it is pressing, and greatly.

— Well! we will talk of it later.

— Not later, for my money is there.

The marquise showed the coffer to the superintendent, and, opening it, made him see bundles of notes and a mass of gold.

Fouquet had risen at the same time as Madame de Bellière; he remained a moment pensive; then suddenly, drawing back, he paled and fell upon a chair, hiding his face in his hands.

— Oh! marquise! marquise! he murmured.

— Well?

— What opinion then have you of me to make me such an offer?

— Of you?

— Doubtless.

— But what do you think yourself? Come now.

— This money, you bring it to me for me: you bring it to me because you know me embarrassed. Oh! do not deny it. I guess. Do I not know your heart?

— Well! if you know my heart, you see that it is my heart that I offer you.

— I have then guessed! cried Fouquet. Oh! madame, truly, I have never given you the right to insult me thus.

— Insult you! said she, paling. Strange human delicacy! You love me, did you tell me? You asked me, in the name of that love, for my reputation, my honor? And when I offer you my money, you refuse!

— Marquise, marquise, you were free to keep what you call your reputation and your honor. Leave me the liberty of keeping mine. Leave me to ruin myself, leave me to succumb under the weight of the hatreds that surround me, under the weight of the faults I have committed, under the weight of my very remorses; but, in the name of Heaven! marquise, do not crush me under this last blow.

— You lacked spirit just now, Monsieur Fouquet, she said.

— That is possible, madame.

— And now, see, you lack heart.

Fouquet compressed with his clenched hand his panting breast.

— Overwhelm me, madame, he said, I have nothing to answer.

— I offered you my friendship, Monsieur Fouquet.

— Yes, madame; but you confined yourself there.

— What I do, is it that of a friend?

— Doubtless.

— And you refuse this proof of my friendship?

— I refuse it.

— Look at me, Monsieur Fouquet.

The marquise’s eyes sparkled.

— I offer you my love.

— Oh! madame! said Fouquet.

— I love you, do you hear, for a long time; women have like men their false delicacy. For a long time I have loved you, but I would not tell you.

— Oh! said Fouquet, joining his hands.

— Well! I tell you. You asked me this love on your knees, I refused it; I was blind as you were just now. My love, I offer it to you.

— Yes, your love, but your love only.

— My love, my person, my life! all, all, all!

— Oh! my God! cried Fouquet, dazzled.

— Will you have my love?

— Oh! but you overwhelm me under the weight of my happiness!

— Will you be happy? Say, say… if I am yours, wholly yours?

— It is supreme felicity!

— Then, take me. But, if I make you the sacrifice of a prejudice, make me that of a scruple.

— Madame, madame, do not tempt me!

— My friend, my friend, do not refuse me!

— Oh! take care what you propose!

— Fouquet, one word… “No!…” and I open that door. She showed the one leading to the street. And you will see me no more. Another word… “Yes!…” and I follow you where you will, eyes closed, without defense, without refusal, without remorse.

— Élise!… Élise!… But this coffer?

— It is my dowry!

— It is your ruin! cried Fouquet, overturning the gold and papers; there is a million there…

— Exactly… My jewels, which will serve me no more if you do not love me; which will serve me no more if you love me as I love you!

— Oh! it is too much! it is too much! cried Fouquet. I yield, I yield: were it only to consecrate such devotion. I accept the dowry…

— And here is the woman, said the marquise, throwing herself into his arms.

Chapter CIII — God’s Ground

During this time, Buckingham and de Wardes made, as good companions and in perfect harmony, the road from Paris to Calais.

Buckingham had hastened his adieus, so that he had brushed the best part of them abruptly.

The visits to Monsieur and Madame, to the young queen and the queen dowager had been collective.

Foresight of the queen mother, who spared him the pain of speaking again in private with Monsieur, who spared him the danger of seeing Madame again.

Buckingham embraced de Guiche and Raoul; he assured the first of all his consideration; the second of a constant friendship destined to triumph over all obstacles and to let itself be shaken neither by distance nor by time.

The wagons had already gone ahead; he departed in the evening by coach with all his household.

De Wardes, all chafed at being, so to speak, taken in tow by this Englishman, had sought in his subtle mind all the means of escaping this chain; but none had given him assistance, and he was forced to bear the penalty of his ill spirit and his causticity.

Those to whom he might have opened himself, as men of wit, would have railed at him on the superiority of the duke.

The other minds, heavier but more sensible, would have alleged the king’s orders, which forbade dueling.

The others, finally, and they were the most numerous, who, by Christian charity or national pride, would have lent him assistance, cared not to incur disgrace, and would at most have warned the ministers of a departure which might degenerate into a small massacre.

It resulted that, all weighed well, de Wardes made his portmanteau, took two horses, and, followed by a single lackey, set out toward the barrier where Buckingham’s coach was to take him up.

The duke received his adversary as he would the most amiable acquaintance, made room for him to sit, offered him sweetmeats, spread over him the sable mantle thrown on the front seat. Then they conversed:

Of the court, without speaking of Madame;

Of Monsieur, without speaking of his household;

Of the king, without speaking of his sister-in-law;

Of the queen mother, without speaking of her daughter-in-law;

Of the king of England, without speaking of his sister;

Of the state of heart of each of the travelers, without pronouncing any dangerous name.

Also the journey, which was made in small day-stages, was charming.

Also Buckingham, truly French by spirit and education, was enchanted to have so well chosen his partner.

Good meals touched with the tip of the teeth, trials of horses in the fine meadows cut by the road, hunts for hares, for Buckingham had his greyhounds. Such was the employment of time.

The duke resembled a little that beautiful river Seine, which a thousand times embraces France in its amorous meanderings before deciding to reach the Ocean.

But, in leaving France, it was above all the new Frenchwoman he had brought to Paris that Buckingham regretted; not one of his thoughts that was not a memory and, consequently, a regret.

Also when, sometimes, despite his mastery over himself, he sank into his thoughts, de Wardes left him wholly to his reveries.

This delicacy would certainly have touched Buckingham and changed his dispositions toward de Wardes, if the latter, while keeping silence, had had a less malicious eye and a less false smile.

But instinctive hatreds are inflexible; nothing extinguishes them; a little ash sometimes covers them, but beneath that ash they smolder more furiously.

Having exhausted all the distractions the road presented, they arrived, as we have said, at Calais.

It was toward the end of the sixth day.

From the eve before, the duke’s people had gone ahead and freighted a boat. This boat was destined to go join the little yacht which ran tacks in sight, or moored, when it felt its white wings tired, two or three cannon-shots from the jetty.

This boat going and coming was to carry all the duke’s equipages.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”