Part 3
I lay my love at your feet; but, as love, however humble and discreet it may be, can compromise the object of its worship, it is not fitting that a person of your worth should risk being compromised without consequence for her future.
If you deign to answer my love, my love will prove its gratitude by making you forever free and independent.”
Having written, Fouquet looked at Aramis.
“Sign it,” said the latter.
“Is that truly necessary?”
“Your signature at the bottom of that letter is worth a million; you forget that, my dear superintendent.”
Fouquet signed.
“Now, by whom will you send the letter?” asked Aramis.
“Why, by an excellent servant.”
“Whom you are sure of?”
“It is my usual gray-haired fellow.”
“Very well.”
“Besides, on that side, we are playing a game that is not a heavy one.”
“How so?”
“If what you say is true of the girl's complaisance toward the king and toward Madame, the king will give her all the money she could desire.”
“The king has money, then?” asked Aramis.
“Why, one must believe so, he no longer asks for any.”
“Oh, he will ask again, be assured.”
“There is even more; I should have thought he would speak to me of that fete at Vaux.”
“Well?”
“He has not spoken of it.”
“He will speak of it.”
“Oh, you believe the king very cruel, my dear d'Herblay.”
“Not he.”
“He is young; therefore he is good.”
“He is young; therefore he is weak or passionate; and M. Colbert holds his weakness or his passions in his vile hand.”
“You see plainly that you fear him.”
“I do not deny it.”
“Then I am lost.”
“How so?”
“I was strong with the king only through money.”
“After?”
“And I am ruined.”
“No.”
“How, no? Do you know my affairs better than I?”
“Perhaps.”
“And yet, if he asks for this fete?”
“You will give it.”
“But the money?”
“Have you ever lacked it?”
“Oh, if you knew at what price I procured the last.”
“The next will cost you nothing.”
“Who then will give it to me?”
“I.”
“You will give me six millions?”
“Yes.”
“You, six millions?”
“Ten, if need be.”
“Truly, my dear d'Herblay,” said Fouquet, “your confidence frightens me more than the king's anger.”
“Bah!”
“Who then are you?”
“You know me, it seems to me.”
“I am mistaken; then what do you want?”
“I want upon the throne of France a king who shall be devoted to M. Fouquet, and I want M. Fouquet to be devoted to me.”
“Oh!” cried Fouquet, pressing his hand, “as to belonging to you, I do belong to you; but believe me, my dear d'Herblay, you are deceiving yourself.”
“In what?”
“Never will the king be devoted to me.”
“I did not tell you the king would be devoted to you, it seems to me.”
“But yes, on the contrary, you just said so.”
“I did not say the king. I said a king.”
“Is it not all one?”
“On the contrary, it is quite different.”
“I do not understand.”
“You will understand. Suppose that this king is a man other than Louis XIV.”
“Another man?”
“Yes, who holds everything from you.”
“Impossible!”
“Even his throne.”
“Oh, you are mad! There is no other man than King Louis XIV who can sit upon the throne of France; I see none, not one.”
“I see one, I.”
“Unless it be Monsieur,” said Fouquet, looking at Aramis with uneasiness... “But Monsieur...”
“It is not Monsieur.”
“But how can you wish that a prince who is not of the blood, how can you wish that a prince who will have no right...”
“My king, or rather your king, will be all that he needs to be, be assured.”
“Take care, take care, M. d'Herblay, you give me the shivers, you make me dizzy.”
Aramis smiled.
“You have the shivers and the dizziness cheaply,” he replied.
“Oh, again I say, you frighten me.”
Aramis smiled.
“You laugh?” asked Fouquet.
“And, when the day comes, you will laugh as I do; only, I must now be the only one to laugh.”
“But explain yourself.”
“When the day comes, I will explain myself, fear nothing. You are no more Saint Peter than I am Jesus, and yet I will say to you: 'Man of little faith, why do you doubt?'”
“Ah, my God! I doubt... I doubt, because I do not see.”
“That is because then you are blind: I will no longer treat you as Saint Peter, but as Saint Paul, and I will say to you: 'A day will come when your eyes shall open.'”
“Oh,” said Fouquet, “how I wish I could believe!”
“You do not believe! you, whom I have made cross ten times the abyss where alone you would have plunged; you do not believe, you who from attorney-general have risen to the rank of intendant, from intendant to that of first minister, and who from first minister will pass to that of mayor of the palace. But no,” he said with his eternal smile... “No, no, you cannot see, and consequently you cannot believe that.”
And Aramis rose to withdraw.
“One last word,” said Fouquet, “you have never spoken to me thus, you have never shown yourself so confident, or rather so reckless.”
“Because, to speak loud, one must have a free voice.”
“You have it then?”
“Yes.”
“Only recently then?”
“Since yesterday.”
“Oh, M. d'Herblay, take care, you push security to the point of audacity.”
“Because one may be audacious when one is powerful.”
“You are powerful?”
“I offered you ten millions, I offer them to you again.”
Fouquet rose, troubled in his turn.
“Come,” said he, “come: you spoke of overthrowing kings, of replacing them with other kings. God forgive me! but that is, if I am not mad, what you said just now.”
“You are not mad, and I did indeed say that just now.”
“And why did you say it?”
“Because one may speak thus of overthrown thrones and created kings, when one is oneself above kings and thrones... of this world.”
“Then you are all-powerful?” cried Fouquet.
“I told you so and I repeat it to you,” answered Aramis, his eye bright and his lip trembling.
Fouquet threw himself back in his armchair and let his head fall into his hands.
Aramis looked at him for an instant as the angel of human destinies might have looked upon a mere mortal.
“Farewell,” he said to him, “sleep in peace, and send your letter to La Vallière. Tomorrow we shall meet again, shall we not?”
“Yes, tomorrow,” said Fouquet, shaking his head like a man returning to himself; “but where shall we meet?”
“At the king's walk, if you wish.”
“Very well.”
And they parted.
Chapter CXXXV — The Storm
The next day, the day had risen somber and pallid, and, as everyone knew the walk was fixed in the royal program, each man's eye, on opening, turned to the sky.
At the tops of the trees hung a thick and burning vapor which had scarce had strength to rise thirty feet above the ground beneath the rays of a sun visible only through the veil of a heavy, dense cloud.
That morning, no dew. The lawns remained dry, the flowers thirsty. The birds sang with more reserve than usual in the motionless foliage, as if it were dead. The strange, confused murmurs, full of life, which seem to be born and to exist by the sun, that respiration of nature which speaks incessantly amid all other noises, was not to be heard: silence had never been so profound.
This sadness of the sky struck the king's eyes when he went to the window on rising.
But, as all orders were given for the walk, as all preparations were made, as, a far more peremptory thing, Louis counted upon this walk to answer the promises of his imagination, and, we may even already say, the needs of his heart, the king decided without hesitation that the state of the sky had nothing to do with all this, that the walk was decided and that, whatever the weather, the walk should take place.
Besides, there are in certain earthly reigns, privileged of heaven, hours when one would believe the will of the earthly king has influence upon the divine will. Augustus had Virgil to tell him: _Nocte placet tota redeunt spectacula mane_. Louis XIV had Boileau, who was to tell him far other things, and God, who was bound to show himself almost as complaisant toward him as Jupiter had been toward Augustus.
Louis heard mass as was his wont, but it must be owned, somewhat distracted from the presence of the Creator by the memory of the creature. During the service he occupied himself more than once in counting the minutes, then the seconds, that separated him from the blessed moment when the walk was to begin, that is to say, the moment when Madame should set out with her maids of honor.
Besides, it goes without saying that everyone in the castle was ignorant of the interview which had taken place the evening before between La Vallière and the king. Montalais, perhaps, with her habitual gossiping, would have spread it; but Montalais, in this instance, was corrected by Malicorne, who had put upon her lips the padlock of common interest.
As for Louis XIV, he was so happy that he had pardoned, or nearly so, Madame her little spite of the eve. Indeed, he had rather to commend than to complain of it. Without that spite, he would not have received La Vallière's letter; without that letter, there was no audience, and without that audience he remained in indecision. Too much felicity therefore entered his heart for resentment to find place there, at least at this moment.
Therefore, instead of frowning on perceiving his sister-in-law, Louis promised himself to show her even more friendship and gracious welcome than usual.
It was upon one condition, however, upon the condition that she should be ready early.
Such were the things Louis thought of during mass, and which, it must be said, made him, during the holy exercise, forget those whereof he should have thought as most Christian king and eldest son of the Church.
Yet God is so good to young hearts, all that is love, even guilty love, finds so easy pardon in his fatherly eyes, that on leaving mass, Louis, raising his eyes to heaven, could see through the rents of a cloud a corner of that azure tapestry trodden by the foot of the Lord.
He re-entered the castle, and, as the walk was appointed for noon only and it was but ten o'clock, he set himself to work furiously with Colbert and Lyonne.
But, as, while working, Louis went from the table to the window, seeing that this window gave upon Madame's pavilion, he could see in the courtyard M. Fouquet, whose courtiers, since his favor of the eve, esteemed more than ever, who came, on his side, with an affable air and quite happy, to pay his court to the king.
Instinctively, on seeing Fouquet, the king turned toward Colbert.
Colbert smiled and seemed himself full of amenity and jubilation. This happiness had come to him since one of his secretaries had entered and handed him a portfolio which, without opening it, Colbert had thrust into the vast pocket of his breeches.
But, as there was always something sinister at the bottom of Colbert's joy, Louis chose, between the two smiles, that of Fouquet.
He signed to the superintendent to come up; then, turning toward Lyonne and Colbert:
“Finish,” said he, “this work, lay it on my desk, I will read it at leisure.”
And he went out.
At the king's sign, Fouquet had hastened up. As for Aramis, who accompanied the superintendent, he had gravely withdrawn into the midst of the group of ordinary courtiers, and was lost there without even being noticed by the king.
The king and Fouquet met at the top of the staircase.
“Sire,” said Fouquet, seeing the gracious welcome Louis prepared for him, “Sire, for some days Your Majesty has been overwhelming me. It is no longer a young king, it is a young god who reigns over France, the god of pleasure, of happiness, and of love.”
The king blushed. Flattering though the compliment was, it was none the less a little direct.
The king led Fouquet into a small salon which separated his working cabinet from his bedchamber.
“Do you know why I call you?” said the king, seating himself on the edge of the window, so as to lose nothing of what passed in the parterres upon which opened the second entrance of Madame's pavilion.
“No, Sire... but it is for something happy, I am certain, from the gracious smile of Your Majesty.”
“Ah! you prejudge?”
“No, Sire, I look and I see.”
“Then you are mistaken.”
“I, Sire?”
“For I call you, on the contrary, to scold you.”
“Me, Sire?”
“Yes, and one of the most serious.”
“Truly, Your Majesty frightens me... and yet I wait, full of confidence in your justice and your goodness.”
“What is this I hear, M. Fouquet, that you are preparing a great fete at Vaux?”
Fouquet smiled like a patient at the first shiver of a forgotten fever that returns.
“And you do not invite me?” continued the king.
“Sire,” replied Fouquet, “I was not thinking of this fete, and it was only last evening that one of my friends”—Fouquet stressed the word—“had the kindness to make me think of it.”
“But last evening I saw you and you spoke to me of nothing, M. Fouquet.”
“Sire, how hope that Your Majesty would descend so far from the high regions where she lives as to honor my dwelling with her royal presence?”
“Excuse, M. Fouquet; you spoke to me not of your fete.”
“I spoke not of this fete, I repeat, to the king first because nothing was decided regarding this fete, next because I feared a refusal.”
“And what made you fear this refusal, M. Fouquet? Take care, I am resolved to push you to the limit.”
“Sire, the deep desire I had to see the king accept my invitation.”
“Well, M. Fouquet, nothing easier, I see, than to agree. You have the desire to invite me to your fete, I have the desire to go; invite me, and I will go.”
“What! Your Majesty would deign to accept?” murmured the superintendent.
“Truly, sir,” said the king, laughing, “I believe I do more than accept; I believe I invite myself.”
“Your Majesty overwhelms me with honor and joy!” cried Fouquet; “but I shall be forced to repeat what M. de La Vieuville said to your grandfather Henri IV: _Domine, non sum dignus._”
“My answer to that, M. Fouquet, is that, if you give a fete, invited or not, I will go to your fete.”
“Oh! thanks, thanks, my king!” said Fouquet, raising his head under this favor which, in his mind, was his ruin. “But how was Your Majesty informed?”
“By public rumor, M. Fouquet, which says wonders of you and miracles of your house. Will it make you proud, M. Fouquet, that the king is jealous of you?”
“It will make me the happiest man in the world, Sire, since the day the king is jealous of Vaux, I shall have something worthy to offer my king.”
“Well, M. Fouquet, prepare your fete, and open the doors of your house wide.”
“And you, Sire,” said Fouquet, “fix the day.”
“A month from today.”
“Sire, has Your Majesty nothing else to desire?”
“Nothing, M. le Superintendent, save, between now and then, to have you near me as much as possible.”
“Sire, I have the honor to be of Your Majesty's walk.”
“Very well; I am going out indeed, M. Fouquet, and here are the ladies going to the rendezvous.”
The king, at these words, with all the ardor, not only of a young man, but of a young man in love, withdrew from the window to take his gloves and cane which his valet de chambre held out to him.
Outside was heard the stamping of horses and the rolling of wheels upon the sand of the court.
The king descended. At the moment he appeared on the steps, all stopped. The king walked straight to the young queen. As for the queen mother, ever more afflicted by the malady whence she suffered, she had not wished to go out.
Marie-Thérèse mounted into the carriage with Madame, and asked the king which way he wished the walk directed.
The king, who had just seen La Vallière, still quite pale from the events of the eve, mount into a calash with three of her companions, answered the queen that he had no preference, and that he would be well everywhere she should be.
The queen then commanded the huntsmen to turn toward Apremont.
The huntsmen set out in advance.
The king mounted on horseback. He followed for some minutes the carriage of the queen and Madame, keeping at the door.
The weather had well-nigh cleared; yet a kind of dusty veil, like a soiled gauze, spread over the whole surface of the sky; the sun made micaceous atoms glitter in the circuit of its rays.
The heat was stifling.
But, as the king seemed not to heed the state of the sky, none appeared concerned, and the walk, according to the order given by the queen, was directed toward Apremont.
The troop of courtiers was noisy and gay; one saw that each strove to forget and to make others forget the bitter discussions of the eve.
Madame especially was charming.
Indeed, Madame saw the king at her door, and, as she supposed he was not there for the queen, she hoped her prince had returned to her.
But, at about a quarter of a league upon the road, the king, after a gracious smile, bowed and turned bridle, letting the queen's carriage pass, then that of the chief ladies of honor, then all the others successively, who, seeing him stop, wished to stop in their turn.
But the king made them a sign with his hand that they should continue their way.
When the carriage of La Vallière passed, the king drew near it.
The king saluted the ladies and was about to follow the carriage of the maids of honor as he had followed that of Madame, when the file of carriages suddenly stopped.
No doubt the queen, uneasy at the king's absence, had just given order to accomplish this maneuver.
It will be remembered that the direction of the walk had been granted her.
The king had it asked of her what her desire was in stopping the carriages.
“To walk on foot,” she answered.
No doubt she hoped that the king, who on horseback followed the carriage of the maids of honor, would not dare on foot to follow the maids of honor themselves.
They were in the midst of the forest.
The walk, indeed, promised fair, fair especially for dreamers or lovers.
Three fine avenues, long, shady, and broken by inequalities, branched from the little crossroads where they had just halted.
These avenues, green with moss, notched with foliage each having a little horizon of a foot of sky glimpsed beneath the interlacing of the trees, such was the aspect of the place.
At the end of these avenues passed and repassed, with manifest signs of uneasiness, the affrighted deer, who, after stopping an instant in the middle of the path and raising their heads, fled like arrows, springing back in a single bound into the thickness of the woods, where they disappeared, while from time to time a philosophical rabbit, upright on his hind legs, scratched his muzzle with his forepaws and interrogated the air to recognize whether all these people who approached and thus came to trouble his meditations, his meals, and his loves, were not followed by some bandy-legged dog or bore not some fowling-piece under the arm.
The whole company, besides, had descended from the carriages on seeing the queen descend.
Marie-Thérèse took the arm of one of her ladies of honor, and, after an oblique glance cast at the king, who seemed not to perceive that he was in the least the object of the queen's attention, she plunged into the forest by the first path that opened before her.
Two huntsmen walked before Her Majesty with canes wherewith they lifted branches or parted the brambles that might embarrass the way.
On alighting, Madame found at her side M. de Guiche, who bowed before her and placed himself at her disposal.
Monsieur, enchanted with his bath of the night before, had declared he chose the river, and, giving Guiche leave, had remained at the castle with the Chevalier de Lorraine and Manicamp.
He felt no shadow of jealousy any longer.
He had therefore been sought in the cortege in vain; but as Monsieur was a very self-centered prince, who usually contributed but indifferently to the general pleasure, his absence had been rather a subject of satisfaction than of regret.
Each had followed the example given by the queen and by Madame, accommodating himself as he pleased according to chance or according to his taste.
The king, we have said, had remained near La Vallière, and, dismounting at the moment the carriage door was opened, had offered her his hand.
Straightway Montalais and Tonnay-Charente drew away, the first by calculation, the second by discretion.
Only, there was this difference between them, that the one withdrew in the desire to be agreeable to the king and the other in that of being disagreeable to him.
During the last half-hour, the weather too had made its dispositions: all that veil, as driven by a wind of heat, had massed in the west; then, repelled by a contrary current, advanced slowly, heavily.
One felt the storm approaching; but, as the king did not see it, no one thought himself entitled to see it.
The walk was therefore continued; a few uneasy spirits lifted their eyes to the sky from time to time.
Others, still more timid, walked without straying from the carriages, where they counted on finding shelter in case of storm.
But the greater part of the cortege, seeing the king boldly enter the wood with La Vallière, the greater part of the cortege, we say, followed the king.
Seeing which, the king took La Vallière's hand and drew her into a side avenue, where this time no one dared follow him.
Chapter CXXXVI — The Rain
At this moment, in the very direction just taken by the king and La Vallière only, walking under the trees instead of following the avenue, two men advanced quite careless of the state of the sky.
They held their heads bent like men thinking of grave interests.
They had seen neither Guiche, nor Madame, nor the king, nor La Vallière.
Suddenly something passed in the air like a puff of flame followed by a dull and distant rumbling.
“Stories of the world, in your language.”