Chapter XV. Colbert.

History will tell us, or rather history has told us, of the various

events of the following day, of the splendid _fetes_ given by the

surintendant to his sovereign. Nothing but amusement and delight was

allowed to prevail throughout the whole of the following day; there

was a promenade, a banquet, a comedy to be acted, and a comedy, too,

in which, to his great amazement, Porthos recognized “M. Coquelin de

Voliere” as one of the actors, in the piece called “Les Facheux.” Full

of preoccupation, however, from the scene of the previous evening, and

hardly recovered from the effects of the poison which Colbert had then

administered to him, the king, during the whole of the day, so brilliant

in its effects, so full of unexpected and startling novelties, in which

all the wonders of the “Arabian Night’s Entertainments” seemed to be

reproduced for his especial amusement--the king, we say, showed himself

cold, reserved, and taciturn. Nothing could smooth the frowns upon

his face; every one who observed him noticed that a deep feeling of

resentment, of remote origin, increased by slow degrees, as the source

becomes a river, thanks to the thousand threads of water that increase

its body, was keenly alive in the depths of the king’s heart. Towards

the middle of the day only did he begin to resume a little serenity of

manner, and by that time he had, in all probability, made up his mind.

Aramis, who followed him step by step in his thoughts, as in his walk,

concluded that the event he was expecting would not be long before it

was announced. This time Colbert seemed to walk in concert with the

bishop of Vannes, and had he received for every annoyance which he

inflicted on the king a word of direction from Aramis, he could not

have done better. During the whole of the day the king, who, in all

probability, wished to free himself from some of the thoughts which

disturbed his mind, seemed to seek La Vallière’s society as actively as

he seemed to show his anxiety to flee that of M. Colbert or M. Fouquet.

The evening came. The king had expressed a wish not to walk in the park

until after cards in the evening. In the interval between supper and

the promenade, cards and dice were introduced. The king won a thousand

pistoles, and, having won them, put them in his pocket, and then rose,

saying, “And now, gentlemen, to the park.” He found the ladies of the

court were already there. The king, we have before observed, had won a

thousand pistoles, and had put them in his pocket; but M. Fouquet had

somehow contrived to lose ten thousand, so that among the courtiers

there was still left a hundred and ninety thousand francs’ profit to

divide, a circumstance which made the countenances of the courtiers and

the officers of the king’s household the most joyous countenances in

the world. It was not the same, however, with the king’s face; for,

notwithstanding his success at play, to which he was by no means

insensible, there still remained a slight shade of dissatisfaction.

Colbert was waiting for or upon him at the corner of one of the avenues;

he was most probably waiting there in consequence of a rendezvous which

had been given him by the king, as Louis XIV., who had avoided him, or

who had seemed to avoid him, suddenly made him a sign, and they then

struck into the depths of the park together. But La Vallière, too, had

observed the king’s gloomy aspect and kindling glances; she had remarked

this--and as nothing which lay hidden or smoldering in his heart

was hidden from the gaze of her affection, she understood that this

repressed wrath menaced some one; she prepared to withstand the current

of his vengeance, and intercede like an angel of mercy. Overcome by

sadness, nervously agitated, deeply distressed at having been so long

separated from her lover, disturbed at the sight of the emotion she

had divined, she accordingly presented herself to the king with an

embarrassed aspect, which in his then disposition of mind the king

interpreted unfavorably. Then, as they were alone--nearly alone,

inasmuch as Colbert, as soon as he perceived the young girl approaching,

had stopped and drawn back a dozen paces--the king advanced towards

La Vallière and took her by the hand. “Mademoiselle,” he said to her,

“should I be guilty of an indiscretion if I were to inquire if you were

indisposed? for you seem to breathe as if you were oppressed by some

secret cause of uneasiness, and your eyes are filled with tears.”

“Oh! sire, if I be indeed so, and if my eyes are indeed full of tears, I

am sorrowful only at the sadness which seems to oppress your majesty.”

“My sadness? You are mistaken, mademoiselle; no, it is not sadness I

experience.”

“What is it, then, sire?”

“Humiliation.”

“Humiliation? oh! sire, what a word for you to use!”

“I mean, mademoiselle, that wherever I may happen to be, no one else

ought to be the master. Well, then, look round you on every side, and

judge whether I am not eclipsed--I, the king of France--before the

monarch of these wide domains. Oh!” he continued, clenching his hands

and teeth, “when I think that this king--”

“Well, sire?” said Louise, terrified.

“--That this king is a faithless, unworthy servant, who grows proud and

self-sufficient upon the strength of property that belongs to me, and

which he has stolen. And therefore I am about to change this impudent

minister’s _fete_ into sorrow and mourning, of which the nymph of Vaux,

as the poets say, shall not soon lose the remembrance.”

“Oh! your majesty--”

“Well, mademoiselle, are you about to take M. Fouquet’s part?” said

Louis, impatiently.

“No, sire; I will only ask whether you are well informed. Your majesty

has more than once learned the value of accusations made at court.”

Louis XIV. made a sign for Colbert to approach. “Speak, Monsieur

Colbert,” said the young prince, “for I almost believe that Mademoiselle

de la Vallière has need of your assistance before she can put any faith

in the king’s word. Tell mademoiselle what M. Fouquet has done; and you,

mademoiselle, will perhaps have the kindness to listen. It will not be

long.”

Why did Louis XIV. insist upon it in such a manner? A very simple

reason--his heart was not at rest, his mind was not thoroughly

convinced; he imagined there lay some dark, hidden, tortuous intrigue

behind these thirteen millions of francs; and he wished that the

pure heart of La Vallière, which had revolted at the idea of theft

or robbery, should approve--even were it only by a single word--the

resolution he had taken, and which, nevertheless, he hesitated before

carrying into execution.

“Speak, monsieur,” said La Vallière to Colbert, who had advanced;

“speak, since the king wishes me to listen to you. Tell me, what is the

crime with which M. Fouquet is charged?”

“Oh! not very heinous, mademoiselle,” he returned, “a mere abuse of

confidence.”

“Speak, speak, Colbert; and when you have related it, leave us, and go

and inform M. d’Artagnan that I have certain orders to give him.”

“M. d’Artagnan, sire!” exclaimed La Vallière; “but why send for M.

d’Artagnan? I entreat you to tell me.”

“_Pardieu!_ in order to arrest this haughty, arrogant Titan who, true to

his menace, threatens to scale my heaven.”

“Arrest M. Fouquet, do you say?”

“Ah! does that surprise you?”

“In his own house!”

“Why not? If he be guilty, he is as guilty in his own house as anywhere

else.”

“M. Fouquet, who at this moment is ruining himself for his sovereign.”

“In plain truth, mademoiselle, it seems as if you were defending this

traitor.”

Colbert began to chuckle silently. The king turned round at the sound of

this suppressed mirth.

“Sire,” said La Vallière, “it is not M. Fouquet I am defending; it is

yourself.”

“Me! you are defending me?”

“Sire, you would dishonor yourself if you were to give such an order.”

“Dishonor myself!” murmured the king, turning pale with anger. “In plain

truth, mademoiselle, you show a strange persistence in what you say.”

“If I do, sire, my only motive is that of serving your majesty,” replied

the noble-hearted girl: “for that I would risk, I would sacrifice my

very life, without the least reserve.”

Colbert seemed inclined to grumble and complain. La Vallière, that

timid, gentle lamb, turned round upon him, and with a glance like

lightning imposed silence upon him. “Monsieur,” she said, “when the

king acts well, whether, in doing so, he does either myself or those

who belong to me an injury, I have nothing to say; but were the king to

confer a benefit either upon me or mine, and if he acted badly, I should

tell him so.”

“But it appears to me, mademoiselle,” Colbert ventured to say, “that I

too love the king.”

“Yes, monseigneur, we both love him, but each in a different manner,”

replied La Vallière, with such an accent that the heart of the young

king was powerfully affected by it. “I love him so deeply, that the

whole world is aware of it; so purely, that the king himself does not

doubt my affection. He is my king and my master; I am the least of all

his servants. But whoso touches his honor assails my life. Therefore, I

repeat, that they dishonor the king who advise him to arrest M. Fouquet

under his own roof.”

Colbert hung down his head, for he felt that the king had abandoned him.

However, as he bent his head, he murmured, “Mademoiselle, I have only

one word to say.”

“Do not say it, then, monsieur; for I would not listen to it. Besides,

what could you have to tell me? That M. Fouquet has been guilty of

certain crimes? I believe he has, because the king has said so; and,

from the moment the king said, ‘I think so,’ I have no occasion for

other lips to say, ‘I affirm it.’ But, were M. Fouquet the vilest of

men, I should say aloud, ‘M. Fouquet’s person is sacred to the king

because he is the guest of M. Fouquet. Were his house a den of thieves,

were Vaux a cave of coiners or robbers, his home is sacred, his palace

is inviolable, since his wife is living in it; and that is an asylum

which even executioners would not dare to violate.’”

La Vallière paused, and was silent. In spite of himself the king could

not but admire her; he was overpowered by the passionate energy of her

voice; by the nobleness of the cause she advocated. Colbert yielded,

overcome by the inequality of the struggle. At last the king breathed

again more freely, shook his head, and held out his hand to La Vallière.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, gently, “why do you decide against me? Do you

know what this wretched fellow will do, if I give him time to breathe

again?”

“Is he not a prey which will always be within your grasp?”

“Should he escape, and take to flight?” exclaimed Colbert.

“Well, monsieur, it will always remain on record, to the king’s eternal

honor, that he allowed M. Fouquet to flee; and the more guilty he may

have been, the greater will the king’s honor and glory appear, compared

with such unnecessary misery and shame.”

Louis kissed La Vallière’s hand, as he knelt before her.

“I am lost,” thought Colbert; then suddenly his face brightened up

again. “Oh! no, no, aha, old fox!--not yet,” he said to himself.

And while the king, protected from observation by the thick covert of an

enormous lime, pressed La Vallière to his breast, with all the ardor of

ineffable affection, Colbert tranquilly fumbled among the papers in his

pocket-book and drew out of it a paper folded in the form of a letter,

somewhat yellow, perhaps, but one that must have been most precious,

since the intendant smiled as he looked at it; he then bent a look, full

of hatred, upon the charming group which the young girl and the king

formed together--a group revealed but for a moment, as the light of the

approaching torches shone upon it. Louis noticed the light reflected

upon La Vallière’s white dress. “Leave me, Louise,” he said, “for some

one is coming.”

“Mademoiselle, mademoiselle, some one is coming,” cried Colbert, to

expedite the young girl’s departure.

Louise disappeared rapidly among the trees; and then, as the king, who

had been on his knees before the young girl, was rising from his humble

posture, Colbert exclaimed, “Ah! Mademoiselle de la Vallière has let

something fall.”

“What is it?” inquired the king.

“A paper--a letter--something white; look there, sire.”

The king stooped down immediately and picked up the letter, crumpling it

in his hand, as he did so; and at the same moment the torches arrived,

inundating the blackness of the scene with a flood of light as bight as

day.