Chapter LIV. M. Fouquet’s Friends.

The king had returned to Paris, and with him D’Artagnan, who, in

twenty-four hours, having made with greatest care all possible inquiries

at Belle-Isle, succeeded in learning nothing of the secret so well kept

by the heavy rock of Locmaria, which had fallen on the heroic Porthos.

The captain of the musketeers only knew what those two valiant

men--these two friends, whose defense he had so nobly taken up, whose

lives he had so earnestly endeavored to save--aided by three faithful

Bretons, had accomplished against a whole army. He had seen, spread on

the neighboring heath, the human remains which had stained with clouted

blood the scattered stones among the flowering broom. He learned also

that a bark had been seen far out at sea, and that, like a bird of prey,

a royal vessel had pursued, overtaken, and devoured the poor little

bird that was flying with such palpitating wings. But there D’Artagnan’s

certainties ended. The field of supposition was thrown open. Now, what

could he conjecture? The vessel had not returned. It is true that a

brisk wind had prevailed for three days; but the corvette was known to

be a good sailer and solid in its timbers; it had no need to fear a gale

of wind, and it ought, according to the calculation of D’Artagnan, to

have either returned to Brest, or come back to the mouth of the Loire.

Such was the news, ambiguous, it is true, but in some degree reassuring

to him personally, which D’Artagnan brought to Louis XIV., when the

king, followed by all the court, returned to Paris.

Louis, satisfied with his success--Louis, more mild and affable as he

felt himself more powerful--had not ceased for an instant to ride beside

the carriage door of Mademoiselle de la Vallière. Everybody was anxious

to amuse the two queens, so as to make them forget this abandonment by

son and husband. Everything breathed the future, the past was nothing to

anybody. Only that past was like a painful bleeding wound to the hearts

of certain tender and devoted spirits. Scarcely was the king reinstalled

in Paris, when he received a touching proof of this. Louis XIV. had

just risen and taken his first repast when his captain of the musketeers

presented himself before him. D’Artagnan was pale and looked unhappy.

The king, at the first glance, perceived the change in a countenance

generally so unconcerned. “What is the matter, D’Artagnan?” said he.

“Sire, a great misfortune has happened to me.”

“Good heavens! what is that?”

“Sire, I have lost one of my friends, M. du Vallon, in the affair of

Belle-Isle.”

And, while speaking these words, D’Artagnan fixed his falcon eye upon

Louis XIV., to catch the first feeling that would show itself.

“I knew it,” replied the king, quietly.

“You knew it, and did not tell me!” cried the musketeer.

“To what good? Your grief, my friend, was so well worthy of respect. It

was my duty to treat it gently. To have informed you of this misfortune,

which I knew would pain you so greatly, D’Artagnan, would have been, in

your eyes, to have triumphed over you. Yes, I knew that M. du Vallon had

buried himself beneath the rocks of Locmaria; I knew that M. d’Herblay

had taken one of my vessels with its crew, and had compelled it to

convey him to Bayonne. But I was willing you should learn these matters

in a direct manner, in order that you might be convinced my friends are

with me respected and sacred; that always in me the man will sacrifice

himself to subjects, whilst the king is so often found to sacrifice men

to majesty and power.”

“But, sire, how could you know?”

“How do you yourself know, D’Artagnan?”

“By this letter, sire, which M. d’Herblay, free and out of danger,

writes me from Bayonne.”

“Look here,” said the king, drawing from a casket placed upon the table

closet to the seat upon which D’Artagnan was leaning, “here is a letter

copied exactly from that of M. d’Herblay. Here is the very letter, which

Colbert placed in my hands a week before you received yours. I am well

served, you may perceive.”

“Yes, sire,” murmured the musketeer, “you were the only man whose star

was equal to the task of dominating the fortune and strength of my two

friends. You have used your power, sire, you will not abuse it, will

you?”

“D’Artagnan,” said the king, with a smile beaming with kindness, “I

could have M. d’Herblay carried off from the territories of the king

of Spain, and brought here, alive, to inflict justice upon him. But,

D’Artagnan, be assured I will not yield to this first and natural

impulse. He is free--let him continue free.”

“Oh, sire! you will not always remain so clement, so noble, so generous

as you have shown yourself with respect to me and M. d’Herblay; you will

have about you counselors who will cure you of that weakness.”

“No, D’Artagnan, you are mistaken when you accuse my council of urging

me to pursue rigorous measures. The advice to spare M. d’Herblay comes

from Colbert himself.”

“Oh, sire!” said D’Artagnan, extremely surprised.

“As for you,” continued the king, with a kindness very uncommon to him,

“I have several pieces of good news to announce to you; but you shall

know them, my dear captain, the moment I have made my accounts all

straight. I have said that I wish to make, and would make, your fortune;

that promise will soon become reality.”

“A thousand times thanks, sire! I can wait. But I implore you, whilst I

go and practice patience, that your majesty will deign to notice those

poor people who have for so long a time besieged your ante-chamber, and

come humbly to lay a petition at your feet.”

“Who are they?”

“Enemies of your majesty.” The king raised his head.

“Friends of M. Fouquet,” added D’Artagnan.

“Their names?”

“M. Gourville, M. Pelisson, and a poet, M. Jean de la Fontaine.”

The king took a moment to reflect. “What do they want?”

“I do not know.”

“How do they appear?”

“In great affliction.”

“What do they say?”

“Nothing.”

“What do they do?”

“They weep.”

“Let them come in,” said the king, with a serious brow.

D’Artagnan turned rapidly on his heel, raised the tapestry which closed

the entrance to the royal chamber, and directing his voice to the

adjoining room, cried, “Enter.”

The three men D’Artagnan had named immediately appeared at the door of

the cabinet in which were the king and his captain. A profound silence

prevailed in their passage. The courtiers, at the approach of the

friends of the unfortunate superintendent of finances, drew back, as

if fearful of being affected by contagion with disgrace and misfortune.

D’Artagnan, with a quick step, came forward to take by the hand the

unhappy men who stood trembling at the door of the cabinet; he led them

in front of the king’s _fauteuil_, who, having placed himself in the

embrasure of a window, awaited the moment of presentation, and was

preparing himself to give the supplicants a rigorously diplomatic

reception.

The first of the friends of Fouquet’s to advance was Pelisson. He did

not weep, but his tears were only restrained that the king might better

hear his voice and prayer. Gourville bit his lips to check his tears,

out of respect for the king. La Fontaine buried his face in his

handkerchief, and the only signs of life he gave were the convulsive

motions of his shoulders, raised by his sobs.

The king preserved his dignity. His countenance was impassible. He

even maintained the frown which appeared when D’Artagnan announced his

enemies. He made a gesture which signified, “Speak;” and he remained

standing, with his eyes fixed searchingly on these desponding men.

Pelisson bowed to the ground, and La Fontaine knelt as people do in

churches. This dismal silence, disturbed only by sighs and groans, began

to excite in the king, not compassion, but impatience.

“Monsieur Pelisson,” said he, in a sharp, dry tone. “Monsieur Gourville,

and you, Monsieur--” and he did not name La Fontaine, “I cannot, without

sensible displeasure, see you come to plead for one of the greatest

criminals it is the duty of justice to punish. A king does not allow

himself to soften save at the tears of the innocent, the remorse of the

guilty. I have no faith either in the remorse of M. Fouquet or the tears

of his friends, because the one is tainted to the very heart, and the

others ought to dread offending me in my own palace. For these reasons,

I beg you, Monsieur Pelisson, Monsieur Gourville, and you, Monsieur--,

to say nothing that will not plainly proclaim the respect you have for

my will.”

“Sire,” replied Pelisson, trembling at these words, “we are come to say

nothing to your majesty that is not the most profound expression of

the most sincere respect and love that are due to a king from all his

subjects. Your majesty’s justice is redoubtable; every one must yield to

the sentences it pronounces. We respectfully bow before it. Far from us

the idea of coming to defend him who has had the misfortune to offend

your majesty. He who has incurred your displeasure may be a friend of

ours, but he is an enemy to the state. We abandon him, but with tears,

to the severity of the king.”

“Besides,” interrupted the king, calmed by that supplicating voice,

and those persuasive words, “my parliament will decide. I do not strike

without first having weighed the crime; my justice does not wield the

sword without employing first a pair of scales.”

“Therefore we have every confidence in that impartiality of the king,

and hope to make our feeble voices heard, with the consent of your

majesty, when the hour for defending an accused friend strikes.”

“In that case, messieurs, what do you ask of me?” said the king, with

his most imposing air.

“Sire,” continued Pelisson, “the accused has a wife and family. The

little property he had was scarcely sufficient to pay his debts,

and Madame Fouquet, since her husband’s captivity, is abandoned by

everybody. The hand of your majesty strikes like the hand of God. When

the Lord sends the curse of leprosy or pestilence into a family,

every one flies and shuns the abode of the leprous or plague-stricken.

Sometimes, but very rarely, a generous physician alone ventures to

approach the ill-reputed threshold, passes it with courage, and risks

his life to combat death. He is the last resource of the dying, the

chosen instrument of heavenly mercy. Sire, we supplicate you, with

clasped hands and bended knees, as a divinity is supplicated! Madame

Fouquet has no longer any friends, no longer any means of support; she

weeps in her deserted home, abandoned by all those who besieged its

doors in the hour of prosperity; she has neither credit nor hope left.

At least, the unhappy wretch upon whom your anger falls receives from

you, however culpable he may be, his daily bread though moistened by

his tears. As much afflicted, more destitute than her husband, Madame

Fouquet--the lady who had the honor to receive your majesty at her

table--Madame Fouquet, the wife of the ancient superintendent of your

majesty’s finances, Madame Fouquet has no longer bread.”

Here the mortal silence which had chained the breath of Pelisson’s two

friends was broken by an outburst of sobs; and D’Artagnan, whose chest

heaved at hearing this humble prayer, turned round towards the angle of

the cabinet to bite his mustache and conceal a groan.

The king had preserved his eye dry and his countenance severe; but

the blood had mounted to his cheeks, and the firmness of his look was

visibly diminished.

“What do you wish?” said he, in an agitated voice.

“We come humbly to ask your majesty,” replied Pelisson, upon whom

emotion was fast gaining, “to permit us, without incurring the

displeasure of your majesty, to lend to Madame Fouquet two thousand

pistoles collected among the old friends of her husband, in order that

the widow may not stand in need of the necessaries of life.”

At the word _widow_, pronounced by Pelisson whilst Fouquet was still

alive, the king turned very pale;--his pride disappeared; pity rose from

his heart to his lips; he cast a softened look upon the men who knelt

sobbing at his feet.

“God forbid,” said he, “that I should confound the innocent with the

guilty. They know me but ill who doubt my mercy towards the weak. I

strike none but the arrogant. Do, messieurs, do all that your hearts

counsel you to assuage the grief of Madame Fouquet. Go, messieurs--go!”

The three now rose in silence with dry eyes. The tears had been scorched

away by contact with their burning cheeks and eyelids. They had not

the strength to address their thanks to the king, who himself cut short

their solemn reverences by entrenching himself suddenly behind the

_fauteuil_.

D’Artagnan remained alone with the king.

“Well,” said he, approaching the young prince, who interrogated him with

his look. “Well, my master! If you had not the device which belongs to

your sun, I would recommend you one which M. Conrart might translate

into eclectic Latin, ‘Calm with the lowly; stormy with the strong.’”

The king smiled, and passed into the next apartment, after having said

to D’Artagnan, “I give you the leave of absence you must want to put the

affairs of your friend, the late M. du Vallon, in order.”