96. Baisemeaux de Montlezun
After the austere lesson administered to De Wardes, Athos and D’Artagnan together descended the staircase which led to the courtyard of the Palais-Royal. “You perceive,” said Athos to D’Artagnan, “that Raoul cannot, sooner or later, avoid a duel with De Wardes, for De Wardes is as brave as he is vicious and wicked.”
“I know such fellows well,” replied D’Artagnan; “I had an affair with the father. I assure you that, although at that time I had good muscles and a sort of brute courage—I assure you that the father did me some mischief. But you should have seen how I fought it out with him. Ah, Athos, such encounters never take place in these times! I had a hand which could never remain at rest, a hand like quicksilver,—you knew its quality, for you have seen me at work. My sword was no longer a piece of steel; it was a serpent that assumed every form and every length, seeking where it might thrust its head; in other words, where it might fix its bite. I advanced half a dozen paces, then three, and then, body to body, I pressed my antagonist closely, then I darted back again ten paces. No human power could resist that ferocious ardor. Well, De Wardes, the father, with the bravery of his race, with his dogged courage, occupied a good deal of my time; and my fingers, at the end of the engagement, were, I well remember, tired enough.”
“It is, then, as I said,” resumed Athos, “the son will always be looking out for Raoul, and will end by meeting him; and Raoul can easily be found when he is sought for.”
“Agreed; but Raoul calculates well; he bears no grudge against De Wardes,—he has said so; he will wait until he is provoked, and in that case his position is a good one. The king will not be able to get out of temper about the matter; besides we shall know how to pacify his majesty. But why so full of these fears and anxieties? You don’t easily get alarmed.”
“I will tell you what makes me anxious; Raoul is to see the king to-morrow, when his majesty will inform him of his wishes respecting a certain marriage. Raoul, loving as he does, will get out of temper, and once in an angry mood, if he were to meet De Wardes, the shell would explode.”
“We will prevent the explosion.”
“Not I,” said Athos, “for I must return to Blois. All this gilded elegance of the court, all these intrigues, sicken me. I am no longer a young man who can make terms with the meannesses of the day. I have read in the Great Book many things too beautiful and too comprehensive, to longer take any interest in the trifling phrases which these men whisper among themselves when they wish to deceive others. In one word, I am weary of Paris wherever and whenever you are not with me; and as I cannot have you with me always, I wish to return to Blois.”
“How wrong you are, Athos; how you gainsay your origin and the destiny of your noble nature. Men of your stamp are created to continue, to the very last moment, in full possession of their great faculties. Look at my sword, a Spanish blade, the one I wore at Rochelle; it served me for thirty years without fail; one day in the winter it fell upon the marble floor on the Louvre and was broken. I had a hunting-knife made of it which will last a hundred years yet. You, Athos, with your loyalty, your frankness, your cool courage and your sound information, are the very man kings need to warn and direct them. Remain here; Monsieur Fouquet will not last as long as my Spanish blade.”
“Is it possible,” said Athos, smiling, “that my friend, D’Artagnan, who, after having raised me to the skies, making me an object of worship, casts me down from the top of Olympus, and hurls me to the ground? I have more exalted ambition, D’Artagnan. To be a minister—to be a slave,—never! Am I not still greater? I am nothing. I remember having heard you occasionally call me ‘the great Athos;’ I defy you, therefore, if I were minister, to continue to bestow that title upon me. No, no; I do not yield myself in this manner.”
“We will not speak of it any more, then; renounce everything, even the brotherly feeling which unites us.”
“It is almost cruel what you say.”
D’Artagnan pressed Athos’s hand warmly. “No, no; renounce everything without fear. Raoul can get on without you. I am at Paris.”
“In that case I shall return to Blois. We will take leave of each other to-night, to-morrow at daybreak I shall be on my horse again.”
“You cannot return to your hotel alone; why did you not bring Grimaud with you?”
“Grimaud takes his rest now; he goes to bed early, for my poor old servant gets easily fatigued. He came from Blois with me, and I compelled him to remain within doors; for if, in retracing the forty leagues which separate us from Blois, he needed to draw breath even, he would die without a murmur. But I don’t want to lose Grimaud.”
“You shall have one of my musketeers to carry a torch for you. Hola! some one there,” called out D’Artagnan, leaning over the gilded balustrade. The heads of seven or eight musketeers appeared. “I wish some gentleman who is so disposed to escort the Comte de la Fere,” cried D’Artagnan.
“Thank you for your readiness, gentlemen,” said Athos; “I regret to have occasion to trouble you in this manner.”
“I would willingly escort the Comte de la Fere,” said some one, “if I had not to speak to Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“Who is that?” said D’Artagnan, looking into the darkness.
“I, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“Heaven forgive me, if that is not Monsieur Baisemeaux’s voice.”
“It is, monsieur.”
“What are you doing in the courtyard, my dear Baisemeaux?”
“I am waiting your orders, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“Wretch that I am,” thought D’Artagnan; “true, you have been told, I suppose, that some one was to be arrested, and have come yourself, instead of sending an officer?”
“I came because I had occasion to speak to you.”
“You did not send to me?”
“I waited until you were disengaged,” said Monsieur Baisemeaux, timidly.
“I leave you, D’Artagnan,” said Athos.
“Not before I have presented Monsieur Baisemeaux de Montlezun, the governor of the Bastile.”
Baisemeaux and Athos saluted each other.
“Surely you must know each other,” said D’Artagnan.
“I have an indistinct recollection of Monsieur Baisemeaux,” said Athos.
“You remember, my dear, Baisemeaux, the king’s guardsman with whom we used formerly to have such delightful meetings in the cardinal’s time?”
“Perfectly,” said Athos, taking leave of him with affability.
“Monsieur le Comte de la Fere, whose nom de guerre was Athos,” whispered D’Artagnan to Baisemeaux.
“Yes, yes, a brave man, one of the celebrated four.”
“Precisely so. But, my dear Baisemeaux, shall we talk now?”
“If you please.”
“In the first place, as for the orders—there are none. The king does not intend to arrest the person in question.”
“So much the worse,” said Baisemeaux with a sigh.
“What do you mean by so much the worse?” exclaimed D’Artagnan, laughing.
“No doubt of it,” returned the governor, “my prisoners are my income.”
“I beg your pardon, I did not see it in that light.”
“And so there are no orders,” repeated Baisemeaux with a sigh. “What an admirable situation yours is captain,” he continued, after a pause, “captain-lieutenant of the musketeers.”
“Oh, it is good enough; but I don’t see why you should envy me; you, governor of the Bastile, the first castle in France.”
“I am well aware of that,” said Baisemeaux, in a sorrowful tone of voice.
“You say that like a man confessing his sins. I would willingly exchange my profits for yours.”
“Don’t speak of profits to me if you wish to save me the bitterest anguish of mind.”
“Why do you look first on one side and then on the other, as if you were afraid of being arrested yourself, you whose business it is to arrest others?”
“I was looking to see whether any one could see or listen to us; it would be safer to confer more in private, if you would grant me such a favor.”
“Baisemeaux, you seem to forget we are acquaintances of five and thirty years’ standing. Don’t assume such sanctified airs; make yourself quite comfortable; I don’t eat governors of the Bastile raw.”
“Heaven be praised!”
“Come into the courtyard with me, it’s a beautiful moonlight night; we will walk up and down arm in arm under the trees, while you tell me your pitiful tale.” He drew the doleful governor into the courtyard, took him by the arm as he had said, and, in his rough, good-humored way, cried: “Out with it, rattle away, Baisemeaux; what have you got to say?”
“It’s a long story.”
“You prefer your own lamentations, then; my opinion is, it will be longer than ever. I’ll wager you are making fifty thousand francs out of your pigeons in the Bastile.”
“Would to heaven that were the case, M. d’Artagnan.”
“You surprise me, Baisemeaux; just look at you, acting the anchorite. I should like to show you your face in a glass, and you would see how plump and florid-looking you are, as fat and round as a cheese, with eyes like lighted coals; and if it were not for that ugly wrinkle you try to cultivate on your forehead, you would hardly look fifty years old, and you are sixty, if I am not mistaken.”
“All quite true.”
“Of course I knew it was true, as true as the fifty thousand francs profit you make,” at which remark Baisemeaux stamped on the ground.
“Well, well,” said D’Artagnan, “I will add up your accounts for you: you were captain of M. Mazarin’s guards; and twelve thousand francs a year would in twelve years amount to one hundred and forty thousand francs.”
“Twelve thousand francs! Are you mad?” cried Baisemeaux; “the old miser gave me no more than six thousand, and the expenses of the post amounted to six thousand five hundred francs. M. Colbert, who deducted the other six thousand francs, condescended to allow me to take fifty pistoles as a gratification; so that, if it were not for my little estate at Montlezun, which brings me in twelve thousand francs a year, I could not have met my engagements.”
“Well, then, how about the fifty thousand francs from the Bastile? There, I trust, you are boarded and lodged, and get your six thousand francs salary besides.”
“Admitted!”
“Whether the year be good or bad, there are fifty prisoners, who, on an average, bring you in a thousand francs a year each.”
“I don’t deny it.”
“Well, there is at once an income of fifty thousand francs; you have held the post three years, and must have received in that time one hundred and fifty thousand francs.”
“You forget one circumstance, dear M. d’Artagnan.”
“What is that?”
“That while you received your appointment as captain from the king himself, I received mine as governor from Messieurs Tremblay and Louviere.”
“Quite right, and Tremblay was not a man to let you have the post for nothing.”
“Nor Louviere either: the result was, that I gave seventy-five thousand francs to Tremblay as his share.”
“Very agreeable that! and to Louviere?”
“The very same.”
“Money down?”
“No: that would have been impossible. The king did not wish, or rather M. Mazarin did not wish, to have the appearance of removing those two gentlemen, who had sprung from the barricades; he permitted them therefore, to make certain extravagant conditions for their retirement.”
“What were those conditions?”
“Tremble...three years’ income for the good-will.”
“The deuce! so that the one hundred and fifty thousand francs have passed into their hands.”
“Precisely so.”
“And beyond that?”
“A sum of one hundred and fifty thousand francs, or fifteen thousand pistoles, whichever you please, in three payments.”
“Exorbitant.”
“Yes, but that is not all.”
“What besides?”
“In default of the fulfillment by me of any one of those conditions, those gentlemen enter upon their functions again. The king has been induced to sign that.”
“It is monstrous, incredible!”
“Such is the fact, however.”
“I do indeed pity you, Baisemeaux. But why, in the name of fortune, did M. Mazarin grant you this pretended favor? It would have been far better to have refused you altogether.”
“Certainly, but he was strongly persuaded to do so by my protector.”
“Who is he?”
“One of your own friends, indeed; M. d’Herblay.”
“M. d’Herblay! Aramis!”
“Just so; he has been very kind towards me.”
“Kind! to make you enter into such a bargain!”
“Listen! I wished to leave the cardinal’s service. M. d’Herblay spoke on my behalf to Louviere and Tremblay—they objected; I wished to have the appointment very much, for I knew what it could be made to produce; in my distress I confided in M. d’Herblay, and he offered to become my surety for the different payments.”
“You astound me! Aramis become your surety?”
“Like a man of honor; he procured the signature; Tremblay and Louviere resigned their appointments, I have paid every year twenty-five thousand francs to these two gentlemen; on the thirty-first of May every year, M. d’Herblay himself comes to the Bastile, and brings me five thousand pistoles to distribute between my crocodiles.”
“You owe Aramis one hundred and fifty thousand francs, then?”
“That is the very thing which is the cause of my despair, for I only owe him one hundred thousand.”
“I don’t quite understand you.”
“He came and settled with the vampires only two years. To-day, however, is the thirty-first of May, and he has not been yet, and to-morrow, at midday, the payment falls due; if, therefore, I don’t pay to-morrow, those gentlemen can, by the terms of the contract, break off the bargain; I shall be stripped of everything; I shall have worked for three years, and given two hundred and fifty thousand francs for nothing, absolutely for nothing at all, dear M. d’Artagnan.”
“This is very strange,” murmured D’Artagnan.
“You can now imagine that I may well have wrinkles on my forehead, can you not?”
“Yes, indeed!”
“And you can imagine, too, that notwithstanding I may be as round as a cheese, with a complexion like an apple, and my eyes like coals on fire, I may almost be afraid that I shall not have a cheese or an apple left me to eat, and that my eyes will be left me only to weep with.”
“It is really a very grievous affair.”
“I have come to you, M. d’Artagnan, for you are the only man who can get me out of my trouble.”
“In what way?”
“You are acquainted with the Abbe d’Herblay and you know that he is a somewhat mysterious gentleman.”
“Yes.”
“Well, you can, perhaps, give me the address of his presbytery, for I have been to Noisy-le-Sec, and he is no longer there.”
“I should think not, indeed. He is Bishop of Vannes.”
“What! Vannes in Bretagne?”
“Yes.”
The little man began to tear his hair, saying, “How can I get to Vannes from here by midday to-morrow? I am a lost man.”
“Your despair quite distresses me.”
“Vannes, Vannes!” cried Baisemeaux.
“But listen; a bishop is not always a resident. M. d’Herblay may not possibly be so far away as you fear.”
“Pray tell me his address.”
“I really don’t know it.”
“In that case I am lost. I will go and throw myself at the king’s feet.”
“But, Baisemeaux, I can hardly believe what you tell me; besides, since the Bastile is capable of producing fifty thousand francs a year, why have you not tried to screw one hundred thousand out of it?”
“Because I am an honest man, M. d’Artagnan, and because my prisoners are fed like ambassadors.”
“Well, you’re in a fair way to get out of your difficulties; give yourself a good attack of indigestion with your excellent living, and put yourself out of the way between this and midday to-morrow.”
“How can you be hard-hearted enough to laugh?”
“Nay, you really afflict me. Come, Baisemeaux, if you can pledge me your word of honor, do so, that you will not open your lips to any one about what I am going to say to you.”
“Never, never!”
“You wish to put your hand on Aramis?”
“At any cost!”
“Well, go and see where M. Fouquet is.”
“Why, what connection can there be——”
“How stupid you are! Don’t you know that Vannes is in the diocese of Belle-Isle, or Belle-Isle in the diocese of Vannes? Belle-Isle belongs to M. Fouquet, and M. Fouquet nominated M. d’Herblay to that bishopric!”
“I see, I see; you restore me to life again.”
“So much the better. Go and tell M. Fouquet very simply that you wish to speak to M. d’Herblay.”
“Of course, of course,” exclaimed Baisemeaux, delightedly.
“But,” said D’Artagnan, checking him by a severe look, “your word of honor?”
“I give you my sacred word of honor,” replied the little man, about to set off running.
“Where are you going?”
“To M. Fouquet’s house.”
“It is useless doing that, M. Fouquet is playing at cards with the king. All you can do is to pay M. Fouquet a visit early to-morrow morning.”
“I will do so. Thank you.”
“Good luck attend you,” said D’Artagnan.
“Thank you.”
“This is a strange affair,” murmured D’Artagnan, as he slowly ascended the staircase after he had left Baisemeaux. “What possible interest can Aramis have in obliging Baisemeaux in this manner? Well, I suppose we shall learn some day or another.”
97. The King’s Card-table
Fouquet was present, as D’Artagnan had said, at the king’s card-table. It seemed as if Buckingham’s departure had shed a balm on the lacerated hearts of the previous evening. Monsieur, radiant with delight, made a thousand affectionate signs to his mother. The Count de Guiche could not separate himself from Buckingham and while playing, conversed with him upon the circumstance of his projected voyage. Buckingham, thoughtful, and kind in his manner, like a man who has adopted a resolution, listened to the count, and from time to time cast a look full of regret and hopeless affection at Madame. The princess, in the midst of her elation of spirits, divided her attention between the king, who was playing with her, Monsieur, who quietly joked her about her enormous winnings, and De Guiche, who exhibited an extravagant delight. Of Buckingham she took but little notice; for her, this fugitive, this exile, was now simply a remembrance, no longer a man. Light hearts are thus constituted; while they themselves continue untouched, they roughly break off with every one who may possibly interfere with their little calculations of selfish comfort. Madame had received Buckingham’s smiles and attentions and sighs while he was present; but what was the good of sighing, smiling and kneeling at a distance? Can one tell in what direction the winds in the Channel, which toss mighty vessels to and fro, carry such sighs as these. The duke could not fail to mark this change, and his heart was cruelly hurt. Of a sensitive character, proud and susceptible of deep attachment, he cursed the day on which such a passion had entered his heart. The looks he cast, from time to time at Madame, became colder by degrees at the chilling complexion of his thoughts. He could hardly yet despair, but he was strong enough to impose silence upon the tumultuous outcries of his heart. In exact proportion, however, as Madame suspected this change of feeling, she redoubled her activity to regain the ray of light she was about to lose; her timid and indecisive mind was displayed in brilliant flashes of wit and humor. At any cost she felt that she must be remarked above everything and every one, even above the king himself. And she was so, for the queens, notwithstanding their dignity, and the king, despite the respect which etiquette required, were all eclipsed by her. The queens, stately and ceremonious, were softened and could not restrain their laughter. Madame Henrietta, the queen-mother, was dazzled by the brilliancy which cast distinction upon her family, thanks to the wit of the grand-daughter of Henry IV. The king, jealous, as a young man and as a monarch, of the superiority of those who surrounded him, could not resist admitting himself vanquished by a petulance so thoroughly French in its nature, whose energy was more than ever increased by English humor. Like a child, he was captivated by her radiant beauty, which her wit made still more dazzling. Madame’s eyes flashed like lightning. Wit and humor escaped from her scarlet lips, like persuasion from the lips of Nestor of old. The whole court, subdued by her enchanting grace, noticed for the first time that laughter could be indulged in before the greatest monarch in the world, like people who merited their appellation of the wittiest and most polished people in Europe.
Madame, from that evening, achieved and enjoyed a success capable of bewildering all not born to those altitudes termed thrones; which, in spite of their elevation, are sheltered from such giddiness. From that very moment Louis XIV. acknowledged Madame as a person to be recognized. Buckingham regarded her as a coquette deserving the cruelest tortures, and De Guiche looked upon her as a divinity; the courtiers as a star whose light might some day become the focus of all favor and power. And yet Louis XIV., a few years previously, had not even condescended to offer his hand to that “ugly girl” for a ballet; and Buckingham had worshipped this coquette “on both knees.” De Guiche had once looked upon this divinity as a mere woman; and the courtiers had not dared to extol this star in her upward progress, fearful to disgust the monarch whom such a dull star had formerly displeased.
Let us see what was taking place during this memorable evening at the king’s card-table. The young queen, although Spanish by birth, and the niece of Anne of Austria, loved the king, and could not conceal her affection. Anne of Austria, a keen observer, like all women, and imperious, like every queen, was sensible of Madame’s power, and acquiesced in it immediately, a circumstance which induced the young queen to raise the siege and retire to her apartments. The king hardly paid any attention to her departure, notwithstanding the pretended symptoms of indisposition by which it was accompanied. Encouraged by the rules of etiquette, which he had begun to introduce at the court as an element of every relation of life, Louis XIV. did not disturb himself; he offered his hand to Madame without looking at Monsieur his brother, and led the young princess to the door of her apartments. It was remarked that at the threshold of the door, his majesty, freed from every restraint, or not equal to the situation, sighed very deeply. The ladies present—for nothing escapes a woman’s glance—Mademoiselle Montalais, for instance—did not fail to say to each other, “the king sighed,” and “Madame sighed too.” This had been indeed the case. Madame had sighed very noiselessly, but with an accompaniment very far more dangerous for the king’s repose. Madame had sighed, first closing her beautiful black eyes, next opening them, and then, laden, as they were, with an indescribable mournfulness of expression, she had raised them towards the king, whose face at that moment visibly heightened in color. The consequence of these blushes, of these interchanged sighs, and of this royal agitation, was, that Montalais had committed an indiscretion which had certainly affected her companion, for Mademoiselle de la Vallière, less clear sighted, perhaps, turned pale when the king blushed; and her attendance being required upon Madame, she tremblingly followed the princess without thinking of taking the gloves, which court etiquette required her to do. True it is that this young country girl might allege as her excuse the agitation into which the king seemed to be thrown, for Mademoiselle de la Vallière, busily engaged in closing the door, had involuntarily fixed her eyes upon the king, who, as he retired backwards, had his face towards it. The king returned to the room where the card-tables were set out. He wished to speak to the different persons there, but it was easy to see that his mind was absent. He jumbled different accounts together, which was taken advantage of by some of the noblemen who had retained those habits since the time of Monsieur Mazarin—who had a poor memory, but was a good calculator. In this way Monsieur Manicamp, with a thoughtless and absent air—for M. Manicamp was the honestest man in the world appropriated twenty thousand francs, which were littering the table, and which did not seem to belong to any person in particular. In the same way, Monsieur de Wardes, whose head was doubtless a little bewildered by the occurrences of the evening, somehow forgot to leave behind him the sixty double louis which he had won for the Duke of Buckingham, and which the duke, incapable, like his father, of soiling his hands with coin of any sort, had left lying on the table before him. The king only recovered his attention in some degree at the moment that Monsieur Colbert, who had been narrowly observant for some minutes, approached, and, doubtless, with great respect, yet with much perseverance, whispered a counsel of some sort into the still tingling ears of the king. The king, at the suggestion, listened with renewed attention and immediately looking around him, said, “Is Monsieur Fouquet no longer here?”
“Yes, sire, I am here,” replied the superintendent, till then engaged with Buckingham, and approached the king, who advanced a step towards him with a smiling yet negligent air. “Forgive me,” said Louis, “if I interrupt your conversation; but I claim your attention wherever I may require your services.”
“I am always at the king’s service,” replied Fouquet.
“And your cash-box too,” said the king, laughing with a false smile.
“My cash-box more than anything else,” said Fouquet, coldly.
“The fact is, I wish to give a fete at Fontainebleau—to keep open house for fifteen days, and I shall require——” and he stopped glancing at Colbert. Fouquet waited without showing discomposure; and the king resumed, answering Colbert’s icy smile, “four million francs.”
“Four million,” repeated Fouquet, bowing profoundly. And his nails, buried in his bosom, were thrust into his flesh, but the tranquil expression of his face remained unaltered. “When will they be required, sire?”
“Take your time,—I mean—no, no, as soon as possible.”
“A certain time will be necessary, sire.”
“Time!” exclaimed Colbert, triumphantly.
“The time, monsieur,” said the superintendent, with the haughtiest disdain, “simply to count the money: a million can only be drawn and weighed in a day.”
“Four days then,” said Colbert.
“My clerks,” replied Fouquet, addressing himself to the king, “will perform wonders on his majesty’s service, and the sum shall be ready in three days.”
It was for Colbert now to turn pale. Louis looked at him astonished. Fouquet withdrew without any parade or weakness, smiling at his numerous friends, in whose countenances alone he read the sincerity of their friendship—an interest partaking of compassion. Fouquet, however, should not be judged by his smile, for, in reality he felt as if he had been stricken by death. Drops of blood beneath his coat stained the fine linen that clothed his chest. His dress concealed the blood, and his smile the rage which devoured him. His domestics perceived, by the manner in which he approached his carriage, that their master was not in the best of humors: the result of their discernment was, that his orders were executed with that exactitude of maneuver which is found on board a man-of-war, commanded during a storm by an ill-tempered captain. The carriage, therefore, did not simply roll along—it flew. Fouquet had hardly time to recover himself during the drive; on his arrival he went at once to Aramis, who had not yet retired for the night. As for Porthos, he had supped very agreeably off a roast leg of mutton, two pheasants, and a perfect heap of cray-fish; he then directed his body to be anointed with perfumed oils, in the manner of the wrestlers of old; and when this anointment was completed, he had himself wrapped in flannels and placed in a warm bed. Aramis, as we have already said, had not retired. Seated at his ease in a velvet dressing-gown, he wrote letter after letter in that fine and hurried handwriting, a page of which contained a quarter of a volume. The door was thrown hurriedly open, and the superintendent appeared, pale, agitated, anxious. Aramis looked up: “Good-evening,” said he, and his searching look detected his host’s sadness and disordered state of mind. “Was your play as good as his majesty’s?” asked Aramis, by way of beginning the conversation.
Fouquet threw himself upon a couch, and then pointed to the door to the servant who had followed him; when the servant had left he said, “Excellent.”
Aramis, who had followed every movement with his eyes, noticed that he stretched himself upon the cushions with a sort of feverish impatience. “You have lost as usual?” inquired Aramis, his pen still in his hand.
“Even more than usual,” replied Fouquet.
“You know how to support losses?”
“Sometimes.”
“What, Monsieur Fouquet a bad player!”
“There is play and play, Monsieur d’Herblay.”
“How much have you lost?” inquired Aramis, with a slight uneasiness.
Fouquet collected himself a moment, and then, without the slightest emotion, said, “The evening has cost me four millions,” and a bitter laugh drowned the last vibration of these words.
Aramis, who did not expect such an amount, dropped his pen. “Four millions,” he said; “you have lost four millions,—impossible!”
“Monsieur Colbert held my cards for me,” replied the superintendent, with a similar bitter laugh.
“Ah, now I understand; so, so, a new application for funds?”
“Yes, and from the king’s own lips. It was impossible to ruin a man with a more charming smile. What do you think of it?”
“It is clear that your destruction is the object in view.”
“That is your opinion?”
“Still. Besides, there is nothing in it which should astonish you, for we have foreseen it all along.”
“Yes; but I did not expect four millions.”
“No doubt the amount is serious, but, after all, four millions are not quite the death of a man, especially when the man in question is Monsieur Fouquet.”
“My dear D’Herblay, if you knew the contents of my coffers, you would be less easy.”
“And you promised?”
“What could I do?”
“That’s true.”
“The very day I refuse, Colbert will procure the money; whence I know not, but he will procure it: and I shall be lost.”
“There is no doubt of that. In how many days did you promise these four millions?”
“In three days. The king seemed exceedingly pressed.”
“In three days?”
“When I think,” resumed Fouquet, “that just now as I passed along the streets, the people cried out, ‘There is the rich Monsieur Fouquet,’ it is enough to turn my brain.”
“Stay, monsieur, the matter is not worth so much trouble,” said Aramis, calmly, sprinkling some sand over the letter he had just written.
“Suggest a remedy, then, for this evil without a remedy.”
“There is only one remedy for you,—pay.”
“But it is very uncertain whether I have the money. Everything must be exhausted; Belle-Isle is paid for; the pension has been paid; and money, since the investigation of the accounts of those who farm the revenue, is scarce. Besides, admitting that I pay this time, how can I do so on another occasion? When kings have tasted money, they are like tigers who have tasted flesh, they devour everything. The day will arrive—must arrive—when I shall have to say, ‘Impossible, sire,’ and on that very day I am a lost man.”
Aramis raised his shoulders slightly, saying:
“A man in your position, my lord, is only lost when he wishes to be so.”
“A man, whatever his position may be, cannot hope to struggle against a king.”
“Nonsense; when I was young I wrestled successfully with the Cardinal Richelieu, who was king of France,—nay more—cardinal.”
“Where are my armies, my troops, my treasures? I have not even Belle-Isle.”
“Bah! necessity is the mother of invention, and when you think all is lost, something will be discovered which will retrieve everything.”
“Who will discover this wonderful something?”
“Yourself.”
“I! I resign my office of inventor.”
“Then I will.”
“Be it so. But set to work without delay.”
“Oh! we have time enough!”
“You kill me, D’Herblay, with your calmness,” said the superintendent, passing his handkerchief over his face.
“Do you not remember that I one day told you not to make yourself uneasy, if you possessed courage? Have you any?”
“I believe so.”
“Then don’t make yourself uneasy.”
“It is decided, then, that, at the last moment, you will come to my assistance.”
“It will only be the repayment of a debt I owe you.”
“It is the vocation of financiers to anticipate the wants of men such as yourself, D’Herblay.”
“If obligingness is the vocation of financiers, charity is the virtue of the clergy. Only, on this occasion, do you act, monsieur. You are not yet sufficiently reduced, and at the last moment we will see what is to be done.”
“We shall see, then, in a very short time.”
“Very well. However, permit me to tell you that, personally, I regret exceedingly that you are at present so short of money, because I was myself about to ask you for some.”
“For yourself?”
“For myself, or some of my people, for mine or for ours.”
“How much do you want?”
“Be easy on that score; a roundish sum, it is true, but not too exorbitant.”
“Tell me the amount.”
“Fifty thousand francs.”
“Oh! a mere nothing. Of course one has always fifty thousand francs. Why the deuce cannot that knave Colbert be as easily satisfied as you are—and I should give myself far less trouble than I do. When do you need this sum?”
“To-morrow morning; but you wish to know its destination.”
“Nay, nay, chevalier, I need no explanation.”
“To-morrow is the first of June.”
“Well?”
“One of our bonds becomes due.”
“I did not know we had any bond.”
“Certainly, to-morrow we pay our last third instalment.”
“What third?”
“Of the one hundred and fifty thousand francs to Baisemeaux.”
“Baisemeaux? Who is he?”
“The governor of the Bastile.”
“Yes, I remember. On what grounds am I to pay one hundred and fifty thousand francs for that man?”
“On account of the appointment which he, or rather we, purchased from Louviere and Tremblay.”
“I have a very vague recollection of the matter.”
“That is likely enough, for you have so many affairs to attend to. However, I do not believe you have any affair in the world of greater importance than this one.”
“Tell me, then, why we purchased this appointment.”
“Why, in order to render him a service in the first place, and afterwards ourselves.”
“Ourselves? You are joking.”
“Monseigneur, the time may come when the governor of the Bastile may prove a very excellent acquaintance.”
“I have not the good fortune to understand you, D’Herblay.”
“Monseigneur, we had our own poets, our own engineer, our own architect, our own musicians, our own printer, and our own painters; we needed our own governor of the Bastile.”
“Do you think so?”
“Let us not deceive ourselves, monseigneur; we are very much opposed to paying the Bastile a visit,” added the prelate, displaying, beneath his pale lips, teeth which were still the same beautiful teeth so much admired thirty years previously by Marie Michon.
“And you think it is not too much to pay one hundred and fifty thousand francs for that? I thought you generally put out money at better interest than that.”
“The day will come when you will admit your mistake.”
“My dear D’Herblay, the very day on which a man enters the Bastile, he is no longer protected by his past.”
“Yes, he is, if the bonds are perfectly regular; besides, that good fellow Baisemeaux has not a courtier’s heart. I am certain, my lord, that he will not remain ungrateful for that money, without taking into account, I repeat, that I retain the acknowledgments.”
“It is a strange affair! usury in a matter of benevolence.”
“Do not mix yourself up with it, monseigneur; if there be usury, it is I who practice it, and both of us reap the advantage from it—that is all.”
“Some intrigue, D’Herblay?”
“I do not deny it.”
“And Baisemeaux an accomplice in it?”
“Why not?—there are worse accomplices than he. May I depend, then, upon the five thousand pistoles to-morrow?”
“Do you want them this evening?”
“It would be better, for I wish to start early; poor Baisemeaux will not be able to imagine what has become of me, and must be upon thorns.”
“You shall have the amount in an hour. Ah, D’Herblay, the interest of your one hundred and fifty thousand francs will never pay my four millions for me.”
“Why not, monseigneur.”
“Good-night, I have business to transact with my clerks before I retire.”
“A good night’s rest, monseigneur.”
“D’Herblay, you wish things that are impossible.”
“Shall I have my fifty thousand francs this evening?”
“Yes.”
“Go to sleep, then, in perfect safety—it is I who tell you to do so.”
Notwithstanding this assurance, and the tone in which it was given, Fouquet left the room shaking his head, and heaving a sigh.
98. M. Baisemeaux de Montlezun’s Accounts
The clock of St. Paul was striking seven as Aramis, on horseback, dressed as a simple citizen, that is to say, in colored suit, with no distinctive mark about him, except a kind of hunting-knife by his side, passed before the Rue du Petit-Muse, and stopped opposite the Rue des Tourelles, at the gate of the Bastile. Two sentinels were on duty at the gate; they made no difficulty about admitting Aramis, who entered without dismounting, and they pointed out the way he was to go by a long passage with buildings on both sides. This passage led to the drawbridge, or, in other words, to the real entrance. The drawbridge was down, and the duty of the day was about being entered upon. The sentinel at the outer guardhouse stopped Aramis’s further progress, asking him, in a rough tone of voice, what had brought him there. Aramis explained, with his usual politeness, that a wish to speak to M. Baisemeaux de Montlezun had occasioned his visit. The first sentinel then summoned a second sentinel, stationed within an inner lodge, who showed his face at the grating, and inspected the new arrival most attentively. Aramis reiterated the expression of his wish to see the governor, whereupon the sentinel called to an officer of lower grade, who was walking about in a tolerably spacious courtyard and who, in turn, on being informed of his object, ran to seek one of the officers of the governor’s staff. The latter, after having listened to Aramis’s request, begged him to wait a moment, then went away a short distance, but returned to ask his name. “I cannot tell it you, monsieur,” said Aramis, “I need only mention that I have matters of such importance to communicate to the governor, that I can only rely beforehand upon one thing, that M. de Baisemeaux will be delighted to see me; nay, more than that, when you have told him that it is the person whom he expected on the first of June, I am convinced he will hasten here himself.” The officer could not possibly believe that a man of the governor’s importance should put himself out for a person of so little importance as the citizen-looking visitor on horseback. “It happens most fortunately, monsieur,” he said, “that the governor is just going out, and you can perceive his carriage with the horses already harnessed, in the courtyard yonder; there will be no occasion for him to come to meet you, as he will see you as he passes by.” Aramis bowed to signify his assent; he did not wish to inspire others with too exalted an opinion of himself, and therefore waited patiently and in silence, leaning upon the saddle-bow of his horse. Ten minutes had hardly elapsed when the governor’s carriage was observed to move. The governor appeared at the door, and got into the carriage, which immediately prepared to start. The same ceremony was observed for the governor himself as with a suspected stranger; the sentinel at the lodge advanced as the carriage was about to pass under the arch, and the governor opened the carriage-door, himself setting the example of obedience to orders; so that, in this way, the sentinel could convince himself that no one quitted the Bastile improperly. The carriage rolled along under the archway, but at the moment the iron-gate was opened, the officer approached the carriage, which had been again stopped, and said something to the governor, who immediately put his head out of the door-way, and perceived Aramis on horseback at the end of the drawbridge. He immediately uttered almost a shout of delight, and got out, or rather darted out of his carriage, running towards Aramis, whose hands he seized, making a thousand apologies. He almost embraced him. “What a difficult matter to enter the Bastile!” said Aramis. “Is it the same for those who are sent here against their wills, as for those who come of their own accord?”
“A thousand pardons, my lord. How delighted I am to see your Grace!”
“Hush! What are you thinking of, my dear M. Baisemeaux? What do you suppose would be thought of a bishop in my present costume?”
“Pray, excuse me, I had forgotten. Take this gentleman’s horse to the stables,” cried Baisemeaux.
“No, no,” said Aramis; “I have five thousand pistoles in the saddle-bags.”
The governor’s countenance became so radiant, that if the prisoners had seen him they would have imagined some prince of the blood royal had arrived. “Yes, you are right, the horse shall be taken to the government house. Will you get into the carriage, my dear M. d’Herblay? and it shall take us back to my house.”
“Get into a carriage to cross a courtyard! do you believe I am so great an invalid? No, no, we will go on foot.”
Baisemeaux then offered his arm as a support, but the prelate did not accept it. They arrived in this manner at the government house, Baisemeaux rubbing his hands and glancing at the horse from time to time, while Aramis was looking at the bleak bare walls. A tolerably handsome vestibule and a staircase of white stone led to the governor’s apartments, who crossed the ante-chamber, the dining-room, where breakfast was being prepared, opened a small side door, and closeted himself with his guest in a large cabinet, the windows of which opened obliquely upon the courtyard and the stables. Baisemeaux installed the prelate with that all-inclusive politeness of which a good man, or a grateful man, alone possesses the secret. An arm-chair, a footstool, a small table beside him, on which to rest his hand, everything was prepared by the governor himself. With his own hands, too, he placed upon the table, with much solicitude, the bag containing the gold, which one of the soldiers had brought up with the most respectful devotion; and the soldier having left the room, Baisemeaux himself closed the door after him, drew aside one of the window-curtains, and looked steadfastly at Aramis to see if the prelate required anything further.
“Well, my lord,” he said, still standing up, “of all men of their word, you still continue to be the most punctual.”
“In matters of business, dear M. de Baisemeaux, exactitude is not a virtue only, it is a duty as well.”
“Yes, in matters of business, certainly; but what you have with me is not of that character; it is a service you are rendering me.”
“Come, confess, dear M. de Baisemeaux, that, notwithstanding this exactitude, you have not been without a little uneasiness.”
“About your health, I certainly have,” stammered out Baisemeaux.
“I wished to come here yesterday, but I was not able, as I was too fatigued,” continued Aramis. Baisemeaux anxiously slipped another cushion behind his guest’s back. “But,” continued Aramis, “I promised myself to come and pay you a visit to-day, early in the morning.”
“You are really very kind, my lord.”
“And it was a good thing for me I was punctual, I think.”
“What do you mean?”
“Yes, you were going out.” At which latter remark Baisemeaux colored and said, “It is true I was going out.”
“Then I prevent you,” said Aramis; whereupon the embarrassment of Baisemeaux became visibly greater. “I am putting you to inconvenience,” he continued, fixing a keen glance upon the poor governor; “if I had known that, I should not have come.”
“How can your lordship imagine that you could ever inconvenience me?”
“Confess you were going in search of money.”
“No,” stammered out Baisemeaux, “no! I assure you I was going to——”
“Does the governor still intend to go to M. Fouquet?” suddenly called out the major from below. Baisemeaux ran to the window like a madman. “No, no,” he exclaimed in a state of desperation, “who the deuce is speaking of M. Fouquet? are you drunk below there? why an I interrupted when I am engaged on business?”
“You were going to M. Fouquet’s,” said Aramis biting his lips, “to M. Fouquet, the abbe, or the superintendent?”
Baisemeaux almost made up his mind to tell an untruth, but he could not summon courage to do so. “To the superintendent,” he said.
“It is true, then, that you were in want of money, since you were going to a person who gives it away!”
“I assure you, my lord——”
“You were afraid?”
“My dear lord, it was the uncertainty and ignorance in which I was as to where you were to be found.”
“You would have found the money you require at M. Fouquet’s, for he is a man whose hand is always open.”
“I swear that I should never have ventured to ask M. Fouquet for money. I only wished to ask him for your address.”
“To ask M. Fouquet for my address?” exclaimed Aramis, opening his eyes in real astonishment.
“Yes,” said Baisemeaux, greatly disturbed by the glance which the prelate fixed upon him,—“at M. Fouquet’s certainly.”
“There is no harm in that, dear M. Baisemeaux, only I would ask, why ask my address of M. Fouquet?”
“That I might write to you.”
“I understand,” said Aramis, smiling, “but that is not what I meant; I do not ask you what you required my address for; I only ask why you should go to M. Fouquet for it?”
“Oh!” said Baisemeaux, “as Belle-Isle is the property of M. Fouquet, and as Belle-Isle is in the diocese of Vannes, and as you are bishop of Vannes——”
“But, my dear Baisemeaux, since you knew I was bishop of Vannes, you had no occasion to ask M. Fouquet for my address.”
“Well, monsieur,” said Baisemeaux, completely at bay, “if I have acted indiscreetly, I beg your pardon most sincerely.”
“Nonsense,” observed Aramis, calmly: “how can you possibly have acted indiscreetly?” And while he composed his face, and continued to smile cheerfully on the governor, he was considering how Baisemeaux, who was not aware of his address, knew, however, that Vannes was his residence. “I shall clear all this up,” he said to himself, and then speaking aloud, added,—“Well, my dear governor, shall we now arrange our little accounts?”
“I am at your orders, my lord; but tell me beforehand, my lord, whether you will do me the honor to breakfast with me as usual?”
“Very willingly, indeed.”
“Thai’s well,” said Baisemeaux, as he struck the bell before him three times.
“What does that mean?” inquired Aramis.
“That I have some one to breakfast with me, and that preparations are to be made accordingly.”
“And you rang thrice. Really, my dear governor, I begin to think you are acting ceremoniously with me.”
“No, indeed. Besides, the least I can do is to receive you in the best way I can.”
“But why so?”
“Because not even a prince could have done what you have done for me.”
“Nonsense! nonsense!”
“Nay, I assure you——”
“Let us speak of other matters,” said Aramis. “Or rather, tell me how your affairs here are getting on.”
“Not over well.”
“The deuce!”
“M. de Mazarin was not hard enough.”
“Yes, I see; you require a government full of suspicion—like that of the old cardinal, for instance.”
“Yes; matters went on better under him. The brother of his ‘gray eminence’ made his fortune here.”
“Believe me, my dear governor,” said Aramis, drawing closer to Baisemeaux, “a young king is well worth an old cardinal. Youth has its suspicions, its fits of anger, its prejudices, as old age has its hatreds, its precautions, and its fears. Have you paid your three years’ profits to Louviere and Tremblay?”
“Most certainly I have.”
“So that you have nothing more to give them than the fifty thousand francs I have brought with me?”
“Nothing.”
“Have you not saved anything, then?”
“My lord, in giving the fifty thousand francs of my own to these gentlemen, I assure you that I give them everything I gain. I told M. d’Artagnan so yesterday evening.”
“Ah!” said Aramis, whose eyes sparkled for a moment, but became immediately afterwards as unmoved as before; “so you have seen my old friend D’Artagnan; how was he?”
“Wonderfully well.”
“And what did you say to him, M. de Baisemeaux?”
“I told him,” continued the governor, not perceiving his own thoughtlessness, “I told him that I fed my prisoners too well.”
“How many have you?” inquired Aramis, in an indifferent tone of voice.
“Sixty.”
“Well, that is a tolerably round number.”
“In former times, my lord, there were, during certain years, as many as two hundred.”
“Still a minimum of sixty is not to be grumbled at.”
“Perhaps not; for, to anybody but myself, each prisoner would bring in two hundred and fifty pistoles; for instance, for a prince of the blood I have fifty francs a day.”
“Only you have no prince of the blood; at least, I suppose so,” said Aramis, with a slight tremor in his voice.
“No, thank Heaven!—I mean, no, unfortunately.”
“What do you mean by unfortunately?”
“Because my appointment would be improved by it. So, fifty francs per day for a prince of the blood, thirty-six for a marechal of France——”
“But you have as many marechals of France, I suppose, as you have princes of the blood?”
“Alas! no more. It is true lieutenant-generals and brigadiers pay twenty-six francs, and I have two of them. After that, come councilors of parliament, who bring me fifteen francs, and I have six of them.”
“I did not know,” said Aramis, “that councilors were so productive.”
“Yes, but from fifteen francs I sink at once to ten francs; namely, for an ordinary judge, and for an ecclesiastic.”
“And you have seven, you say; an excellent affair.”
“Nay, a bad one, and for this reason. How can I possibly treat these poor fellows, who are of some good, at all events, otherwise than as a councilor of parliament?”
“Yes, you are right; I do not see five francs difference between them.”
“You understand; if I have a fine fish, I pay four or five francs for it; if I get a fine fowl, it costs me a franc and a half. I fatten a good deal of poultry, but I have to buy grain, and you cannot imagine the army of rats that infest this place.”
“Why not get half a dozen cats to deal with them?”
“Cats, indeed; yes, they eat them, but I was obliged to give up the idea because of the way in which they treated my grain. I have been obliged to have some terrier dogs sent me from England to kill the rats. These dogs, unfortunately, have tremendous appetites; they eat as much as a prisoner of the fifth order, without taking into account the rabbits and fowls they kill.”
Was Aramis really listening or not? No one could have told; his downcast eyes showed the attentive man; but the restless hand betrayed the man absorbed in thought—Aramis was meditating.
“I was saying,” continued Baisemeaux, “that a good-sized fowl costs me a franc and a half, and that a fine fish costs me four or five francs. Three meals are served at the Bastile, and, as the prisoners, having nothing to do, are always eating, a ten-franc man costs me seven francs and a half.”
“But did you not say that you treated those at ten francs like those at fifteen?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Very well! Then you gain seven francs and a half upon those who pay you fifteen francs.”
“I must compensate myself somehow,” said Baisemeaux, who saw how he had been snapped up.
“You are quite right, my dear governor; but have you no prisoners below ten francs?”
“Oh, yes! we have citizens and barristers at five francs.
“And do they eat, too?”
“Not a doubt about it; only you understand that they do not get fish or poultry, nor rich wines at every meal; but at all events thrice a week they have a good dish at their dinner.”
“Really, you are quite a philanthropist, my dear governor, and you will ruin yourself.”
“No, understand me; when the fifteen-franc has not eaten his fowl, or the ten-franc has left his dish unfinished, I send it to the five-franc prisoner; it is a feast for the poor devil, and one must be charitable, you know.”
“And what do you make out of your five-franc prisoners?”
“A franc and a half.”
“Baisemeaux, you’re an honest fellow; in honest truth I say so.”
“Thank you, my lord. But I feel most for the small tradesmen and bailiffs’ clerks, who are rated at three francs. They do not often see Rhine carp or Channel sturgeon.”
“But do not the five-franc gentlemen sometimes leave some scraps?”
“Oh! my lord, do not believe I am so stingy as that; I delight the heart of some poor little tradesman or clerk by sending him a wing of a red partridge, a slice of venison, or a slice of a truffled pasty, dishes which he never tasted except in his dreams; these are the leavings of the twenty-four franc prisoners; and as he eats and drinks, at dessert he cries ‘Long live the King,’ and blesses the Bastile; with a couple of bottles of champagne, which cost me five sous, I made him tipsy every Sunday. That class of people call down blessings upon me, and are sorry to leave the prison. Do you know that I have remarked, and it does me infinite honor, that certain prisoners, who have been set at liberty, have, almost immediately afterwards, got imprisoned again? Why should this be the case, unless it be to enjoy the pleasures of my kitchen? It is really the fact.”
Aramis smiled with an expression of incredulity.
“You smile,” said Baisemeaux.
“I do,” returned Aramis.
“I tell you that we have names which have been inscribed on our books thrice in the space of two years.”
“I must see it before I believe it,” said Aramis.
“Well, I can show it to you, although it is prohibited to communicate the registers to strangers; and if you really wish to see it with your own eyes——”
“I should be delighted, I confess.”
“Very well,” said Baisemeaux, and he took out of a cupboard a large register. Aramis followed him most anxiously with his eyes, and Baisemeaux returned, placed the register upon the table, and turned over the leaves for a minute, and stayed at the letter M.
“Look here,” said he, “Martinier, January, 1659; Martinier, June, 1660; Martinier, March, 1661. Mazarinades, etc.; you understand it was only a pretext; people were not sent to the Bastile for jokes against M. Mazarin; the fellow denounced himself in order to get imprisoned here.”
“And what was his object?”
“None other than to return to my kitchen at three francs a day.”
“Three francs—poor devil!”
“The poet, my lord, belongs to the lowest scale, the same style of board as the small tradesman and bailiff’s clerk; but I repeat, it is to those people only that I give these little surprises.”
Aramis mechanically turned over the leaves of the register, continuing to read the names, but without appearing to take any interest in the names he read.
“In 1661, you perceive,” said Baisemeaux, “eighty entries; and in 1659, eighty also.”
“Ah!” said Aramis. “Seldon; I seem to know that name. Was it not you who spoke to me about a certain young man?”
“Yes, a poor devil of a student, who made—What do you call that where two Latin verses rhyme together?”
“A distich.”
“Yes; that is it.”
“Poor fellow; for a distich.”
“Do you know that he made this distich against the Jesuits?”
“That makes no difference; the punishment seems very severe.”
“Do not pity him; last year you seemed to interest yourself in him.”
“Yes, I did so.”
“Well, as your interest is all-powerful here, my lord, I have treated him since that time as a prisoner at fifteen francs.”
“The same as this one, then,” said Aramis, who had continued turning over the leaves, and who had stopped at one of the names which followed Martinier.
“Yes, the same as that one.”
“Is that Marchiali an Italian?” said Aramis, pointing with his finger to the name which had attracted his attention.
“Hush!” said Baisemeaux.
“Why hush?” said Aramis, involuntarily clenching his white hand.
“I thought I had already spoken to you about that Marchiali.”
“No, it is the first time I ever heard his name pronounced.”
“That may be, but perhaps I have spoken to you about him without naming him.”
“Is he an old offender?” asked Aramis, attempting to smile.
“On the contrary, he is quite young.”
“Is his crime, then, very heinous?”
“Unpardonable.”
“Has he assassinated any one?”
“Bah!”
“An incendiary, then?”
“Bah!”
“Has he slandered any one?”
“No, no! It is he who—” and Baisemeaux approached Aramis’s ear, making a sort of ear-trumpet of his hands, and whispered: “It is he who presumes to resemble the——”
“Yes, yes.” said Aramis, “I now remember you already spoke about it last year to me; but the crime appeared to me so slight.
“Slight, do you say?”
“Or rather, so involuntary.”
“My lord, it is not involuntarily that such a resemblance is detected.”
“Well, the fact is, I had forgotten it. But, my dear host,” said Aramis, closing the register, “if I am not mistaken, we are summoned.”
Baisemeaux took the register, hastily restored it to its place in the closet, which he locked, and put the key in his pocket. “Will it be agreeable to your lordship to breakfast now?” said he; “for you are right in supposing that breakfast was announced.”
“Assuredly, my dear governor,” and they passed into the dining-room.
99. The Breakfast at Monsieur de Baisemeaux’s
Aramis was generally temperate; but on this occasion, while taking every care of his constitution, he did ample justice to Baisemeaux’s breakfast, which, in all respects, was most excellent. The latter, on his side, was animated with the wildest gayety; the sight of the five thousand pistoles, which he glanced at from time to time, seemed to open his heart. Every now and then he looked at Aramis with an expression of the deepest gratitude; while the latter, leaning back in his chair, took a few sips of wine from his glass, with the air of a connoisseur. “Let me never hear any ill words against the fare of the Bastile,” said he, half closing his eyes; “happy are the prisoners who can get only half a bottle of such Burgundy every day.”
“All those at fifteen francs drink it,” said Baisemeaux. “It is very old Volnay.”
“Does that poor student, Seldon, drink such good wine?”
“Oh, no!”
“I thought I heard you say he was boarded at fifteen francs.”
“He! no, indeed; a man who makes districts—distichs, I mean—at fifteen francs! No, no! it is his neighbor who is at fifteen francs.”
“Which neighbor?”
“The other, second Bertaudiere.”
“Excuse me, my dear governor; but you speak a language which requires quite an apprenticeship to understand.”
“Very true,” said the governor. “Allow me to explain: second Bertaudiere is the person who occupies the second floor of the tower of the Bertaudiere.”
“So that Bertaudiere is the name of one of the towers of the Bastile? The fact is, I think I recollect hearing that each tower has a name of its own. Whereabouts is the one you are speaking of?”
“Look,” said Baisemeaux, going to the window. “It is that tower to the left—-the second one.”
“Is the prisoner at fifteen francs there?”
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
“Seven or eight years, nearly.”
“What do you mean by nearly? Do you not know the dates more precisely?”
“It was not in my time, M. d’Herblay.”
“But I should have thought that Louviere or Tremblay would have told you.”
“The secrets of the Bastile are never handed over with the keys of the governorship.”
“Indeed! Then the cause of his imprisonment is a mystery—a state secret.”
“Oh no! I do not suppose it is a state secret, but a secret—like everything else that happens at the Bastile.”
“But,” said Aramis, “why do you speak more freely of Seldon than of second Bertaudiere?”
“Because, in my opinion, the crime of the man who writes a distich is not so great as that of the man who resembles——”
“Yes, yes, I understand you. Still, do not the turnkeys talk with your prisoners?”
“Of course.”
“The prisoners, I suppose, tell them they are not guilty?”
“They are always telling them that; it is a matter of course; the same song over and over again.”
“But does not the resemblance you were speaking about just now strike the turnkeys?”
“My dear M. d’Herblay, it is only for men attached to the court, as you are, to take trouble about such matters.”
“You’re right, you’re right, my dear M. Baisemeaux. Let me give you another taste of this Volnay.”
“Not a taste merely, a full glass; fill yours too.”
“Nay, nay! You are a musketeer still, to the very tips of your fingers, while I have become a bishop. A taste for me; a glass for yourself.”
“As you please.” And Aramis and the governor nodded to each other, as they drank their wine. “But,” said Aramis, looking with fixed attention at the ruby-colored wine he had raised to the level of his eyes, as if he wished to enjoy it with all his senses at the same moment, “but what you might call a resemblance, another would not, perhaps, take any notice of.”
“Most certainly he would, though, if it were any one who knew the person he resembles.”
“I really think, dear M. Baisemeaux, that it can be nothing more than a resemblance of your own creation.”
“Upon my honor, it is not so.”
“Stay,” continued Aramis, “I have seen many persons very like the one we are speaking of; but, out of respect, no one ever said anything about it.”
“Very likely; because there is resemblance and resemblance. This is a striking one, and, if you were to see him, you would admit it to be so.”
“If I were to see him, indeed,” said Aramis, in an indifferent tone; “but in all probability I never shall.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I were even to put my foot inside one of those horrible dungeons, I should fancy I was buried there forever.”
“No, no; the cells are very good places to live in.”
“I really do not, and cannot believe it, and that is a fact.”
“Pray do not speak ill of second Bertaudiere. It is really a good room, very nicely furnished and carpeted. The young fellow has by no means been unhappy there; the best lodging the Bastile affords has been his. There is a chance for you.”
“Nay, nay,” said Aramis, coldly; “you will never make me believe there are any good rooms in the Bastile; and, as for your carpets, they exist only in your imagination. I should find nothing but spiders, rats, and perhaps toads, too.”
“Toads?” cried Baisemeaux.
“Yes, in the dungeons.”
“Ah! I don’t say there are not toads in the dungeons,” replied Baisemeaux. “But—will you be convinced by your own eyes?” he continued, with a sudden impulse.
“No, certainly not.”
“Not even to satisfy yourself of the resemblance which you deny, as you do the carpets?”
“Some spectral-looking person, a mere shadow; an unhappy, dying man.”
“Nothing of the kind—as brisk and vigorous a young fellow as ever lived.”
“Melancholy and ill-tempered, then?”
“Not at all; very gay and lively.”
“Nonsense; you are joking.”
“Will you follow me?” said Baisemeaux.
“What for?”
“To go the round of the Bastile.”
“Why?”
“You will then see for yourself—see with your own eyes.”
“But the regulations?”
“Never mind them. To-day my major has leave of absence; the lieutenant is visiting the post on the bastions; we are sole masters of the situation.”
“No, no, my dear governor; why, the very idea of the sound of the bolts makes me shudder. You will only have to forget me in second or fourth Bertaudiere, and then——”
“You are refusing an opportunity that may never present itself again. Do you know that, to obtain the favor I propose to you gratis, some of the princes of the blood have offered me as much as fifty thousand francs.”
“Really! he must be worth seeing, then?”
“Forbidden fruit, my lord, forbidden fruit. You who belong to the church ought to know that.”
“Well, if I had any curiosity, it would be to see the poor author of the distich.”
“Very well, we will see him, too; but if I were at all curious, it would be about the beautiful carpeted room and its lodger.”
“Furniture is very commonplace; and a face with no expression in it offers little or no interest.”
“But a boarder at fifteen francs is always interesting.”
“By the by, I forgot to ask you about that. Why fifteen francs for him, and only three francs for poor Seldon?”
“The distinction made in that instance was a truly noble act, and one which displayed the king’s goodness of heart to great advantage.”
“The king’s, you say.”
“The cardinal’s, I mean. ‘This unhappy man,’ said M. Mazarin, ‘is destined to remain in prison forever.’”
“Why so?”
“Why, it seems that his crime is a lasting one, and, consequently, his punishment ought to be so, too.”
“Lasting?”
“No doubt of it, unless he is fortunate enough to catch the small-pox, and even that is difficult, for we never get any impure air here.”
“Nothing can be more ingenious than your train of reasoning, my dear M. de Baisemeaux. Do you, however, mean to say that this unfortunate man must suffer without interruption or termination?”
“I did not say he was to suffer, my lord, a fifteen-franc boarder does not suffer.”
“He suffers imprisonment, at all events.”
“No doubt; there is no help for that, but this suffering is sweetened for him. You must admit that this young fellow was not born to eat all the good things he does eat; for instance, such things as we have on the table now; this pasty that has not been touched, these crawfish from the River Marne, of which we have hardly taken any, and which are almost as large as lobsters; all these things will at once be taken to second Bertaudiere, with a bottle of that Volnay which you think so excellent. After you have seen it you will believe it, I hope.”
“Yes, my dear governor, certainly; but all this time you are thinking only of your very happy fifteen-franc prisoner, and you forget poor Seldon, my protege.”
“Well, out of consideration for you, it shall be a gala day for him; he shall have some biscuits and preserves with this small bottle of port.”
“You are a good-hearted fellow; I have said so already, and I repeat it, my dear Baisemeaux.”
“Well, let us set off, then,” said the governor, a little bewildered, partly from the wine he had drunk, and partly from Aramis’s praises.
“Do not forget that I only go to oblige you,” said the prelate.
“Very well; but you will thank me when you get there.”
“Let us go, then.”
“Wait until I have summoned the jailer,” said Baisemeaux, as he struck the bell twice, at which summons a man appeared. “I am going to visit the towers,” said the governor. “No guards, no drums, no noise at all.”
“If I were not to leave my cloak here,” said Aramis, pretending to be alarmed; “I should really think I was going to prison on my own account.”
The jailer preceded the governor, Aramis walking on his right hand; some of the soldiers who happened to be in the courtyard drew themselves up in line, as stiff as posts, as the governor passed along. Baisemeaux led the way down several steps which conducted to a sort of esplanade; thence they arrived at the draw-bridge, where the sentinels on duty received the governor with the proper honors. The governor turned toward Aramis, and, speaking in such a tone that the sentinels could not lose a word, he observed,—“I hope you have a good memory, monsieur?”
“Why?” inquired Aramis.
“On account of your plans and your measurements, for you know that no one is allowed, not architects even, to enter where the prisoners are, with paper, pens or pencil.”
“Good,” said Aramis to himself, “it seems I am an architect, then. It sounds like one of D’Artagnan’s jokes, who perceived in me the engineer of Belle-Isle.” Then he added aloud: “Be easy on that score, monsieur; in our profession, a mere glance and a good memory are quite sufficient.”
Baisemeaux did not change countenance, and the soldiers took Aramis for what he seemed to be. “Very well; we will first visit la Bertaudiere,” said Baisemeaux, still intending the sentinels to hear him. Then, turning to the jailer, he added: “You will take the opportunity of carrying to No. 2 the few dainties I pointed out.”
“Dear M. de Baisemeaux,” said Aramis, “you are always forgetting No. 3.”
“So I am,” said the governor; and upon that, they began to ascend. The number of bolts, gratings, and locks for this single courtyard would have sufficed for the safety of an entire city. Aramis was neither an imaginative nor a sensitive man; he had been somewhat of a poet in his youth, but his heart was hard and indifferent, as the heart of every man of fifty-five years of age is, who has been frequently and passionately attached to women in his lifetime, or rather who has been passionately loved by them. But when he placed his foot upon the worn stone steps, along which so many unhappy wretches had passed, when he felt himself impregnated, as it were, with the atmosphere of those gloomy dungeons, moistened with tears, there could be but little doubt he was overcome by his feelings, for his head was bowed and his eyes became dim, as he followed Baisemeaux without a syllable.
100. The Second Floor of la Bertaudiere
On the second flight of stairs, whether from fatigue or emotion, the breathing of the visitor began to fail him, and he leaned against the wall. “Will you begin with this one?” said Baisemeaux; “for since we are going to both, it matters very little whether we ascend from the second to the third story, or descend from the third to the second.”
“No, no,” exclaimed Aramis, eagerly, “higher, if you please; the one above is the more urgent.” They continued their ascent. “Ask the jailer for the keys,” whispered Aramis. Baisemeaux did so, took the keys, and, himself, opened the door of the third room. The jailer was the first to enter; he placed upon the table the provisions, which the kind-hearted governor called dainties, and then left the room. The prisoner had not stirred; Baisemeaux then entered, while Aramis remained at the threshold, from which place he saw a youth about eighteen years of age, who, raising his head at the unusual noise, jumped off the bed, as he perceived the governor, and clasping his hands together, began to cry out, “My mother, my mother,” in tones which betrayed such deep distress that Aramis, despite his command over himself, felt a shudder pass through his frame. “My dear boy,” said Baisemeaux, endeavoring to smile, “I have brought you a diversion and an extra,—the one for the mind, the other for the body; this gentleman has come to take your measure, and here are some preserves for your dessert.”
“Oh, monsieur,” exclaimed the young man, “keep me in solitude for a year, let me have nothing but bread and water for a year, but tell me that at the end of a year I shall leave this place, tell me that at the end of a year I shall see my mother again.”
“But I have heard you say that your mother was very poor, and that you were very badly lodged when you were living with her, while here—upon my word!”
“If she were poor, monsieur, the greater reason to restore her only means of support to her. Badly lodged with her! Oh, monsieur, every one is always well lodged when he is free.”
“At all events, since you yourself admit you have done nothing but write that unhappy distich——”
“But without any intention, I swear. Let me be punished—cut off the hand which wrote it, I will work with the other—but restore my mother to me.”
“My boy,” said Baisemeaux, “you know very well that it does not depend upon me; all I can do for you is to increase your rations, give you a glass of port wine now and then, slip in a biscuit for you between a couple of plates.”
“Great heaven!” exclaimed the young man, falling backward and rolling on the ground.
Aramis, unable to bear this scene any longer, withdrew as far as the landing. “Unhappy, wretched man,” he murmured.
“Yes, monsieur, he is indeed very wretched,” said the jailer; “but it is his parents’ fault.
“In what way?”
“No doubt. Why did they let him learn Latin? Too much knowledge, you see; it is that which does harm. Now I, for instance, can’t read or write, and therefore I am not in prison.” Aramis looked at the man, who seemed to think that being a jailer in the Bastile was not being in prison. As for Baisemeaux, noticing the little effect produced by his advice and his port wine, he left the dungeon quite upset. “You have forgotten to close the door,” said the jailer.
“So I have,” said Baisemeaux, “there are the keys, do you do it.”
“I will solicit the pardon of that poor boy,” said Aramis.
“And if you do not succeed,” said Baisemeaux, “at least beg that he may be transferred to the ten-franc list, by which both he and I shall be gainers.”
“If the other prisoner calls out for his mother in a similar manner,” said Aramis, “I prefer not to enter at all, but will take my measure from outside.”
“No fear of that, monsieur architect, the one we are now going to see is as gentle as a lamb; before he could call after his mother he must open his lips, and he never says a word.”
“Let us go in, then,” said Aramis, gloomily.
“Are you the architect of the prisons, monsieur?” said the jailer.
“I am.”
“It is odd, then, that you are not more accustomed to all this.”
Aramis perceived that, to avoid giving rise to any suspicions he must summon all his strength of mind to his assistance. Baisemeaux, who carried the keys, opened the door. “Stay outside,” he said to the jailer, “and wait for us at the bottom of the steps.” The jailer obeyed and withdrew.
Baisemeaux entered first and opened the second door himself. By the light which filtered through the iron-barred window, could be seen a handsome young man, short in stature, with closely cut hair, and a beard beginning to grow; he was sitting on a stool, his elbow resting on an armchair, and all the upper part of his body reclining against it. His dress, thrown upon the bed, was of rich black velvet, and he inhaled the fresh air which blew in upon his breast through a shirt of the very finest cambric. As the governor entered, the young man turned his head with a look full of indifference; and on recognizing Baisemeaux, he arose and saluted him courteously. But when his eyes fell upon Aramis, who remained in the background, the latter trembled, turned pale, and his hat, which he held in his hand, fell upon the ground, as if all his muscles had become relaxed at once. Baisemeaux, habituated to the presence of his prisoner, did not seem to share any of the sensations which Aramis experienced, but, with all the zeal of a good servant, he busied himself in arranging on the table the pasty and crawfish he had brought with him. Occupied in this manner, he did not remark how disturbed his guest had become. When he had finished, however, he turned to the young prisoner and said: “You are looking very well,—are you so?”
“Quite well, I thank you, monsieur,” replied the young man.
The effect of the voice was such as almost to overpower Aramis, and notwithstanding his control over himself, he advanced a few steps towards him, with his eyes wide open and his lips trembling. The movement he made was so marked that Baisemeaux, notwithstanding his preoccupation, observed it. “This gentleman is an architect who has come to examine your chimney,” said Baisemeaux, “does it smoke?”
“Never, monsieur.”
“You were saying just now,” said the governor, rubbing his hands together, “that it was not possible for a man to be happy in prison; here, however, is one who is so. You have nothing to complain of, I hope?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you ever feel weary?” said Aramis.
“Never.”
“Ha, ha,” said Baisemeaux, in a low tone of voice; “was I right?”
“Well, my dear governor, it is impossible not to yield to evidence. Is it allowed to put any question to him?”
“As many as you like.”
“Very well; be good enough to ask him if he knows why he is here.”
“This gentleman requests me to ask you,” said Baisemeaux, “if you are aware of the cause of your imprisonment?”
“No, monsieur,” said the young man, unaffectedly, “I am not.”
“That is hardly possible,” said Aramis, carried away by his feelings in spite of himself; “if you were really ignorant of the cause of your detention, you would be furious.”
“I was so during the early days of my imprisonment.”
“Why are you not so now?”
“Because I have reflected.”
“That is strange,” said Aramis.
“Is it not odd?” said Baisemeaux.
“May one venture to ask you, monsieur, on what you have reflected?”
“I felt that as I had committed no crime, Heaven could not punish me.”
“What is a prison, then,” inquired Aramis, “if it be not a punishment?”
“Alas! I cannot tell,” said the young man; “all that I can tell you now is the very opposite of what I felt seven years ago.”
“To hear you converse, to witness your resignation, one might almost believe that you liked your imprisonment?”
“I endure it.
“In the certainty of recovering your freedom some day, I suppose?”
“I have no certainty; hope I have, and that is all; and yet I acknowledge that this hope becomes less every day.”
“Still, why should you not again be free, since you have already been so?”
“That is precisely the reason,” replied the young man, “which prevents me expecting liberty; why should I have been imprisoned at all if it had been intended to release me afterwards?”
“How old are you?”
“I do not know.”
“What is your name?”
“I have forgotten the name by which I was called.”
“Who are your parents?”
“I never knew them.”
“But those who brought you up?”
“They did not call me their son.”
“Did you ever love any one before coming here?”
“I loved my nurse, and my flowers.”
“Was that all?”
“I also loved my valet.”
“Do you regret your nurse and your valet?”
“I wept very much when they died.”
“Did they die since you have been here, or before you came?”
“They died the evening before I was carried off.”
“Both at the same time?”
“Yes, both at the same time.”
“In what manner were you carried off?”
“A man came for me, directed me to get into a carriage, which was closed and locked, and brought me here.”
“Would you be able to recognize that man again?”
“He was masked.”
“Is not this an extraordinary tale?” said Baisemeaux, in a low tone of voice, to Aramis, who could hardly breathe.
“It is indeed extraordinary,” he murmured.
“But what is still more extraordinary is, that he has never told me so much as he has just told you.”
“Perhaps the reason may be that you have never questioned him,” said Aramis.
“It’s possible,” replied Baisemeaux; “I have no curiosity. Have you looked at the room? it’s a fine one, is it not?”
“Very much so.”
“A carpet——”
“Beautiful.”
“I’ll wager he had nothing like it before he came here.”
“I think so, too.” And then again turning towards the young man, he said, “Do you not remember to have been visited at some time or another by a strange lady or gentleman?”
“Yes, indeed; thrice by a woman, who each time came to the door in a carriage, and entered covered with a veil, which she raised when we were together and alone.”
“Do you remember that woman?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say to you?”
The young man smiled mournfully, and then replied, “She inquired, as you have just done, if I were happy, and if I were getting weary?”
“What did she do on arriving, and on leaving you?”
“She pressed me in her arms, held me in her embrace, and kissed me.”
“Do you remember her?”
“Perfectly.”
“Do you recall her features distinctly?”
“Yes.”
“You would recognize her, then, if accident brought her before you, or led you into her presence?”
“Most certainly.”
A flush of fleeting satisfaction passed across Aramis’s face. At this moment Baisemeaux heard the jailer approaching. “Shall we leave?” he said, hastily, to Aramis.
Aramis, who probably had learnt all that he cared to know, replied, “When you like.”
The young man saw them prepare to leave, and saluted them politely. Baisemeaux replied merely by a nod of the head, while Aramis, with a respect, arising perhaps from the sight of such misfortune, saluted the prisoner profoundly. They left the room, Baisemeaux closing the door behind them.
“Well,” said Baisemeaux, as they descended the staircase, “what do you think of it all?”
“I have discovered the secret, my dear governor,” he said.
“Bah! what is the secret, then?”
“A murder was committed in that house.”
“Nonsense.”
“But attend; the valet and nurse died the same day.”
“Well.”
“And by poison. What do you think?”
“That it is very likely to be true.”
“What! that that young man is an assassin?”
“Who said that? What makes you think that poor young fellow could be an assassin?”
“The very thing I was saying. A crime was committed in his house,” said Aramis, “and that was quite sufficient; perhaps he saw the criminals, and it was feared that he might say something.”
“The deuce! if I only thought that——”
“Well?”
“I would redouble the surveillance.”
“Oh, he does not seem to wish to escape.”
“You do not know what prisoners are.”
“Has he any books?”
“None; they are strictly prohibited, and under M. de Mazarin’s own hand.”
“Have you the writing still?”
“Yes, my lord; would you like to look at it as you return to take your cloak?
“I should, for I like to look at autographs.”
“Well, then, this one is of the most unquestionable authenticity; there is only one erasure.”
“Ah, ah! an erasure; and in what respect?”
“With respect to a figure. At first there was written: ‘To be boarded at fifty francs.’”
“As princes of the blood, in fact?”
“But the cardinal must have seen his mistake, you understand; for he canceled the zero, and has added a one before the five. But, by the by——”
“What?”
“You do not speak of the resemblance.”
“I do not speak of it, dear M. de Baisemeaux, for a very simple reason—because it does not exist.”
“The deuce it doesn’t.”
“Or, if it does exist, it is only in your own imagination; but, supposing it were to exist elsewhere, I think it would be better for you not to speak about it.”
“Really.”
“The king, Louis XIV.—you understand—would be excessively angry with you, if he were to learn that you contributed in any way to spread the report that one of his subjects has the effrontery to resemble him.”
“It is true, quite true,” said Baisemeaux, thoroughly alarmed; “but I have not spoken of the circumstance to any one but yourself, and you understand, monseigneur, that I perfectly rely on your discretion.”
“Oh, be easy.”
“Do you still wish to see the note?”
“Certainly.”
While engaged in this manner in conversation, they had returned to the governor’s apartments; Baisemeaux took from the cupboard a private register, like the one he had already shown Aramis, but fastened by a lock, the key which opened it being one of a small bunch of keys which Baisemeaux always carried with him. Then placing the book upon the table, he opened it at the letter “M,” and showed Aramis the following note in the column of observations: “No books at any time; all linen and clothes of the finest and best quality to be procured; no exercise; always the same jailer; no communications with any one. Musical instruments; every liberty and every indulgence which his welfare may require, to be boarded at fifteen francs. M. de Baisemeaux can claim more if the fifteen francs be not sufficient.”
“Ah,” said Baisemeaux, “now I think of it, I shall claim it.”
Aramis shut the book. “Yes,” he said, “it is indeed M. de Mazarin’s handwriting; I recognize it well. Now, my dear governor,” he continued, as if this last communication had exhausted his interest, “let us now turn to our own little affairs.”
“Well, what time for repayment do you wish me to take? Fix it yourself.”
“There need not be any particular period fixed; give me a simple acknowledgment for one hundred and fifty thousand francs.”
“When to be made payable?”
“When I require it; but, you understand, I shall only wish it when you yourself do.”
“Oh, I am quite easy on that score,” said Baisemeaux, smiling; “but I have already given you two receipts.”
“Which I now destroy,” said Aramis; and after having shown the two receipts to Baisemeaux, he destroyed them. Overcome by so great a mark of confidence, Baisemeaux unhesitatingly wrote out an acknowledgment of a debt of one hundred and fifty thousand francs, payable at the pleasure of the prelate. Aramis, who had, by glancing over the governor’s shoulder, followed the pen as he wrote, put the acknowledgment into his pocket without seeming to have read it, which made Baisemeaux perfectly easy. “Now,” said Aramis, “you will not be angry with me if I were to carry off one of your prisoners?”
“What do you mean?”
“By obtaining his pardon, of course. Have I not already told you that I took a great interest in poor Seldon?”
“Yes, quite true, you did so.”
“Well?”
“That is your affair; do as you think proper. I see you have an open hand, and an arm that can reach a great way.”
“Adieu, adieu.” And Aramis left, carrying with him the governor’s best wishes.
101. The Two Friends
At the very time M. de Baisemeaux was showing Aramis the prisoners in the Bastile, a carriage drew up at Madame de Belliere’s door, and, at that still early hour, a young woman alighted, her head muffled in a silk hood. When the servants announced Madame Vanel to Madame de Belliere, the latter was engaged, or rather was absorbed, in reading, a letter, which she hurriedly concealed. She had hardly finished her morning toilette, her maid being still in the next room. At the name—-at the footsteps of Marguerite Vanel—Madame de Belliere ran to meet her. She fancied she could detect in her friend’s eyes a brightness which was neither that of health nor of pleasure. Marguerite embraced her, pressed her hands, and hardly allowed her time to speak. “Dearest,” she said, “have you forgotten me? Have you quite given yourself up to the pleasures of the court?”
“I have not even seen the marriage fetes.”
“What are you doing with yourself, then?”
“I am getting ready to leave for Belliere.”
“For Belliere?”
“Yes.”
“You are becoming rustic in your tastes, then; I delight to see you so disposed. But you are pale.”
“No, I am perfectly well.”
“So much the better; I was becoming uneasy about you. You do not know what I have been told.”
“People say so many things.”
“Yes, but this is very singular.”
“How well you know how to excite curiosity, Marguerite.”
“Well, I was afraid of vexing you.”
“Never; you have yourself always admired me for my evenness of temper.”
“Well, then, it is said that—no, I shall never be able to tell you.”
“Do not let us talk about it, then,” said Madame de Belliere, who detected the ill-nature that was concealed by all these prefaces, yet felt the most anxious curiosity on the subject.
“Well, then, my dear marquise, it is said that, for some time past, you no longer continue to regret Monsieur de Belliere as you used to.”
“It is an ill-natured report, Marguerite. I do regret and shall always regret, my husband; but it is now two years since he died. I am only twenty-eight years old, and my grief at his loss ought not always to control every action and thought of my life. You, Marguerite, who are the model of a wife, would not believe me if I were to say so.”
“Why not? Your heart is so soft and yielding.” she said, spitefully.
“Yours is so too, Marguerite, and yet I did not perceive that you allowed yourself to be overcome by grief when your heart was wounded.” These words were in direct allusion to Marguerite’s rupture with the superintendent, and were also a veiled but direct reproach made against her friend’s heart.
As if she only awaited this signal to discharge her shaft, Marguerite exclaimed, “Well, Elise, it is said you are in love.” And she looked fixedly at Madame de Belliere, who blushed against her will.
“Women never escape slander,” replied the marquise, after a moment’s pause.
“No one slanders you, Elise.”
“What!—people say that I am in love, and yet they do not slander me!”
“In the first place, if it be true, it is no slander, but simply a scandal-loving report. In the next place—for you did not allow me to finish what I was saying—the public does not assert that you have abandoned yourself to this passion. It represents you, on the contrary, as a virtuous but loving woman, defending yourself with claws and teeth, shutting yourself up in your own house as in a fortress; in other respects, as impenetrable as that of Danae, notwithstanding Danae’s tower was made of brass.”
“You are witty, Marguerite,” said Madame de Belliere, angrily.
“You always flatter me, Elise. In short, however you are reported to be incorruptible and unapproachable. You cannot decide whether the world is calumniating you or not; but what is it you are musing about while I am speaking to you?”
“I?”
“Yes; you are blushing and do not answer me.”
“I was trying,” said the marquise, raising her beautiful eyes brightened with an indication of growing temper, “I was trying to discover to what you could possibly have alluded, you who are so learned in mythological subjects in comparing me to Danae.”
“You were trying to guess that?” said Marguerite, laughing.
“Yes; do you not remember that at the convent, when we were solving our problems in arithmetic—ah! what I have to tell you is learned also, but it is my turn—do you not remember, that if one of the terms were given, we were to find out the other? Therefore do you guess now?”
“I cannot conjecture what you mean.”
“And yet nothing is more simple. You pretend that I am in love, do you not?”
“So it is said.”
“Very well, it is not said, I suppose, that I am in love with an abstraction. There must surely be a name mentioned in this report.”
“Certainly, a name is mentioned.”
“Very well; it is not surprising, then, that I should try to guess this name, since you do not tell it.”
“My dear marquise, when I saw you blush, I did not think you would have to spend much time in conjectures.”
“It was the word Danae which you used that surprised me. Danae means a shower of gold, does it not?”
“That is to say that the Jupiter of Danae changed himself into a shower of gold for her.”
“My lover, then, he whom you assign me——”
“I beg your pardon; I am your friend, and assign you no one.”
“That may be; but those who are ill disposed towards me.”
“Do you wish to hear the name?”
“I have been waiting this half hour for it.”
“Well, then, you shall hear it. Do not be shocked; he is a man high in power.”
“Good,” said the marquise, as she clenched her hands like a patient at the approach of the knife.
“He is a very wealthy man,” continued Marguerite; “the wealthiest, it may be. In a word, it is——”
The marquise closed her eyes for a moment.
“It is the Duke of Buckingham,” said Marguerite, bursting into laughter. This perfidy had been calculated with extreme ability; the name that was pronounced, instead of the name which the marquise awaited, had precisely the same effect upon her as the badly sharpened axes that had hacked, without destroying, Messieurs de Chalais and De Thou upon the scaffold. She recovered herself, however, and said, “I was perfectly right in saying you were a witty woman, for you are making the time pass away most agreeably. This joke is a most amusing one, for I have never seen the Duke of Buckingham.”
“Never?” said Marguerite, restraining her laughter.
“I have never even left my own house since the duke has been at Paris.”
“Oh!” resumed Madame Vanel, stretching out her foot towards a paper which was lying on the carpet near the window; “it is not necessary for people to see each other, since they can write.” The marquise trembled, for this paper was the envelope of the letter she was reading as her friend had entered, and was sealed with the superintendent’s arms. As she leaned back on the sofa on which she was sitting, Madame de Belliere covered the paper with the thick folds of her large silk dress, and so concealed it.
“Come, Marguerite, tell me, is it to tell me all these foolish reports that you have come to see me so early in the day?”
“No, I came to see you, in the first place, and to remind you of those habits of our earlier days, so delightful to remember, when we used to wander about together at Vincennes, and, sitting beneath an oak, or in some sylvan shade, used to talk of those we loved, and who loved us.”
“Do you propose that we should go out together now?”
“My carriage is here, and I have three hours at my disposal.”
“I am not dressed yet, Marguerite; but if you wish that we should talk together, we can, without going to the woods of Vincennes, find in my own garden here, beautiful trees, shady groves, a greensward covered with daisies and violets, the perfume of which can be perceived from where we are sitting.”
“I regret your refusal, my dear marquise, for I wanted to pour out my whole heart into yours.”
“I repeat again, Marguerite, my heart is yours just as much in this room, or beneath the lime-trees in the garden here, as it would be under the oaks in the wood yonder.”
“It is not the same thing for me. In approaching Vincennes, marquise, my ardent aspirations approach nearer to that object towards which they have for some days past been directed.” The marquise suddenly raised her head. “Are you surprised, then, that I am still thinking of Saint-Mande?”
“Of Saint-Mande?” exclaimed Madame de Belliere; and the looks of both women met each other like two resistless swords.
“You, so proud!” said the marquise, disdainfully.
“I, so proud!” replied Madame Vanel. “Such is my nature. I do not forgive neglect—I cannot endure infidelity. When I leave any one who weeps at my abandonment, I feel induced still to love him; but when others forsake me and laugh at their infidelity, I love distractedly.”
Madame de Belliere could not restrain an involuntary movement.
“She is jealous,” said Marguerite to herself.
“Then,” continued the marquise, “you are quite enamored of the Duke of Buckingham—I mean of M. Fouquet?” Elise felt the allusion, and her blood seemed to congeal in her heart. “And you wished to go to Vincennes,—to Saint-Mande, even?”
“I hardly know what I wished: you would have advised me perhaps.”
“In what respect?”
“You have often done so.”
“Most certainly I should not have done so in the present instance, for I do not forgive as you do. I am less loving, perhaps; when my heart has been once wounded, it remains so always.”
“But M. Fouquet has not wounded you,” said Marguerite Vanel, with the most perfect simplicity.
“You perfectly understand what I mean. M. Fouquet has not wounded me; I do not know of either obligation or injury received at his hands, but you have reason to complain of him. You are my friend, and I am afraid I should not advise you as you would like.”
“Ah! you are prejudging the case.”
“The sighs you spoke of just now are more than indications.”
“You overwhelm me,” said the young woman suddenly, as if collecting her whole strength, like a wrestler preparing for a last struggle; “you take only my evil dispositions and my weaknesses into calculation, and do not speak of my pure and generous feelings. If, at this moment, I feel instinctively attracted towards the superintendent, if I even make an advance to him, which, I confess, is very probable, my motive for it is, that M. Fouquet’s fate deeply affects me, and because he is, in my opinion, one of the most unfortunate men living.”
“Ah!” said the marquise, placing her hand upon her heart, “something new, then, has occurred?”
“Do you not know it?”
“I am utterly ignorant of everything about him,” said Madame de Belliere, with the poignant anguish that suspends thought and speech, and even life itself.
“In the first place, then, the king’s favor is entirely withdrawn from M. Fouquet, and conferred on M. Colbert.”
“So it is stated.”
“It is very clear, since the discovery of the plot of Belle-Isle.”
“I was told that the discovery of the fortifications there had turned out to M. Fouquet’s honor.”
Marguerite began to laugh in so cruel a manner that Madame de Belliere could at that moment have delightedly plunged a dagger in her bosom. “Dearest,” continued Marguerite, “there is no longer any question of M. Fouquet’s honor; his safety is concerned. Before three days are passed the ruin of the superintendent will be complete.”
“Stay,” said the marquise, in her turn smiling, “that is going a little too fast.”
“I said three days, because I wish to deceive myself with a hope; but probably the catastrophe will be complete within twenty-four hours.”
“Why so?”
“For the simplest of all reasons,—that M. Fouquet has no more money.”
“In matters of finance, my dear Marguerite, some are without money to-day, who to-morrow can procure millions.”
“That might be M. Fouquet’s case when he had two wealthy and clever friends who amassed money for him, and wrung it from every possible or impossible source; but those friends are dead.”
“Money does not die, Marguerite; it may be concealed, but it can be looked for, sought and found.”
“You see things on the bright side, and so much the better for you. It is really very unfortunate that you are not the Egeria of M. Fouquet; you might now show him the source whence he could obtain the millions which the king asked him for yesterday.”
“Millions!” said the marquise, in terror.
“Four—an even number.”
“Infamous!” murmured Madame de Belliere, tortured by her friend’s merciless delight.
“M. Fouquet, I should think, must certainly have four millions,” she replied, courageously.
“If he has those which the king requires to-day,” said Marguerite, “he will not, perhaps, possess those which the king will demand in a month or so.”
“The king will exact money from him again, then?”
“No doubt; and that is my reason for saying that the ruin of poor M. Fouquet is inevitable. Pride will induce him to furnish the money, and when he has no more, he will fall.”
“It is true,” said the marquise, trembling; “the plan is a bold one; but tell me, does M. Colbert hate M. Fouquet so very much?”
“I think he does not like him. M. Colbert is powerful; he improves on close acquaintance, he has gigantic ideas, a strong will, and discretion, he will rise.”
“He will be superintendent?”
“It is probable. Such is the reason, my dear marquise, why I felt myself impressed in favor of that poor man, who once loved, and even adored me; and why, when I see him so unfortunate, I forgive his infidelity which I have reason to believe he also regrets; and why, moreover, I should not have been disinclined to afford him some consolation, or some good advice; he would have understood the step I had taken, and would have thought kindly of me for it. It is gratifying to be loved, you know. Men value love more highly when they are no longer blinded by its influence.”
The marquise, bewildered and overcome by these cruel attacks, which had been calculated with the greatest nicety and precision, hardly knew what answer to return; she even seemed to have lost all power of thought. Her perfidious friend’s voice had assumed the most affectionate tone; she spoke as a woman, but concealed the instincts of a wolf.
“Well,” said Madame de Belliere, who had a vague hope that Marguerite would cease to overwhelm a vanquished enemy, “why do you not go and see M. Fouquet?”
“Decidedly, marquise, you have made me reflect. No, it would be unbecoming for me to make the first advance. M. Fouquet no doubt loves me, but he is too proud. I cannot expose myself to an affront.... besides I have my husband to consider. You tell me nothing? Very well, I shall consult M. Colbert on the subject.” Marguerite rose smilingly, as though to take leave, but the marquise had not the strength to imitate her. Marguerite advanced a few paces, in order that she might continue to enjoy the humiliating grief in which her rival was plunged, and then said, suddenly,—“You do not accompany me to the door, then?” The marquise rose, pale and almost lifeless, without thinking of the envelope, which had occupied her attention so greatly at the commencement of the conversation, and which was revealed at the first step she took. She then opened the door of her oratory, and without even turning her head towards Marguerite Vanel, entered it, closing the door after her. Marguerite said, or rather muttered a few words, which Madame de Belliere did not even hear. As soon, however, as the marquise had disappeared, her envious enemy, not being able to resist the desire to satisfy herself that her suspicions were well founded, advanced stealthily towards it like a panther and seized the envelope. “Ah!” she said, gnashing her teeth, “it was indeed a letter from M. Fouquet she was reading when I arrived,” and then darted out of the room. During this interval, the marquise, having arrived behind the rampart, as it were, of her door, felt that her strength was failing her; for a moment she remained rigid, pale and motionless as a statue, and then, like a statue shaken on its base by an earthquake, tottered and fell inanimate on the carpet. The noise of the fall resounded at the same moment as the rolling of Marguerite’s carriage leaving the hotel.
102. Madame de Belliere’s Plate
The blow had been the more painful on account of its being unexpected. It was some time before the marquise recovered herself; but once recovered, she began to reflect upon the events so heartlessly announced to her. She therefore returned, at the risk even of losing her life in the way, to that train of ideas which her relentless friend had forced her to pursue. Treason, then—deep menaces, concealed under the semblance of public interest—such were Colbert’s maneuvers. A detestable delight at an approaching downfall, untiring efforts to attain this object, means of seduction no less wicked than the crime itself—such were the weapons Marguerite employed. The crooked atoms of Descartes triumphed; to the man without compassion was united a woman without heart. The marquise perceived, with sorrow rather than indignation, that the king was an accomplice in the plot which betrayed the duplicity of Louis XIII. in his advanced age, and the avarice of Mazarin at a period of life when he had not had the opportunity of gorging himself with French gold. The spirit of this courageous woman soon resumed its energy, no longer overwhelmed by indulgence in compassionate lamentations. The marquise was not one to weep when action was necessary, nor to waste time in bewailing a misfortune as long as means still existed of relieving it. For some minutes she buried her face in her cold fingers, and then, raising her head, rang for her attendants with a steady hand, and with a gesture betraying a fixed determination of purpose. Her resolution was taken.
“Is everything prepared for my departure?” she inquired of one of her female attendants who entered.
“Yes, madame; but it was not expected that your ladyship would leave for Belliere for the next few days.”
“All my jewels and articles of value, then, are packed up?”
“Yes, madame; but hitherto we have been in the habit of leaving them in Paris. Your ladyship does not generally take your jewels with you into the country.”
“But they are all in order, you say?”
“Yes, in your ladyship’s own room.”
“The gold plate?”
“In the chest.”
“And the silver plate?”
“In the great oak closet.”
The marquise remained silent for a few moments, and then said calmly, “Let my goldsmith be sent for.”
Her attendants quitted the room to execute the order. The marquise, however, had entered her own room, and was inspecting her casket of jewels with the greatest attention. Never, until now, had she bestowed such close attention upon riches in which women take so much pride; never, until now, had she looked at her jewels except for the purpose of making a selection, according to their settings or their colors. On this occasion, however, she admired the size of the rubies and the brilliancy of the diamonds; she grieved over every blemish and every defect; she thought the gold light, and the stones wretched. The goldsmith, as he entered, found her thus occupied. “M. Faucheux,” she said, “I believe you supplied me with my gold service?”
“I did, your ladyship.”
“I do not now remember the amount of the account.”
“Of the new service, madame, or of that which M. de Belliere presented to you on your marriage? for I have furnished both.”
“First of all, the new one.”
“The covers, the goblets, and the dishes, with their covers, the eau-epergne, the ice-pails, the dishes for the preserves, and the tea and coffee urns, cost your ladyship sixty thousand francs.”
“No more?”
“Your ladyship thought the account very high.”
“Yes, yes; I remember, in fact, that it was dear; but it was the workmanship, I suppose?”
“Yes, madame; the designs, the chasings—all new patterns.”
“What proportion of the cost does the workmanship form? Do not hesitate to tell me.”
“A third of its value, madame.”
“There is the other service, the old one, that which belonged to my husband?”
“Yes, madame; there is less workmanship in that than in the other. Its intrinsic value does not exceed thirty thousand francs.”
“Thirty thousand,” murmured the marquise. “But, M. Faucheux, there is also the service which belonged to my mother; all that massive plate which I did not wish to part with, on account of the associations connected with it.”
“Ah! madame, that would indeed be an excellent resource for those who, unlike your ladyship, might not be in a position to keep their plate. In chasing that they worked in solid metal. But that service is no longer in fashion. Its weight is its only advantage.”
“That is all I care about. How much does it weigh?”
“Fifty thousand livres at the very least. I do not allude to the enormous vases for the buffet, which alone weigh five thousand livres, or ten thousand the pair.”
“One hundred and thirty,” murmured the marquise. “You are quite sure of your figures, M. Faucheux?”
“Positive, madame. Besides, there is no difficulty in weighing them.”
“The amount is entered in my books.”
“Your ladyship is extremely methodical, I am aware.”
“Let us now turn to another subject,” said Madame de, Belliere; and she opened one of her jewel-boxes.
“I recognize these emeralds,” said M. Faucheux; “for it was I who had the setting of them. They are the most beautiful in the whole court. No, I am mistaken; Madame de Chatillon has the most beautiful set; she had them from Messieurs de Guise; but your set madame, comes next.”
“What are they worth?”
“Mounted?”
“No; supposing I wished to sell them.”
“I know very well who would buy them,” exclaimed M. Faucheux.
“That is the very thing I ask. They could be sold, then?”
“All your jewels could be sold, madame. It is well known that you possess the most beautiful jewels in Paris. You are not changeable in your tastes; when you make a purchase it is of the very best; and what you purchase you do not part with.”
“What could these emeralds be sold for, then?”
“A hundred and thirty thousand francs.”
The marquise wrote down upon her tablets the amount which the jeweler mentioned. “The ruby necklace?” she said.
“Are they balas-rubies, madame?”
“Here they are.”
“They are beautiful—magnificent. I did not know that your ladyship had these stones.”
“What is their value?”
“Two hundred thousand francs. The center one is alone worth a hundred thousand.”
“I thought so,” said the marquise. “As for diamonds, I have them in numbers; rings, necklaces, sprigs, earrings, clasps. Tell me their value, M. Faucheux.”
The jeweler took his magnifying-glass and scales, weighed and inspected them, and silently made his calculations. “These stones,” he said, “must have cost your ladyship an income of forty thousand francs.”
“You value them at eight hundred thousand francs?”
“Nearly so.”
“It is about what I imagined—-but the settings are not included?”
“No, madame; but if I were called upon to sell or to buy, I should be satisfied with the gold of the settings alone as my profit upon the transaction. I should make a good twenty-five thousand francs.”
“An agreeable sum.”
“Very much so, madame.”
“Will you accept that profit, then, on condition of converting the jewels into money?”
“But you do not intend to sell your diamonds, I suppose, madame?” exclaimed the bewildered jeweler.
“Silence, M. Faucheux, do not disturb yourself about that; give me an answer simply. You are an honorable man, with whom my family has dealt for thirty years; you knew my father and mother, whom your own father and mother served. I address you as a friend; will you accept the gold of the settings in return for a sum of ready money to be placed in my hands?”
“Eight hundred thousand francs! it is enormous.”
“I know it.”
“Impossible to find.”
“Not so.”
“But reflect, madame, upon the effect which will be produced by the sale of your jewels.”
“No one need know it. You can get sets of false jewels made for me, similar to the real. Do not answer a word; I insist upon it. Sell them separately, sell the stones only.”
“In that way it is easy. Monsieur is looking out for some sets of jewels as well as single stones for Madame’s toilette. There will be a competition for them. I can easily dispose of six hundred thousand francs’ worth to Monsieur. I am certain yours are the most beautiful.”
“When can you do so?”
“In less than three days’ time.”
“Very well, the remainder you will dispose of among private individuals. For the present, make me out a contract of sale, payment to be made in four days.”
“I entreat you to reflect, madame; for if you force the sale, you will lose a hundred thousand francs.”
“If necessary, I will lose two hundred; I wish everything to be settled this evening. Do you accept?”
“I do, your ladyship. I will not conceal from you that I shall make fifty thousand francs by the transaction.”
“So much the better for you. In what way shall I have the money?”
“Either in gold, or in bills of the bank of Lyons, payable at M. Colbert’s.”
“I agree,” said the marquise, eagerly; “return home and bring the sum in question in notes, as soon as possible.”
“Yes, madame, but for Heaven’s sake——”
“Not a word, M. Faucheux. By the by, I was forgetting the silver plate. What is the value of that which I have?”
“Fifty thousand francs, madame.”
“That makes a million,” said the marquise to herself. “M. Faucheux, you will take away with you both the gold and silver plate. I can assign, as a pretext, that I wish it remodelled on patterns more in accordance with my own taste. Melt it down, and return me its value in money, at once.”
“It shall be done, your ladyship.”
“You will be good enough to place the money in a chest, and direct one of your clerks to accompany the chest, and without my servants seeing him; and order him to wait for me in a carriage.”
“In Madame de Faucheux’s carriage?” said the jeweler.
“If you will allow it, and I will call for it at your house.”
“Certainly, your ladyship.”
“I will direct some of my servants to convey the plate to your house.” The marquise rung. “Let the small van be placed at M. Faucheux’s disposal,” she said. The jeweler bowed and left the house, directing that the van should follow him closely, saying aloud that the marquise was about to have her plate melted down in order to have other plate manufactured of a more modern style. Three hours afterwards she went to M. Faucheux’s house and received from him eight hundred thousand francs in gold inclosed in a chest, which one of the clerks could hardly carry towards Madame Faucheux’s carriage—for Madame Faucheux kept her carriage. As the daughter of a president of accounts, she had brought a marriage portion of thirty thousand crowns to her husband, who was syndic of the goldsmiths. These thirty thousand crowns had become very fruitful during twenty years. The jeweler, though a millionaire, was a modest man. He had purchased a substantial carriage, built in 1648, ten years after the king’s birth. This carriage, or rather house upon wheels, excited the admiration of the whole quarter in which he resided—it was covered with allegorical paintings, and clouds scattered over with stars. The marquise entered this somewhat extraordinary vehicle, sitting opposite the clerk, who endeavored to put his knees out of the way, afraid even of touching the marquise’s dress. It was the clerk, too, who told the coachman, who was very proud of having a marquise to drive, to take the road to Saint-Mande.
103. The Dowry
Monsieur Faucheux’s horses were serviceable animals, with thickset knees, and legs that had some difficulty in moving. Like the carriage, they belonged to the earlier part of the century. They were not as fleet as the English horses of M. Fouquet, and consequently took two hours to get to Saint-Mande. Their progress, it might be said, was majestic. Majesty, however, precludes hurry. The marquise stopped the carriage at the door so well known to her, although she had seen it only once, under circumstances, it will be remembered, no less painful than those which brought her now to it again. She drew a key from her pocket, and inserted it in the lock, pushed open the door, which noiselessly yielded to her touch, and directed the clerk to carry the chest upstairs to the first floor. The weight of the chest was so great that the clerk was obliged to get the coachman to assist him with it. They placed it in a small cabinet, anteroom, or boudoir rather, adjoining the saloon where we once saw M. Fouquet at the marquise’s feet. Madame de Belliere gave the coachman a louis, smiled gracefully at the clerk, and dismissed them both. She closed the door after them, and waited in the room, alone and barricaded. There was no servant to be seen about the rooms, but everything was prepared as though some invisible genius had divined the wishes and desires of an expected guest. The fire was laid, candles in the candelabra, refreshments upon the table, books scattered about, fresh-cut flowers in the vases. One might almost have imagined it an enchanted house. The marquise lighted the candles, inhaled the perfume of the flowers, sat down, and was soon plunged in profound thought. Her deep musings, melancholy though they were, were not untinged with a certain vague joy. Spread out before her was a treasure, a million wrung from her fortune as a gleaner plucks the blue corn-flower from her crown of flowers. She conjured up the sweetest dreams. Her principal thought, and one that took precedence of all others, was to devise means of leaving this money for M. Fouquet without his possibly learning from whom the gift had come. This idea, naturally enough, was the first to present itself to her mind. But although, on reflection, it appeared difficult to carry out, she did not despair of success. She would then ring to summon M. Fouquet and make her escape, happier than if, instead of having given a million, she had herself found one. But, being there, and having seen the boudoir so coquettishly decorated that it might almost be said the least particle of dust had but the moment before been removed by the servants; having observed the drawing-room, so perfectly arranged that it might almost be said her presence there had driven away the fairies who were its occupants, she asked herself if the glance or gaze of those whom she had displaced—whether spirits, fairies, elves, or human creatures—had not already recognized her. To secure success, it was necessary that some steps should be seriously taken, and it was necessary also that the superintendent should comprehend the serious position in which he was placed, in order to yield compliance with the generous fancies of a woman; all the fascinations of an eloquent friendship would be required to persuade him, and, should this be insufficient, the maddening influence of a devoted passion, which, in its resolute determination to carry conviction, would not be turned aside. Was not the superintendent, indeed, known for his delicacy and dignity of feeling? Would he allow himself to accept from any woman that of which she had stripped herself? No! He would resist, and if any voice in the world could overcome his resistance, it would be the voice of the woman he loved.
Another doubt, and that a cruel one, suggested itself to Madame de Belliere with a sharp, acute pain, like a dagger thrust. Did he really love her? Would that volatile mind, that inconstant heart, be likely to be fixed for a moment, even were it to gaze upon an angel? Was it not the same with Fouquet, notwithstanding his genius and his uprightness of conduct, as with those conquerors on the field of battle who shed tears when they have gained a victory? “I must learn if it be so, and must judge of that for myself,” said the marquise. “Who can tell whether that heart, so coveted, is not common in its impulses, and full of alloy? Who can tell if that mind, when the touchstone is applied to it, will not be found of a mean and vulgar character? Come, come,” she said, “this is doubting and hesitating too much—to the proof.” She looked at the timepiece. “It is now seven o’clock,” she said; “he must have arrived, it is the hour for signing his papers.” With a feverish impatience she rose and walked towards the mirror, in which she smiled with a resolute smile of devotedness; she touched the spring and drew out the handle of the bell. Then, as if exhausted beforehand by the struggle she had just undergone, she threw herself on her knees, in utter abandonment, before a large couch, in which she buried her face in her trembling hands. Ten minutes afterwards she heard the spring of the door sound. The door moved upon invisible hinges, and Fouquet appeared. He looked pale, and seemed bowed down by the weight of some bitter reflection. He did not hurry, but simply came at the summons. The pre-occupation of his mind must indeed have been very great, that a man so devoted to pleasure, for whom indeed pleasure meant everything, should obey such a summons so listlessly. The previous night, in fact, fertile in melancholy ideas, had sharpened his features, generally so noble in their indifference of expression, and had traced dark lines of anxiety around his eyes. Handsome and noble he still was, and the melancholy expression of his mouth, a rare expression with men, gave a new character to his features, by which his youth seemed to be renewed. Dressed in black, the lace in front of his chest much disarranged by his feverishly restless hand, the looks of the superintendent, full of dreamy reflection, were fixed upon the threshold of the room which he had so frequently approached in search of expected happiness. This gloomy gentleness of manner, this smiling sadness of expression, which had replaced his former excessive joy, produced an indescribable effect upon Madame de Belliere, who was regarding him at a distance.
A woman’s eye can read the face of the man she loves, its every feeling of pride, its every expression of suffering; it might almost be said that Heaven has graciously granted to women, on account of their very weakness, more than it has accorded to other creatures. They can conceal their own feelings from a man, but from them no man can conceal his. The marquise divined in a single glance the whole weight of the unhappiness of the superintendent. She divined a night passed without sleep, a day passed in deceptions. From that moment she was firm in her own strength, and she felt that she loved Fouquet beyond everything else. She arose and approached him, saying, “You wrote to me this morning to say you were beginning to forget me, and that I, whom you had not seen lately, had no doubt ceased to think of you. I have come to undeceive you, monsieur, and the more completely so, because there is one thing I can read in your eyes.”
“What is that, madame?” said Fouquet, astonished.
“That you have never loved me so much as at this moment; in the same manner you can read, in my present step towards you, that I have not forgotten you.”
“Oh! madame,” said Fouquet, whose face was for a moment lighted up by a sudden gleam of joy, “you are indeed an angel, and no man can suspect you. All he can do is to humble himself before you and entreat forgiveness.”
“Your forgiveness is granted, then,” said the marquise. Fouquet was about to throw himself upon his knees. “No, no,” she said, “sit here by my side. Ah! that is an evil thought which has just crossed your mind.”
“How do you detect it, madame?”
“By the smile that has just marred the expression of your countenance, Be candid, and tell me what your thought was—no secrets between friends.”
“Tell me, then, madame, why have you been so harsh these three or four months past?”
“Harsh?”
“Yes; did you not forbid me to visit you?”
“Alas!” said Madame de Belliere, sighing, “because your visit to me was the cause of your being visited with a great misfortune; because my house is watched; because the same eyes that have seen you already might see you again; because I think it less dangerous for you that I should come here than that you should come to my house; and, lastly, because I know you to be already unhappy enough not to wish to increase your unhappiness further.”
Fouquet started, for these words recalled all the anxieties connected with his office of superintendent—he who, for the last few minutes, had indulged in all the wild aspirations of the lover. “I unhappy?” he said, endeavoring to smile: “indeed, marquise, you will almost make me believe I am so, judging from your own sadness. Are your beautiful eyes raised upon me merely in pity? I was looking for another expression from them.”
“It is not I who am sad, monsieur; look in the mirror, there—it is yourself.”
“It is true I am somewhat pale, marquise; but it is from overwork; the king yesterday required a supply of money from me.”
“Yes, four millions, I am aware of it.”
“You know it?” exclaimed Fouquet, in a tone of surprise; “how can you have learnt it? It was after the departure of the queen, and in the presence of one person only, that the king——”
“You perceive that I do know it; is not that sufficient? Well, go on, monsieur, the money the king has required you to supply——”
“You understand, marquise, that I have been obliged to procure it, then to get it counted, afterwards registered—altogether a long affair. Since Monsieur de Mazarin’s death, financial affairs occasion some little fatigue and embarrassment. My administration is somewhat overtaxed, and this is the reason why I have not slept during the past night.”
“So that you have the amount?” inquired the marquise, with some anxiety.
“It would indeed be strange, marquise,” replied Fouquet, cheerfully, “if a superintendent of finances were not to have a paltry four millions in his coffers.”
“Yes, yes, I believe you either have, or will have them.”
“What do you mean by saying I shall have them?”
“It is not very long since you were required to furnish two millions.”
“On the contrary, to me it seems almost an age; but do not let us talk of money matters any longer.”
“On the contrary, we will continue to speak of them, for that is my only reason for coming to see you.”
“I am at a loss to compass your meaning,” said the superintendent, whose eyes began to express an anxious curiosity.
“Tell me, monsieur, is the office of superintendent a permanent position?”
“You surprise me, marchioness, for you speak as if you had some motive or interest in putting the question.”
“My reason is simple enough; I am desirous of placing some money in your hands, and naturally I wish to know if you are certain of your post.”
“Really, marquise, I am at a loss what to reply; I cannot conceive your meaning.”
“Seriously, then, dear M. Fouquet, funds which somewhat embarrass me. I am tired of investing my money in land, and am anxious to intrust it to some friend who will turn it to account.”
“Surely it does not press,” said M. Fouquet.
“On the contrary, it is very pressing.”
“Very well, we will talk of that by and by.”
“By and by will not do, for my money is there,” returned the marquise, pointing out the coffer to the superintendent, and showing him, as she opened it, the bundles of notes and heaps of gold. Fouquet, who had risen from his seat at the same moment as Madame de Belliere, remained for a moment plunged in thought; then suddenly starting back, he turned pale, and sank down in his chair, concealing his face in his hands. “Madame, madame,” he murmured, “what opinion can you have of me, when you make me such an offer?”
“Of you!” returned the marquise. “Tell me, rather, what you yourself think of the step I have taken.”
“You bring me this money for myself, and you bring it because you know me to be embarrassed. Nay, do not deny it, for I am sure of it. Can I not read your heart?”
“If you know my heart, then, can you not see that it is my heart I offer you?”
“I have guessed rightly, then,” exclaimed Fouquet. “In truth, madame, I have never yet given you the right to insult me in this manner.”
“Insult you,” she said, turning pale, “what singular delicacy of feeling! You tell me you love me; in the name of that affection you wish me to sacrifice my reputation and my honor, yet, when I offer you money which is my own, you refuse me.”
“Madame, you are at liberty to preserve what you term your reputation and your honor. Permit me to preserve mine. Leave me to my ruin, leave me to sink beneath the weight of the hatreds which surround me, beneath the faults I have committed, beneath the load even, of my remorse, but, for Heaven’s sake, madame, do not overwhelm me with this last infliction.”
“A short time since, M. Fouquet, you were wanting in judgment; now you are wanting in feeling.”
Fouquet pressed his clenched hand upon his breast, heaving with emotion, saying: “Overwhelm me, madame for I have nothing to reply.”
“I offered you my friendship, M. Fouquet.”
“Yes, madame, and you limited yourself to that.”
“And what I am now doing is the act of a friend.”
“No doubt it is.”
“And you reject this mark of my friendship?”
“I do reject it.”
“Monsieur Fouquet, look at me,” said the marquise, with glistening eyes, “I now offer you my love.”
“Oh, madame,” exclaimed Fouquet.
“I have loved you for a long while past; women, like men, have a false delicacy at times. For a long time past I have loved you, but would not confess it. Well, then, you have implored this love on your knees, and I have refused you; I was blind, as you were a little while since; but as it was my love that you sought, it is my love I now offer you.”
“Oh! madame, you overwhelm me beneath a load of happiness.”
“Will you be happy, then, if I am yours—entirely?”
“It will be the supremest happiness for me.”
“Take me, then. If, however, for your sake I sacrifice a prejudice, do you, for mine, sacrifice a scruple.”
“Do not tempt me.”
“Do not refuse me.”
“Think seriously of what you are proposing.”
“Fouquet, but one word. Let it be ‘No,’ and I open this door,” and she pointed to the door which led into the streets, “and you will never see me again. Let that word be ‘Yes,’ and I am yours entirely.”
“Elsie! Elsie! But this coffer?”
“Contains my dowry.”
“It is your ruin,” exclaimed Fouquet, turning over the gold and papers; “there must be a million here.”
“Yes, my jewels, for which I care no longer if you do not love me, and for which, equally, I care no longer if you love me as I love you.”
“This is too much,” exclaimed Fouquet. “I yield, I yield, even were it only to consecrate so much devotion. I accept the dowry.”
“And take the woman with it,” said the marquise, throwing herself into his arms.
104. Le Terrain de Dieu
During the progress of these events Buckingham and De Wardes traveled in excellent companionship, and made the journey from Paris to Calais in undisturbed harmony together. Buckingham had hurried his departure, so that the greater part of his adieux were very hastily made. His visit to Monsieur and Madame, to the young queen, and to the queen-dowager, had been paid collectively—a precaution on the part of the queen-mother which saved him the distress of any private conversation with Monsieur, and also the danger of seeing Madame again. The carriages containing the luggage had already been sent on beforehand, and in the evening he set off in his traveling carriage with his attendants.
De Wardes, irritated at finding himself dragged away in so abrupt a manner by this Englishman, had sought in his subtle mind for some means of escaping from his fetters; but no one having rendered him any assistance in this respect, he was absolutely obliged, therefore, to submit to the burden of his own evil thoughts and caustic spirit.
Such of his friends in whom he had been able to confide, had, in their character of wits, rallied him upon the duke’s superiority. Others, less brilliant, but more sensible, had reminded him of the king’s orders prohibiting dueling. Others, again, and they the larger number, who, in virtue of charity, or national vanity, might have rendered him assistance, did not care to run the risk of incurring disgrace, and would, at the best, have informed the ministers of a departure which might end in a massacre on a small scale. The result was, that, after having fully deliberated upon the matter, De Wardes packed up his luggage, took a couple of horses, and, followed only by one servant, made his way towards the barrier, where Buckingham’s carriage was to await him.
The duke received his adversary as he would have done an intimate acquaintance, made room beside him on the same seat with himself, offered him refreshments, and spread over his knees the sable cloak that had been thrown on the front seat. They then conversed of the court, without alluding to Madame; of Monsieur, without speaking of domestic affairs; of the king, without speaking of his brother’s wife; of the queen-mother, without alluding to her daughter-in-law; of the king of England, without alluding to his sister-in-law; of the state of the affections of either of the travelers, without pronouncing any name that might be dangerous. In this way the journey, which was performed by short stages, was most agreeable, and Buckingham, almost a Frenchman from wit and education, was delighted at having so admirably selected his traveling companion. Elegant repasts were served, of which they partook but lightly; trials of horses made in the beautiful meadows that skirted the road; coursing indulged in, for Buckingham had his greyhounds with him; and in such ways did they pass away the pleasant time. The duke somewhat resembled the beautiful river Seine, which folds France a thousand times in its loving embrace, before deciding upon joining its waters with the ocean. In quitting France, it was her recently adopted daughter he had brought to Paris whom he chiefly regretted; his every thought was a remembrance of her—his every memory a regret. Therefore, whenever, now and then, despite his command over himself, he was lost in thought, De Wardes left him entirely to his musings. This delicacy might have touched Buckingham, and changed his feelings towards De Wardes, if the latter, while preserving silence, had shown a glance less full of malice, and a smile less false. Instinctive dislikes, however, are relentless; nothing appeases them; a few ashes may sometimes, apparently, extinguish them; but beneath those ashes the smothered embers rage more furiously. Having exhausted every means of amusement the route offered, they arrived, as we have said, at Calais towards the end of the sixth day. The duke’s attendants, since the previous evening, had traveled in advance, and now chartered a boat, for the purpose of joining the yacht, which had been tacking about in sight, or bore broadside on, whenever it felt its white wings wearied, within cannon-shot of the jetty.
The boat was destined for the transport of the duke’s equipages from the shore to the yacht. The horses had been embarked, having been hoisted from the boat upon the deck in baskets expressly made for the purpose, and wadded in such a manner that their limbs, even in the most violent fits of terror or impatience, were always protected by the soft support which the sides afforded, and their coats not even turned. Eight of these baskets, placed side by side, filled the ship’s hold. It is well known that in short voyages horses refuse to eat, but remain trembling all the while, with the best of food before them, such as they would have greatly coveted on land. By degrees, the duke’s entire equipage was transported on board the yacht; he was then informed that everything was in readiness, and that they only waited for him, whenever he would be disposed to embark with the French gentleman; for no one could possibly imagine that the French gentleman would have any other accounts to settle with his Grace than those of friendship. Buckingham desired the captain to be told to hold himself in readiness, but that, as the sea was beautiful, and as the day promised a splendid sunset, he did not intend to go on board until nightfall, and would avail himself of the evening to enjoy a walk on the strand. He added also, that, finding himself in such excellent company, he had not the least desire to hasten his embarkation.
As he said this he pointed out to those who surrounded him the magnificent spectacle which the sky presented, of deepest azure in the horizon, the amphitheatre of fleecy clouds ascending from the sun’s disc to the zenith, assuming the appearance of a range of snowy mountains, whose summits were heaped one upon another. The dome of clouds was tinged at its base with, as it were, the foam of rubies, fading away into opal and pearly tints, in proportion as the gaze was carried from base to summit. The sea was gilded with the same reflection, and upon the crest of every sparkling wave danced a point of light, like a diamond by lamplight. The mildness of the evening, the sea breezes, so dear to contemplative minds, setting in from the east and blowing in delicious gusts; then, in the distance, the black outline of the yacht with its rigging traced upon the empurpled background of the sky—while, dotting the horizon, might be seen, here and there, vessels with their trimmed sails, like the wings of a seagull about to plunge; such a spectacle indeed well merited admiration. A crowd of curious idlers followed the richly dressed attendants, amongst whom they mistook the steward and the secretary for the master and his friend. As for Buckingham, who was dressed very simply, in a gray satin vest, and doublet of violet-colored velvet, wearing his hat thrust over his eyes, and without orders or embroidery, he was taken no more notice of than De Wardes, who was in black, like an attorney.
The duke’s attendants had received directions to have a boat in readiness at the jetty head, and to watch the embarkation of their master, without approaching him until either he or his friend should summon them,—“whatever may happen,” he had added, laying a stress upon these words, so that they might not be misunderstood. Having walked a few paces upon the strand, Buckingham said to De Wardes, “I think it is now time to take leave of each other. The tide, you perceive, is rising; ten minutes hence it will have soaked the sands where we are now walking in such a manner that we shall not be able to keep our footing.”
“I await your orders, my lord, but——”
“But, you mean, we are still upon soil which is part of the king’s territory.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, do you see yonder a kind of little island surrounded by a circle of water? The pool is increasing every minute, and the isle is gradually disappearing. This island, indeed, belongs to Heaven, for it is situated between two seas, and is not shown on the king’s charts. Do you observe it?”
“Yes; but we can hardly reach it now, without getting our feet wet.”
“Yes; but observe that it forms an eminence tolerably high, and that the tide rises on every side, leaving the top free. We shall be admirably placed upon that little theatre. What do you think of it?”
“I shall be perfectly happy wherever I may have the honor of crossing my sword with your lordship’s.”
“Very well, then, I am distressed to be the cause of your wetting your feet, M. de Wardes, but it is most essential you should be able to say to the king: ‘Sire, I did not fight upon your majesty’s territory.’ Perhaps the distinction is somewhat subtle, but, since Port-Royal, your nation delights in subtleties of expression. Do not let us complain of this, however, for it makes your wit very brilliant, and of a style peculiarly your own. If you do not object, we will hurry ourselves, for the sea, I perceive, is rising fast, and night is setting in.”
“My reason for not walking faster was, that I did not wish to precede your Grace. Are you still on dry land, my lord?”
“Yes, at present I am. Look yonder! My servants are afraid we shall be drowned, and have converted the boat into a cruiser. Do you remark how curiously it dances upon the crests of the waves? But, as it makes me feel sea-sick, would you permit me to turn my back towards them?”
“You will observe, my lord, that in turning your back to them, you will have the sun full in your face.”
“Oh, its rays are very feeble at this hour and it will soon disappear; do not be uneasy on that score.”
“As you please, my lord; it was out of consideration for your lordship that I made the remark.”
“I am aware of that, M. de Wardes, and I fully appreciate your kindness. Shall we take off our doublets?”
“As you please, my lord.”
“Do not hesitate to tell me, M. de Wardes, if you do not feel comfortable upon the wet sand, or if you think yourself a little too close to the French territory. We could fight in England, or even upon my yacht.”
“We are exceedingly well placed here, my lord; only I have the honor to remark that, as the sea is rising fast, we have hardly time——”
Buckingham made a sign of assent, took off his doublet and threw it on the ground, a proceeding which De Wardes imitated. Both their bodies, which seemed like phantoms to those who were looking at them from the shore, were thrown strongly into relief by a dark red violet-colored shadow with which the sky became overspread.
“Upon my word, your Grace,” said De Wardes, “we shall hardly have time to begin. Do you not perceive how our feet are sinking into the sand?”
“I have sunk up to the ankles,” said Buckingham, “without reckoning that the water is even now breaking in upon us.”
“It has already reached me. As soon as you please, therefore, your Grace,” said De Wardes, who drew his sword, a movement imitated by the duke.
“M. de Wardes,” said Buckingham, “one final word. I am about to fight you because I do not like you,—because you have wounded me in ridiculing a certain devotional regard I have entertained, and one which I acknowledge that, at this moment, I still retain, and for which I would very willingly die. You are a bad and heartless man, M. de Wardes, and I will do my very utmost to take your life; for I feel assured that, if you survive this engagement, you will, in the future, work great mischief towards my friends. That is all I have to remark, M. de Wardes,” concluded Buckingham, as he saluted him.
“And I, my lord, have only this to reply to you: I have not disliked you hitherto, but, since you give me such a character, I hate you, and will do all I possibly can to kill you;” and De Wardes saluted Buckingham.
Their swords crossed at the same moment, like two flashes of lightning on a dark night. The swords seemed to seek each other, guessed their position, and met. Both were practiced swordsmen, and the earlier passes were without any result. The night was fast closing in, and it was so dark that they attacked and defended themselves almost instinctively. Suddenly De Wardes felt his sword arrested,—he had just touched Buckingham’s shoulder. The duke’s sword sunk as his arm was lowered.
“You are wounded, my lord,” said De Wardes, drawing back a step or two.
“Yes, monsieur, but only slightly.”
“Yet you quitted your guard.”
“Only from the first effect of the cold steel, but I have recovered. Let us go on, if you please.” And disengaging his sword with a sinister clashing of the blade, the duke wounded the marquis in the breast.
“A hit?” he said.
“No,” cried De Wardes, not moving from his place.
“I beg your pardon, but observing that your shirt was stained——” said Buckingham.
“Well,” said De Wardes furiously, “it is now your turn.”
And with a terrible lunge, he pierced Buckingham’s arm, the sword passing between the two bones. Buckingham, feeling his right arm paralyzed, stretched out his left, seized his sword, which was about falling from his nerveless grasp, and before De Wardes could resume his guard, he thrust him through the breast. De Wardes tottered, his knees gave way beneath him, and leaving his sword still fixed in the duke’s arm, he fell into the water, which was soon crimsoned with a more genuine reflection than that which it had borrowed from the clouds. De Wardes was not dead; he felt the terrible danger that menaced him, for the sea rose fast. The duke, too, perceived the danger. With an effort and an exclamation of pain he tore out the blade which remained in his arm, and turning towards De Wardes said, “Are you dead, marquis?”
“No,” replied De Wardes, in a voice choked by the blood which rushed from his lungs to his throat, “but very near it.”
“Well, what is to be done; can you walk?” said Buckingham, supporting him on his knee.
“Impossible,” he replied. Then falling down again, said, “Call to your people, or I shall be drowned.”
“Halloa! boat there! quick, quick!”
The boat flew over the waves, but the sea rose faster than the boat could approach. Buckingham saw that De Wardes was on the point of being again covered by a wave; he passed his left arm, safe and unwounded, round his body and raised him up. The wave ascended to his waist but did not move him. The duke immediately began to carry his late antagonist towards the shore. He had hardly gone ten paces, when a second wave, rushing onwards higher, more furious and menacing than the former, struck him at the height of his chest, threw him over and buried him beneath the water. At the reflux, however, the duke and De Wardes were discovered lying on the strand. De Wardes had fainted. At this moment four of the duke’s sailors, who comprehended the danger, threw themselves into the sea, and in a moment were close beside him. Their terror was extreme when they observed how their master became covered with blood, in proportion as the water with which it was impregnated, flowed towards his knees and feet; they wished to carry him.
“No, no,” exclaimed the duke, “take the marquis on shore first.”
“Death to the Frenchman!” cried the English sullenly.
“Wretched knaves!” exclaimed the duke, drawing himself up with a haughty gesture, which sprinkled them with blood, “obey directly! M. de Wardes on shore! M. de Wardes’s safety to be looked to first, or I will have you all hanged!”
The boat had by this time reached them; the secretary and steward leaped into the sea, and approached the marquis, who no longer showed any sign of life.
“I commit him to your care, as you value your lives,” said the duke. “Take M. de Wardes on shore.” They took him in their arms, and carried him to the dry sand, where the tide never rose so high. A few idlers and five or six fishermen had gathered on the shore, attracted by the strange spectacle of two men fighting with the water up to their knees. The fishermen, observing a group of men approaching carrying a wounded man, entered the sea until the water was up to their waists. The English transferred the wounded man to them, at the very moment the latter began to open his eyes again. The salt water and the fine sand had got into his wounds, and caused him the acutest pain. The duke’s secretary drew out a purse filled with gold from his pocket, and handed it to the one among those present who appeared of most importance, saying: “From my master, his Grace the Duke of Buckingham, in order that every possible care may be taken of the Marquis de Wardes.”
Then, followed by those who had accompanied him, he returned to the boat, which Buckingham had been enabled to reach with the greatest difficulty, but only after he had seen De Wardes out of danger. By this time it was high tide; embroidered coats and silk sashes were lost; many hats, too, had been carried away by the waves. The flow of the tide had borne the duke’s and De Wardes’s clothes to the shore, and De Wardes was wrapped in the duke’s doublet, under the belief that it was his own, when the fishermen carried him in their arms towards the town.
END OF VOL. I.