CHAPTER XC.
JEALOUSY.
The torches we have just referred to, the eager attention which everyone displayed, and the new ovation paid to the king by Fouquet, arrivedin time to suspend the effect of a resolution which La Valliere hadalready considerably shaken in Louis XIV.'s heart. He looked at Fouquetwith a feeling almost of gratitude for having given La Valliere anopportunity of showing herself so generously disposed, so powerful inthe influence she exercised over his heart. The moment of the last andgreatest display had arrived. Hardly had Fouquet conducted the kingtoward the chateau, than a mass of fire burst from the dome of Vaux witha prodigious uproar, pouring a flood of dazzling light on every side,and illumining the remotest corners of the gardens. The fireworks began.Colbert, at twenty paces from the king, who was surrounded and feted bythe owner of Vaux, seemed, by the obstinate persistence of his gloomythoughts, to do his utmost to recall Louis's attention, which themagnificence of the spectacle was already, in his opinion, too easilydiverting. Suddenly, just as Louis was on the point of holding it out toFouquet, he perceived in his hand the paper which, as he believed, LaValliere had dropped at his feet as she hurried away. The still strongermagnet of love drew the young prince's attention toward the _souvenir_of his idol: and, by the brilliant light, which increased momentarilyin beauty, and drew forth from the neighboring villages loudexclamations of admiration, the king read the letter, which he supposedwas a loving and tender epistle which La Valliere had destined for him.But as he read it, a death-like pallor stole over his face, and anexpression of deep-seated wrath, illumined by the many-colored fireswhich rose brightly and soaringly around the scene, produced a terriblespectacle, which every one would have shuddered at, could they only haveread into his heart, which was torn by the most stormy and most bitterpassions. There was no truce for him now, influenced as he was byjealousy and mad passion. From the very moment when the dark truth wasrevealed to him, every gentler feeling seemed to disappear; pity,kindness of consideration, the religion of hospitality, all wereforgotten. In the bitter pang which wrung his heart, still too weak tohide his sufferings, he was almost on the point of uttering a cry ofalarm, and calling his guards to gather round him. This letter whichColbert had thrown down at the king's feet, the reader has doubtlessguessed, was the same that had disappeared with the porter Toby atFontainebleau, after the attempt which Fouquet had made upon LaValliere's heart. Fouquet saw the king's pallor, and was far fromguessing the evil; Colbert saw the king's anger, and rejoiced inwardlyat the approach of the storm. Fouquet's voice drew the young prince fromhis wrathful reverie.
"What is the matter, sire?" inquired the surintendant, with anexpression of graceful interest.
Louis made a violent effort over himself, as he replied, "Nothing."
"I am afraid your majesty is suffering?"
"I am suffering, and have already told you so, monsieur; but it isnothing."
And the king, without waiting for the termination of the fireworks,turned toward the chateau. Fouquet accompanied him, and the whole courtfollowed after them, leaving the remains of the fireworks burning fortheir own amusement. The surintendant endeavored again to questionLouis XIV., but could not succeed in obtaining a reply. He imaginedthere had been some misunderstanding between Louis and La Valliere inthe park, which had resulted in a slight quarrel; and that the king, whowas not ordinarily sulky by disposition, but completely absorbed by hispassion for La Valliere, had taken a dislike to every one because hismistress had shown herself offended with him. This idea was sufficientto console him; he had even a friendly and kindly smile for the youngking, when the latter wished him good-night. This, however, was not allthe king had to submit to; he was obliged to undergo the usual ceremony,which on that evening was marked by the closest adherence to thestrictest etiquette. The next day was the one fixed for the departure;it was but proper that the guests should thank their host, and shouldshow him a little attention in return for the expenditure of his twelvemillions. The only remark, approaching to amiability, which the kingcould find to say to M. Fouquet, as he took leave of him, was in thesewords, "Monsieur Fouquet, you shall hear from me. Be good enough todesire M. d'Artagnan to come here."
And the blood of Louis XIV., who had so profoundly dissimulated hisfeelings, boiled in his veins; and he was perfectly ready to get M.Fouquet's throat cut, with the same readiness, indeed, as hispredecessor had caused the assassination of le Marechal d'Ancre; and sohe disguised the terrible resolution he had formed, beneath one of thoseroyal smiles which are the lightning flashes indicating _coups d'etat_.Fouquet took the king's hand and kissed it; Louis shuddered throughouthis whole frame, but allowed M. Fouquet to touch his hand with his lips.Five minutes afterward, D'Artagnan, to whom the royal order had beencommunicated, entered Louis XIV.'s apartment. Aramis and Philippe werein theirs, still eagerly attentive and still listening with all theirears. The king did not even give the captain of the musketeers time toapproach his armchair, but ran forward to meet him. "Take care," heexclaimed, "that no one enters here."
"Very good, sire," replied the captain, whose glance had for a long timepast analyzed the ravages on the king's countenance. He gave thenecessary order at the door; but returning to the king, he said, "Isthere something fresh the matter, your majesty?"
"How many men have you here?" inquired the king, without making anyother reply to the question addressed to him.
"What for, sire?"
"How many men have you, I say?" repeated the king, stamping upon theground with his foot.
"I have the musketeers."
"Well; and what others?"
"Twenty guards and thirteen Swiss."
"How many men will be required to--"
"To do what, sire?" replied the musketeer, opening his large, calm eyes.
"To arrest M. Fouquet."
D'Artagnan fell back a step. "To arrest M. Fouquet!" he burst forth.
"Are you going to tell me that it is impossible!" exclaimed the king,with cold and vindictive passion.
"I never said that anything is impossible," replied D'Artagnan, woundedto the quick.
"Very well; do it, then."
D'Artagnan turned on his heel, and made his way toward the door; it wasbut a short distance, and he cleared it in half a dozen paces; when hereached it he suddenly paused and said, "Your majesty will forgive me,but, in order to effect this arrest, I should like written directions."
"For what purpose--and since when has the king's word been insufficientfor you?"
"Because the word of a king, when it springs from a feeling of anger,may possibly change when the feeling changes."
"A truce to set phrases, monsieur; you have another thought besidesthat?"
"Oh, I, at least, have certain thoughts and ideas, which, unfortunately,others have not," D'Artagnan replied, impertinently.
The king, in the tempest of his wrath, hesitated, and drew back in theface of D'Artagnan's frank courage, just as a horse crouches on hishaunches under the strong hand of a bold and experienced rider. "What isyour thought?" he exclaimed.
"This, sire," replied D'Artagnan: "you cause a man to be arrested whenyou are still under his roof; and passion is alone the cause of that.When your anger shall have passed away you will regret what you havedone; and then I wish to be in a position to show you your signature. Ifthat, however, should fail to be a reparation, it will at least show usthat the king is wrong to lose his temper."
"Wrong to lose his temper!" cried the king, in a loud, passionate voice."Did not my father, my grandfather too, before me, lose their temper attimes, in Heaven's name?"
"The king your father and the king your grandfather never lost theirtemper except when under the protection of their own palace."
"The king is master wherever he may be."
"That is a flattering complimentary phrase which cannot proceed from anyone but M. Colbert: but it happens not to be the truth. The king is athome in every man's house when he has driven its owner out of it."
The king b
it his lips, but said nothing.
"Can it be possible?" said D'Artagnan; "here is a man who is positivelyruining himself in order to please you, and you wish to have himarrested! Mordioux! Sire, if my name were Fouquet, and people treated mein that manner, I would swallow at a single gulp all the fireworks andother things, and I would set fire to them, and blow myself andeverybody else up to the sky. But it is all the same: it is your wish,and it shall be done."
"Go," said the king; "but have you men enough?"
"Do you suppose I am going to take a whole host to help me? Arrest M.Fouquet! why, that is so easy that a very child might do it! It is likedrinking a glass of bitters: one makes an ugly face, and that is all."
"If he defends himself?"
"He! not at all likely. Defend himself when such extreme harshness asyou are going to practice makes the man a very martyr! Nay, I am surethat if he has a million of francs left, which I very much doubt, hewould be willing enough to give it in order to have such a terminationas this. But what does that matter? it shall be done at once."
"Stay," said the king; "do not make his arrest a public affair."
"That will be more difficult."
"Why so?"
"Because nothing is easier than to go up to M. Fouquet in the midst of athousand enthusiastic guests who surround him, and say, 'In the king'sname, I arrest you.' But to go up to him, to turn him first one way andthen another, to drive him up into one of the corners of the chess-boardin such a way that he cannot escape; to take him away from his guests,and keep him a prisoner for you, without one of them, alas! having heardanything about it; that, indeed, is a real difficulty, the greatest ofall, in truth: and I hardly see how it is to be done."
"You had better say it is impossible, and you will have finished muchsooner. Heaven help me, but I seem to be surrounded by people whoprevent me doing what I wish."
"I do not prevent your doing anything. Are you decided?"
"Take care of M. Fouquet, until I shall have made up my mind byto-morrow morning."
"That shall be done, sire."
"And return, when I rise in the morning, for further orders; and nowleave me to myself."
"You do not even want M. Colbert, then?" said the musketeer, firing thislast shot as he was leaving the room. The king started. With his wholemind fixed on the thought of revenge, he had forgotten the cause andsubstance of the offense.
"No, no one," he said; "no one here. Leave me."
D'Artagnan quitted the room. The king closed the door with his ownhands, and began to walk up and down his apartment at a furious pace,like a wounded bull in an arena, dragging after him the coloredstreamers and iron darts. At last he began to take comfort in theexpression of his violent feelings.
"Miserable wretch that he is! not only does he squander my finances, butwith his ill-gotten plunder he corrupts secretaries, friends, generals,artists, and all, and tries to rob me of the one to whom I am mostattached. And that is the reason why that perfidious girl so boldly tookhis part! Gratitude! and who can tell whether it was not a strongerfeeling--love itself?" He gave himself up for a moment to his bitterreflections. "A satyr!" he thought, with that abhorrent hate with whichyoung men regard those more advanced in life, who still think of love."A man who has never found opposition or resistance in any one, wholavishes his gold and jewels in every direction, and who retains hisstaff of painters in order to take the portraits of his mistresses inthe costume of goddesses." The king trembled with passion as hecontinued, "He pollutes and profanes everything that belongs to me! Hedestroys everything that is mine. He will be my death at last, I know.That man is too much for me; he is my mortal enemy, and he shall fall! Ihate him--I hate him--I hate him!" and as he pronounced these words, hestruck the arm of the chair in which he was sitting violently over andover again, and then rose like one in an epileptic fit. "To-morrow!to-morrow! oh, happy day!" he murmured, "when the sun rises, no otherrival will that bright orb have but me. That man shall fall so low, thatwhen people look at the utter ruin which my anger shall have wrought,they will be forced to confess at least that I am indeed greater thanhe." The king, who was incapable of mastering his emotions any longer,knocked over with a blow of his fist a small table placed close to hisbedside, and in the bitterness of feeling from which he was suffering,almost weeping, and half suffocated by his passion, he threw himself onhis bed, dressed as he was, and bit the sheets in the extremity of hispassion, trying to find repose of body at least there. The bed creakedbeneath his weight, and with the exception of a few broken sounds, whichescaped from his overburdened chest, absolute silence soon reigned inthe chamber of Morpheus.
The Vicomte de Bragelonne Page 91
