Man in the Iron Mask (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Alexandre Dumas

  “We will consult the Queen,” said Louis XIV, bowing to the royal ladies. And this kindness of consideration, which softened Maria Theresa’s heart, who was of a kind and generous disposition when left to her own free will, replied:—

  “I shall be delighted to do whatever your Majesty wishes.”

  “How long will it take us to get to Vaux?” inquired Anne of Austria, in slow and measured accents, and placing her hand upon her bosom, where the seat of her pain lay.

  “An hour for your Majesties’ carriages,” said d’Artagnan, “the roads are tolerably good.”

  The King looked at him. “And a quarter of an hour for the King,” he hastened to add.

  “We should arrive by daylight?” said Louis XIV.

  “But the billeting of the King’s military escort,” objected Colbert softly, “will make His Majesty lose all the advantage of his speed, however quick he may be.”

  “Double ass that you are!” thought d’Artagnan; “if I had any interest or motive in demolishing your credit, I could do it in ten minutes. If I were in the King’s place,” he added aloud, “I should, in going to M. Fouquet, leave my escort behind me; I should go to him as a friend; I should enter accompanied only by my captain of the guards; I should consider that I was acting more nobly, and should be invested with a still more sacred character by doing so.”

  Delight sparkled in the King’s eyes. “That is indeed a good suggestion. We will go to see a friend as friends; those gentlemen who are with the carriages can go slowly; but we who are mounted will ride on.” And he rode off, accompanied by all those who were mounted. Colbert hid his ugly head behind his horse’s neck.

  “I shall be quits,” said d’Artagnan, as he galloped along, “by getting a little talk with Aramis this evening. And then, M. Fouquet is a man of honour. Mordioux! I have said so, and it must be so.”

  And this was the way how, towards seven o’clock in the evening, without announcing his arrival by the din of trumpets, and without even his advance guard, without out-riders or musketeers, the King presented himself before the gate of Vaux, where Fouquet, who had been informed of his royal guest’s approach, had been waiting for the last half-hour, with his head uncovered, surrounded by his household and his friends.

  41

  Nectar and Ambrosia

  M. FOUQUET HELD THE stirrup of the King, who, having dismounted, bowed most graciously, and more graciously still held out his hand to him, which Fouquet, in spite of a slight resistance on the King’s part, carried respectfully to his lips. The King wished to wait in the first courtyard for the arrival of the carriages, nor had he long to wait, for the roads had been put into excellent order by the Surintendant, and a stone would hardly have been found of the size of an egg the whole way from Mélun to Vaux; so that the carriages, rolling along as though on a carpet, brought the ladies to Vaux, without jolting or fatigue, by eight o’clock. They were received by Madame Fouquet, and at the moment they made their appearance, a light as bright as day burst forth from all the trees, and vases, and marble statues. This species of enchantment lasted until their Majesties had retired into the palace. All these wonders and magical effects which the chronicler has heaped up, or rather preserved, in his recital, at the risk of rivalling the creations of a romancist; these splendours, whereby night seemed conquered and nature corrected; together with every delight and luxury combined for the satisfaction of all the senses, as well as of the mind, Fouquet did in real truth offer to his sovereign in that enchanting retreat of which no monarch could at that time boast of possessing an equal. We do not intend to describe the grand banquet, at which all the royal guests were present, nor the concerts, nor the fairy-like and magical transformations and metamorphoses; it will be more than enough for our purpose to depict the countenance which the King assumed, and which, from being gay, soon wore a gloomy, constrained, and irritated expression. He remembered his own residence, royal though it was, and the mean and indifferent style of luxury which prevailed there, and which comprised only that which was merely useful for the royal wants, without being his own personal property. The large vases of the Louvre, the old furniture and plate of Henry II, of Francis I, of Louis XI were merely historical monuments of earlier days; they were nothing but specimens of art, the relics of his predecessors; while with Fouquet, the value of the article was as much in the workmanship as in the article itself. Fouquet ate from a gold service, which artists in his own employ had modelled and cast for himself alone. Fouquet drank wines of which the King of France did not even know the name, and drank them out of goblets each more precious than the whole royal cellar.

  What, too, can be said of the apartments, the hangings, the pictures, the servants and officers of every description, of his household? What can be said of the mode of service in which etiquette was replaced by order; stiff formality, by personal, unrestrained comfort; the happiness and contentment of the guest became the supreme law of all who obeyed the host. The perfect swarm of busily engaged persons moving about noiselessly; the multitude of guests—who were, however, even less numerous than the servants who waited on them—the myriads of exquisitely prepared dishes, of gold and silver vases; the floods of dazzling light, the masses of unknown flowers of which the hot-houses had been despoiled, and which were redundant with all the luxuriance of unequalled beauty; the perfect harmony of everything which surrounded them, and which, indeed, was no more than the prelude of the promised fête,—more than charmed all who were there, and who testified their admiration over and over again, not by voice or gesture, but by deep silence and rapt attention, those two languages of the courtier which acknowledge the hand of no master powerful enough to restrain them.

  As for the King, his eyes filled with tears; he dared not look at the Queen. Anne of Austria, whose pride, as it ever had been, was superior to that of any creature breathing, overwhelmed her host by the contempt with which she treated everything handed to her. The young Queen, kind-hearted by nature and curious by disposition, praised Fouquet, ate with an exceedingly good appetite, and asked the names of the different fruits which were placed upon the table. Fouquet replied that he was not aware of their names. The fruits came from his own stores; he had often cultivated them himself, having an intimate acquaintance with the cultivation of exotic fruits and plants. The King felt and appreciated the delicacy of the reply, but was only the more humiliated at it; he thought that the Queen was a little too familiar in her manners, and that Anne of Austria resembled Juno a little too much, in being too proud and haughty; his chief anxiety, however, was himself, that he might remain cold and distant in his behaviour, bordering slightly on the limits of extreme disdain or of simple admiration.

  But Fouquet had foreseen all that; he was, in fact, one of those men who foresee everything. The King had expressly declared that so long as he remained under M. Fouquet’s roof he did not wish his own different repasts to be served in accordance with the usual etiquette, and that he would, consequently, dine with the rest of the society; but, by the thoughtful attention of the Surintendant, the King’s dinner was served up separately, if one may so express it, in the middle of the general table; the dinner, wonderful in every respect, from the dishes of which it was composed, comprised everything the King liked, and which he generally preferred to anything else. Louis had no excuse—he, indeed, who had the keenest appetite in his kingdom—for saying that he was not hungry. Nay, M. Fouquet even did better still; he certainly, in obedience to the King’s expressed desire, seated himself at the table, but as soon as the soups were served, he rose and personally waited on the King, while Madame Fouquet stood behind the Queen-Mother’s arm-chair. The disdain of Juno and the sulky fits of temper of Jupiter could not resist this excess of kindly feeling and polite attention. The Queen ate a biscuit dipped in a glass of San-Lucar wine; and the King ate of everything, saying to M. Fouquet: “It is impossible, Monsieur le Surintendant, to dine better anywhere.” Whereupon the whole court began, on all sides, to devour the dishes spread bef
ore them, with such enthusiasm that it looked like a cloud of Egyptian locusts settling down upon the uncut crops.

  As soon, however, as his hunger was appeased, the King became dull and gloomy again; the more so in proportion to the satisfaction he fancied he had manifested, and particularly on account of the deferential manner which his courtiers had shown towards Fouquet. D’Artagnan, who ate a good deal and drank but little, without allowing it to be noticed, did not lose a single opportunity, but made a great number of observations which he turned to good profit.

  When the supper was finished, the King expressed a wish not to lose the promenade. The park was illuminated; the moon, too, as if she had placed herself at the orders of the lord of Vaux, silvered the trees and lakes with her bright phosphoric light. The air was soft and balmy; the gravelled walks through the thickly set avenues yielded luxuriously to the feet. The fête was complete in every respect, for the King, having met La Vallière in one of the winding paths of the wood, was able to press her by the hand and say, “I love you,” without anyone overhearing him, except d’Artagnan, who followed him, and M. Fouquet who preceded him.

  The night of magical enchantments stole on. The King having requested to be shown his room, there was immediately a movement in every direction. The Queens passed to their own apartments, accompanied by the music of theorbos and lutes; the King found his musketeers awaiting him on the grand flight of steps, for M. Fouquet had brought them on from Mélun, and had invited them to supper. D’Artagnan’s suspicions at once disappeared. He was weary, he had supped well, and wished, for once in his life, thoroughly to enjoy a fête given by a man who was in every sense of the word a king. “M. Fouquet” he said, “is the man for me.”

  The King was conducted with the greatest ceremony to the chamber of Morpheus, of which we owe some slight description to our readers. It was the handsomest and the largest in the palace. Lebrun had painted on the vaulted ceiling the happy, as well as disagreeable dreams with which Morpheus affects kings as well as other men. Everything that sleep gives birth to that is lovely, its perfumes, its flowers, and nectar, the wild voluptuousness or deep repose of the senses, had the painter enriched with his frescoes. It was a composition as soft and pleasing in one part as dark and gloomy and terrible in another. The poisoned chalice, the glittering dagger suspended over the head of the sleeper; wizards and phantoms with hideous masks, those half-dim shadows more terrific than the brightness of flame or the blackness of night; these, and such as these, he had made the companions of his more pleasing pictures. No sooner had the King entered the room than a cold shiver seemed to pass through him, and on Fouquet asking him the cause of it, the King replied, as pale as death,—

  “I am sleepy, that is all.”

  “Does your Majesty wish for your attendants at once?”

  “No; I have to talk with a few persons first,” said the King. “Will you have the goodness to tell M. Colbert I wish to see him.” Fouquet bowed and left the room.

  42

  A Gascon, and a Gascon and a Half

  D’ARTAGNAN HAD DETERMINED TO lose no time, and in fact he never was in the habit of doing so. After having inquired for Aramis, he looked for him in every direction until he had succeeded in finding him. Besides, no sooner had the King entered into Vaux, than Aramis had retired to his own room, meditating doubtlessly some new piece of gallant attention for His Majesty’s amusement. D’Artagnan desired the servants to announce him, and found on the second storey (in a beautiful room called the Blue Room, on account of the colour of its hangings) the Bishop of Vannes in company with Porthos and several of the modern Epicureans. Aramis came forward to embrace his friend, and offered him the best seat. As it was after awhile generally remarked among those present that the musketeer was reserved, and wished for an opportunity for conversing secretly with Aramis, the Epicureans took their leave. Porthos, however, did not stir; for true it is that having dined exceedingly well, he was fast asleep in his arm-chair; and the freedom of conversation therefore was not interrupted by a third person. Porthos had a deep, harmonious snore, and people might talk in the midst of its loud bass without fear of disturbing him. D’Artagnan felt that he was called upon to open the conversation.

  “Well, and so we have come to Vaux,” he said.

  “Why, yes, d’Artagnan. And how do you like the place?”

  “Very much, and I like M. Fouquet also.”

  “Is he not a charming host?”

  “No one could be more.”

  “I am told that the King began by showing a great distance in his manner towards M. Fouquet, but that His Majesty became much more cordial afterwards.”

  “You did not notice it, then, since you say you have been told so?”

  “No; I was engaged with those gentlemen who have just left the room about the theatrical performances and the tournament which are to take place to-morrow.”

  “Ah, indeed! you are the comptroller-general of the fêtes here, then?”

  “You know I am a friend of all kinds of amusement where the exercise of the imagination is required; I have always been a poet in one way or another.”

  “Yes, I remember the verses you used to write; they were charming.”

  “I have forgotten them; but I am delighted to read the verses of others, when those others are known by the names of Molière, Pélisson, La Fontaine, etc.”

  “Do you know what idea occurred to me this evening, Aramis?”

  “No; tell me what it was, for I should never be able to guess it, you have so many.”

  “Well, the idea occurred to me that the true King of France is not Louis XIV.”

  “What!” said Aramis involuntarily, looking the musketeer full in the eyes.

  “No, it is Monsieur Fouquet.”

  Aramis breathed again and smiled. “Ah! you are like all the rest, jealous,” he said. “I would wager that it was M. Colbert who turned that pretty phrase.” D’Artagnan, in order to throw Aramis off his guard, related Colbert’s misadventure with regard to the vin de Mélun.

  “He comes of a mean race, does Colbert,” said Aramis.

  “Quite true.”

  “When I think, too,” added the Bishop, “that that fellow will be your minister within four months, and that you will serve him as blindly as you did Richelieu or Mazarin—”

  “And as you serve M. Fouquet,” said d’Artagnan.

  “With this difference, though, that M. Fouquet is not M. Colbert.”

  “True, true,” said d’Artagnan, as he pretended to become sad and full of reflection; and then, a moment after, he added, “Why do you tell me that M. Colbert will be minister in four months?”

  “Because M. Fouquet will have ceased to be so,” replied Aramis.

  “He will be ruined, you mean?” said d’Artagnan.

  “Completely so.”

  “Why does he give these fêtes, then?” said the musketeer, in a tone so full of thoughtful consideration, and so well assumed, that the Bishop was for a moment deceived by it, “Why did you not dissuade him from it?”

  The latter part of the phrase was just a little too much, and Aramis’s former suspicions were again aroused. “It is done with the object of humouring the King.”

  “By ruining himself?”

  “Yes, by ruining himself for the King.”

  “A singular calculation that.”

  “Necessity.”

  “I don’t see that, dear Aramis.”

  “Do you not? Have you not remarked M. Colbert’s daily increasing antagonism, and that he is doing his utmost to drive the King to get rid of the Surintendant?”

  “One must be blind not to see it.”

  “And that a cabal is formed against M. Fouquet?”

  “That is well known.”

  “What likelihood is there that the King would join a party formed against a man who will have spent everything he had to please him?”

  “True, true,” said d’Artagnan slowly, hardly convinced, yet curious to broach another phase
of the conversation. “There are follies and follies,” he resumed, “and I do not like those you are committing.”

  “What do you allude to?”

  “As for the banquet, the ball, the concert, the theatricals, the tournaments, the cascades, the fireworks, the illuminations, and the presents—these are all well and good, I grant; but why were not these expenses sufficient? Was it necessary to have new liveries and costumes for your whole household?”

  “You are quite right. I told M. Fouquet that myself; he replied, that if he were rich enough he would offer the King a newly erected chateau, from the vanes at the top of the house to the very cellar; completely new, inside and out; and that, as soon as the King had left, he would burn the whole building and its contents, in order that it might not be made use of by any one else.”

  “How completely Spanish!”

  “I told him so, and he then added this: ‘Whoever advises me to spare expense, I shall look upon as my enemy.’ ”

  “It is positive madness; and that portrait too!”

  “What portrait?” said Aramis.

  “That of the King; and the surprise as well.”

  “What surprise?”