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

by Alexandre Dumas

  “A moment longer,” said Aramis to him, with his accustomed gentleness of manner; “what has just now taken place is only a detail, and to-morrow we shall have no occasion to think anything more about it; but the ceremony of the King’s retiring to rest, the etiquette observed in addressing the King, that indeed is of the greatest importance. Learn, sire, and study well how you ought to go to bed of a night. Look! look!”

  43

  Colbert

  HISTORY WILL TELL US, or rather history has told us, of the various events of the following day, of the splendid fêtes given by the Surintendant to his sovereign. There was nothing but amusement and delight allowed to prevail throughout the whole of the following day; there was a promenade, a banquet, a comedy to be acted, and a comedy too, in which, to his great amazement, Porthos recognised M. Coquelin de Volière, as one of the actors in the piece called Les Fôcheux. Full of preoccupation, however, from the scene of the previous evening, and hardly recovered from the effects of the poison which Colbert had then administered to him, the King, during the whole of the day, so brilliant in its effects, so full of unexpected and startling novelties, in which all the wonders of the Arabian Nights’ Entertainments seemed to be reproduced for his special amusement—the King, we say, showed himself cold, reserved, and taciturn. Nothing could smooth the frown upon his face; every one who observed him noticed that a deep feeling of resentment of remote origin, increased by slow degrees, as a source becomes a river, thanks to the thousand threads of water which increase its body, was keenly alive in the depth of the King’s heart. Towards the middle of the day only did he begin to resume a little serenity of manner, and by that time he had, in all probability, made up his mind. Aramis, who followed him step by step in his thoughts, as in his walk, concluded that the event that he was expecting would not be long before it was announced. This time Colbert seemed to walk in concert with the Bishop of Vannes, and had he received for every annoyance which he inflicted on the King a word of direction from Aramis, he could not have done better. During the whole of the day, the King, who, in all probability, wished to free himself from some of the thoughts which disturbed his mind, seemed to seek La Vallière’s society as actively as he seemed to show his anxiety to flee that of M. Colbert or M. Fouquet. The evening came. The King had expressed a wish not to walk in the park until after cards in the evening. In the interval between supper and the promenade, cards and dice were introduced. The King won a thousand pistoles, and, having won them, put them in his pocket, and then rose, saying, “And now, gentlemen, to the park.” He found the ladies of the court already there. The King, we have before observed, had won a thousand pistoles and had put them in his pocket; but M. Fouquet had somehow contrived to lose ten thousand, so that among the courtiers there was still left a hundred and ninety thousand francs profit to divide, a circumstance which made the countenances of the courtiers and the officers of the King’s household the most joyous countenances in the world. It was not the same, however, with the King’s face; for, notwithstanding his success at play, to which he was by no means insensible, there still remained a slight shade of dissatisfaction. Colbert was waiting for or upon him at the corner of one of the avenues; he was most probably waiting in consequence of a rendezvous which had been given him by the King, as Louis XIV, who had avoided him, or who had seemed to avoid him, suddenly made him a sign, and they then struck into the depths of the park together. But La Vallière, too, had observed the King’s gloomy aspect and kindling glances; she had remarked this; and, as nothing which lay hidden or smouldering in his heart was impenetrable to her affection, she understood that this repressed wrath menaced some one; she prepared to withstand the current of his vengeance and intercede like an angel of mercy. Overcome by sadness, nervously agitated, deeply distressed at having been so long separated from her lover, disturbed at the sight of that emotion which she had divined, she accordingly presented herself to the King with an embarrassed aspect, which, in his then disposition of mind, the King interpreted unfavourably. Then, as they were alone, or nearly alone, inasmuch as Colbert, as soon as he perceived the young girl approaching, had stopped and drawn back a dozen paces—the King advanced towards La Vallière and took her by the hand: “Mademoiselle,” he said to her, “should I be guilty of an indiscretion if I were to inquire if you are indisposed? for you seem to breathe as if you were oppressed by some secret cause of uneasiness, and your eyes are filled with tears.”

  “Oh! sire, if I be indeed so, and if my eyes are indeed full of tears, I am sorrowful only at the sadness which seems to oppress your Majesty.”

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

  “What is it then, sire?”

  “Humiliation.”

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

  “I mean, mademoiselle, that wherever I may happen to be, no one else ought to be the master. Well, then, look round you on every side, and judge whether I am not eclipsed—I, the King of France—before the king of these wide domains. Oh!” he continued, clenching his hands and teeth, “when I think that this king—”

  “Well, sire?” said Louise terrified.

  “—That this king is a faithless, unworthy servant, who becomes proud and self-sufficient with property which belongs to me, and which he has stolen. And, therefore, am I about to change this imprudent minister’s fête into a sorrow and mourning, of which the nymph of Vaux, as the poets say, shall not soon lose the remembrance.”

  “Oh! your Majesty—”

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

  “No, sire; I will only ask whether you are well informed. Your Majesty has more than once learned the value of accusations made at the court.”

  Louis XIV made a sign for Colbert to approach. “Speak, Monsieur Colbert,” said the young Prince, “for I almost believe that Mademoiselle de la Vallière has need of your assurance before she can put any faith in the King’s word. Tell mademoiselle what M. Fouquet has done; and you, mademoiselle, will perhaps have the kindness to listen. It will not be long.”

  Why did Louis XIV insist upon it in such a manner? A very simple reason—his heart was not at rest; his mind was not thoroughly convinced; he imagined there was some dark, hidden, tortuous intrigue concealed beneath these thirteen millions of francs; and he wished that the pure heart of La Vallière, which had revolted at the idea of a theft or robbery, should approve—even were it only by a single word—the resolution he had taken, and which, nevertheless, he hesitated about carrying into execution.

  “Speak, monsieur,” said La Vallière to Colbert, who had advanced; “speak, since the King wishes me to listen to you. Tell me, what is the crime with which M. Fouquet is charged?”

  “Oh! not very heinous, mademoiselle,” he returned; “a simple abuse of confidence.”

  “Speak, speak, Colbert; and when you shall have related it, leave us, and go and inform M. d’Artagnan that I have certain orders to give him.”

  “M. d‘Artagnan, sire!” exclaimed La Vallière; “but why send for M. d’Artagnan? I entreat you to tell me?”

  “Pardieu! in order to arrest this haughty, arrogant Titan, who, true to his menace, threatens to scale my heaven.”

  “Arrest M. Fouquet, do you say?”

  “Ah! does that surprise you?”

  “In his own house?”

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

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

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

  Colbert began to chuckle silently. The King turned round at the sound of this suppressed mirth.

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

  “Me! you defend me!”

  “Sire, you would be dishonouring yourself if you were to give such an or
der.”

  “Dishonour myself!” murmured the King, turning pale with anger. “In plain truth, mademoiselle, you show a strange persistence in what you say.”

  “If I do so, sire, my only motive is that of serving your Majesty,” replied the noble-hearted girl; “for that I would risk, I would sacrifice my very life, without the slightest reserve.”

  Colbert seemed inclined to grumble and complain. La Vallière, that timid, gentle lamb, turned round upon him, and with a glance like lightning, imposed silence upon him. “Monsieur,” she said, “when the King acts well, whether, in doing so, he does either myself or those who belong to me, an injury, I have nothing to say; but were the King to confer a benefit either upon me or mine, and if he acted badly, I should tell him so.”

  “But it appears to me, mademoiselle,” Colbert ventured to say, “that I too love the King.”

  “Yes, monsieur, we both love him, but each in a different manner,” replied La Vallière, with such an accent that the heart of the young King was powerfully affected by it. “I love him so deeply that the whole world is aware of it; so purely, that the King himself does not doubt my affection. He is my king and my master; I am the humblest of his servants. But he who touches his honour touches my life. Therefore, I repeat, that they dishonour the King who advise him to arrest M. Fouquet under his own roof.”

  Colbert hung down his head, for he felt that the King had abandoned him. However, as he bent his head, he murmured, “Mademoiselle, I have only one word to say.”

  “Do not say it, then, monsieur; for I would not listen to it. Besides, what could you have to tell me? That M. Fouquet has been guilty of certain crimes? I know he has, because the King has said so; and from the moment the King said, ‘I think so,’ I have no occasion for other lips to say, ‘I affirm it.’ But, were M. Fouquet the vilest of men, I should say aloud, ’M. Fouquet’s person is sacred to the King because he is the King’s host. Were this house a den of thieves, were Vaux a cave of coiners or robbers, his home is sacred, his palace is inviolable, since his wife is living in it; and that is an asylum which even executioners would not dare to violate.’ ”

  La Vallière paused and was silent. In spite of himself, the King could not but admire her; he was overpowered by the passionate energy of her voice; by the nobleness of the cause she advocated. Colbert yielded, overcome by the inequality of the struggle. At last, the King breathed again more freely, shook his head, and held out his hand to La Vallière.

  “Mademoiselle,” he said gently, “why do you decide against me? Do you know what this wretched fellow will do, if I give him time to breathe again?”

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

  “And if he escapes, and takes to flight?” exclaimed Colbert.

  “Well, monsieur, it will always remain on record, to the King’s eternal honour, that he allowed M. Fouquet to flee; and the more guilty he may have been, the greater will the King’s honour and glory appear, when compared with such misery and such shame.”

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

  “I am lost,” thought Colbert; then suddenly his face brightened up again. “Oh! no, no, not yet,” he said to himself.

  And while the King, protected from observation by the thick covert of an enormous lime, pressed La Vallière to his breast, with all the ardour of ineffable affection, Colbert tranquilly looked among the papers in his pocket-book, and drew out of it a paper folded in the form of a letter, slightly yellow, perhaps, but which must have been very precious, since the Intendant smiled as he looked at it; he then bent a look, full of hatred upon the charming group which the young girl and the King formed together—a group which was revealed for a moment, as the light of the approaching torches shone upon it. Louis noticed the light reflected upon La Vallière’s white dress. “Leave me, Louise,” he said, “for some one is coming.”

  “Mademoiselle, mademoiselle, some one is coming,” cried Colbert, to expedite the young girl’s departure.

  Louise disappeared rapidly among the trees; and then, as the King, who had been on his knees before the young girl, was rising from his humble posture Colbert exclaimed, “Ah! Mademoiselle de la Vallière has let something fall.”

  “What is it?” inquired the King.

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

  The King stooped down immediately, and picked up the letter, crumpling it in his hand as he did so; and at the same moment the torches arrived, inundating the darkness of the scene with a flood of light as bright as day.

  44

  Jealousy

  THE TORCHES WE HAVE just referred to, the eager attention which every one displayed, and the new ovation paid to the King by Fouquet, arrived in time to suspend the effect of a resolution which La Vallière had already considerably shaken in Louis XIV’s heart. He looked at Fouquet with a feeling almost of gratitude for having given La Vallière an opportunity of showing herself so generously disposed, so powerful in the influence she exercised over his heart. The moment of the last and greatest display had arrived. Hardly had Fouquet conducted the King towards the chateau, than a mass of fire burst from the dome of Vaux, with a prodigous 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 fêted by the owner of Vaux, seemed, by the obstinate persistence of his gloomy thoughts, to do his utmost to recall Louis’s attention, which the magnificence of the spectacle was already, in his opinion, too easily diverting. Suddenly, just as Louis was on the point of holding it out to Fouquet, he perceived in his hand the paper, which, as he believed, La Vallière had dropped at his feet as she hurried away. The still stronger magnet of love drew the Prince’s attention towards the souvenir of his idol; and, by the brilliant light, which increased momentarily in beauty, and drew from the neighbouring villages loud exclamations of admiration, the King read the letter, which he supposed was a loving and tender epistle which La Vallière had destined for him. But as he read it, a death-like pallor stole over his face, and an expression of deep-seated wrath, illumined by the many-coloured fires which rose brightly and soaringly around the scene, produced a terrible spectacle, which every one would have shuddered at, could they only have read into his heart, which was torn by the most stormy and most bitter passions. There was no truce for him now, influenced as he was by jealousy and mad passion. From the very moment when the dark truth was revealed to him, every gentler feeling seemed to disappear; pity, kindness of consideration, the religion of hospitality, all were forgotten. In the bitter pang which wrung his heart, he, too weak to hide his sufferings, was almost on the point of uttering a cry of alarm, and calling his guards to gather round him. This letter which Colbert had thrown down at the King’s feet, the reader has doubtless guessed, was the same that had disappeared with the porter Tony, at Fontainebleau, after the attempt which Fouquet had made upon La Vallière’s heart. Fouquet saw the King’s pallor, and was far from guessing the evil; Colbert saw the King’s anger, and rejoiced inwardly at the approach of the storm. Fouquet’s voice drew the Prince from his wrathful reverie.

  “What is the matter, sire?” inquired the Surintendant, with an expression 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 is nothing.”

  And the King, without waiting for the termination of the fireworks, turned towards the château. Fouquet accompanied him, and the whole court followed after them, leaving the remains of the fireworks burning for their own amusement. The Surintendant endeavoured again to question Louis XIV, but could not succeed in obtaining a reply. He imagined there had been some misunderstanding between Louis and La Vallière in the park, which had resulted in a slight quarrel; and that the King, who was not ordinarily sulky by
disposition, but completely absorbed by his passion for La Vallière, had taken a dislike to every one because his mistress had shown herself offended with him. This idea was sufficient to console him; he had even a friendly and kindly smile for the young King, when the latter wished him good night. This, however, was not all the King had to submit to; he was obliged to undergo the usual ceremony, which on that evening was marked by the closest adherence to the strictest etiquette. The next day was the one fixed for the departure; it was but proper that the guests should thank their host, and should show him a little attention in return for the expenditure of his twelve millions. The only remark, approaching to amiability, which the King could find to say to M. Fouquet, as he took leave of him, was in these words, “Monsieur Fouquet, you shall hear from me. Be good enough to desire M. d’Artagnan to come here.”

  And the blood of Louis XIII, who has so profoundly dissimulated his feelings, boiled in his veins; and he was perfectly ready to get M. Fouquet’s throat cut, with the same readiness, indeed, as his predecessor had caused the assassination of Maréchal d‘Ancre;ac and so he disguised the terrible resolution he had formed, beneath one of those royal smiles, which are the lightning flashes indicating coups d’état. Fouquet took the King’s hand and kissed it; Louis shuddered throughout his whole frame, but allowed M. Fouquet to touch his hand with his lips. Five minutes afterwards, d’Artagnan, to whom the royal order had been communicated, entered Louis XIV’s apartment. Aramis and Philippe were in theirs, still eagerly attentive, and still listening with all their ears. The King did not even give the captain of the musketeers time to approach his arm-chair, but ran forward to meet him. “Take care,” he exclaimed, “that no one enters here.”

  “Very good, sire,” replied the captain, whose glance had for a long time past analysed the ravages on the King’s countenance. He gave the necessary orders at the door; but, returning to the King, he said, “Is there something fresh the matter, your Majesty?”