“Ah!” said the latter, “you have broken your chair. I said you had done so. Why, you must have become quite mad.”
“Monsieur,” said the King, “be careful what you say; it will be a very serious affair for you.”
The jailer placed the basket on the table, and looked at his prisoner steadily. “What do you say?” he said.
“Desire the governor to come to me,” added the King, in accents full of dignity.
“Come, my boy,” said the turnkey, “you have always been very quiet and reasonable, but you are getting vicious, it seems, and I wish you to know it in time. You have broken your chair, and made a great disturbance; that is an offence punishable by imprisonment in one of the lower dungeons. Promise me not to begin over again, and I will not say a word about it to the governor.”
“I wish to see the governor,” replied the King, still controlling his passion.
“He will send you off to one of the dungeons, I tell you, so take care.”
“I insist upon it, do you hear?”
“Ah! ah! your eyes are becoming wild again. Very good! I shall take away your knife.”
And the jailer did what he said, quitted the prisoner, and closed the door, leaving the King more astounded, more wretched, and more isolated than ever. It was useless, though he tried it, to make the same noise again on his door, and equally useless that he threw the plates and dishes out of the window; not a single sound was heard in answer. Two hours afterwards he could not be recognised as a king, a gentleman, a man, a human being; he might, rather, be called a madman, tearing the door with his nails, trying to tear up the flooring of his cell, and uttering such wild and fearful cries that the old Bastille seemed to tremble to its very foundations for having revolted against its master. As for the governor, the jailer did not even think of disturbing him; the turnkeys and the sentinels had reported the occurrence to him, but what was the good of it? were not these madmen common enough in the fortress? and were not the walls still stronger than they? M. de Baisemeaux, thoroughly impressed with what Aramis had told him, and in perfect conformity with the King’s order, hoped only that one thing might happen: namely, that the madman, Marchiali, might be mad enough to hang himself from the canopy of his bed, or from one of the bars of the window. In fact, the prisoner was anything but a profitable investment for M. Baisemeaux, and became more annoying than agreeable to him. These complications of Seldon and Marchiali—the complications, first of setting at liberty and then imprisoning again, the complications arising from the strong likeness in question—had at last found a very proper dénouement. Baisemeaux even thought he had remarked that M. d’Herblay himself was not altogether dissatisfied at it.
“And then, really,” said Baisemeaux to his next in command, “an ordinary prisoner is already unhappy enough in being a prisoner; he suffers quite enough, indeed, to induce one to hope, charitably enough, that his death may not be far distant. With still greater reason, then, when the prisoner has gone mad, and might bite and make a terrible disturbance in the Bastille: why, in that case, it is not simply an act of mere charity to wish him dead; it would be almost a good and even commendable action quietly to put him out of his misery.”
And the good-natured governor thereupon sat down to his late breakfast.
47
The Shadow of M. Fouquet
D‘ARTAGNAN, STILL CONFUSED AND oppressed by the conversation he had just had with the King, could not resist asking himself if he were really in possession of his senses; if he were really and truly at Vaux; if he, d’Artagnan, were really the captain of the musketeers and M. Fouquet the owner of the chateau in which Louis XIV was at that moment partaking of his hospitality. These reflections were not those of a drunken man, although everything was in prodigal profusion at Vaux, and the Surintendant’s wines had met with a distinguished reception at the fête. The Gascon, however, was a man of calm self-possession; and no sooner did he touch his bright steel blade, than he knew how to adopt morally, the cold, keen weapon as his guide of action. “Well,” he said, as he quitted the royal apartment, “I seem now to be mixed up historically with the destinies of the King and of the minister; it will be written, that M. d‘Artagnan, a younger son of a Gascon family, placed his hand on the shoulder of M. Nicolas Fouquet, the Surintendant of the Finances of France. My descendants, if I have any, will flatter themselves with the distinction which this arrest will confer, just as the members of the De Luynes family have done with regard to the estates of the poor Maréchal d’Ancre. But the question is, to execute the King’s directions in a proper manner. Any man would know how to say to M. Fouquet, ‘Your sword, monsieur,’ but it is not every one who would be able to take care of M. Fouquet without others knowing anything about it. How am I to manage, then, so that M. le Surintendant passes from the height of favour to the direst disgrace; that Vaux be turned into a dungeon for him, that, after having been steeped to his lips, as it were, in all the perfumes and incense of Assuerus, he is transferred to the gallows of Haman; in other words of Euguerrand de Marigny?”ae And at this reflection, d‘Artagnan’s brow became clouded with perplexity. The musketeer had certain scruples on the matter, it must be admitted. To deliver up to death (for not a doubt existed that Louis hated Fouquet mortally) the man who had just shown himself so delightful and charming a host in every way, was a real case of conscience. “It almost seems,” said d’Artagnan to himself, “that if I am not a poor, mean, miserable fellow, I should let M. Fouquet know the opinion the King has about him. Yet, if I betray my master’s secrets, I shall be a false-hearted, treacherous knave; a traitor, too—a crime provided for and punishable by military laws; so much so, indeed, that twenty times, in former days when wars were rife, I have seen many a miserable fellow strung up to a tree for doing, in a small degree, what my scruples counsel me to do to a greater extent now. No; I think that a man of true readiness of grit ought to get out of this difficulty with more skill than that. And now, let us admit that I do possess a little readiness of invention; it is not at all certain, though; for, after having for forty years absorbed so large a quantity, I shall be lucky if there were to be a pistole‘s-worth left.” D’Artagnan buried his head in his hands, tore his moustache in sheer vexation, and added,
“What can be the reason of M. Fouquet’s disgrace? There seem to me to be three good ones: the first, because M. Colbert doesn’t like him; the second, because he wished to fall in love with Mademoiselle de la Vallière; and lastly, because the King likes M. Colbert and loves Mademoiselle de la Vallière. Oh! he is a lost man! But shall I put my foot on his neck—I, of all men, when he is falling a prey to the intrigues of a set of women and clerks? For shame! If he be dangerous, I will lay him low enough; if, however, he be only persecuted, I will look on. I have come to such a decisive determination that neither King nor living man shall change my opinion. If Athos were here, he would do as I have done. Therefore, instead of going coldbloodedly up to M. Fouquet, and arresting him off-hand and shutting him up altogether, I will try to conduct myself like a man who understands what good manners are. People will talk about it, of course, but they shall talk well of it, I am determined.” And d‘Artagnan, drawing by a gesture peculiar to himself his shoulder-belt over his shoulder, went straight off to M. Fouquet, who, after he had taken leave of his guests, was preparing to retire for the night and to sleep tranquilly after the triumphs of the day. The air was still perfumed or infected, whichever way it may be considered, with the odour of the fireworks. The wax-lights were dying away in their sockets, the flowers fell unfastened from the garlands, the groups of dancers and courtiers were separating in the saloons. Surrounded by his friends, who complimented him and received his flattering remarks in return, the Surintendant half-closed his wearied eyes. He longed for rest and quiet; he sank upon the bed of laurels which had been heaped up for him for so many days past; it might almost have been said that he seemed bowed beneath the weight of the new debts which he had incurred for the purpose of giving the greatest possible
honour to this fête. Fouquet had just retired to his room, still smiling, but more than half dead. He could listen to nothing more, he could hardly keep his eyes open; his bed seemed to possess a fascination and irresistible attraction for him. The god Morpheus, the presiding deity of the dome painted by Lebrun, had extended his influence over the adjoining rooms, and showered down his sleep-inducing poppies upon the master of the house. Fouquet, almost entirely alone, was being assisted by his valet-de-chambre to undress, when M. d’Artagnan appeared at the entrance of the room. D‘Artagnan had never been able to succeed in making himself common at the court; and notwithstanding he was seen everywhere and on all occasions, he never failed to produce an effect wherever and whenever he made his appearance. Such is the happy privilege of certain natures, which in that respect resemble either thunder or lightning; every one recognises them; but their appearance never fails to arouse surprise and astonishment, and whenever they occur the impression is always left that the last was the loudest or brightest and most violent. ”What! M. d’Artagnan?” said Fouquet, who had already taken his right arm out of the sleeve of his doublet.
“At your service,” replied the musketeer.
“Come in, my dear M. d’Artagnan.”
“Thank you.”
“Have you come to criticise the fête? You are ingenious enough in your criticisms, I know.”
“By no means.”
“Are not your men looked after properly?”
“In every way.”
“You are not comfortably lodged, perhaps?”
“Nothing could be better.”
“In that case I have to thank you for being so amiably disposed, and I must not fail to express my obligations to you for all your flattering kindness.”
These words were as much as to say, “My dear d’Artagnan, pray go to bed, since you have a bed to lie down on, and let me do the same.”
D’Artagnan did not seem to understand it.
“Are you going to bed already?” he said to the Surintendant.
“Yes; have you anything to say to me?”
“Nothing, monsieur, nothing at all. You sleep in this room, then?”
“Yes; as you see.”
“You have given a most charming fête to the King.”
“Do you think so?”
“Oh! beautiful!”
“Is the King pleased?”
“Enchanted.”
“Did he desire you to say as much to me?”
“He would not choose so unworthy a messenger, monseigneur.”
“You do not do yourself justice, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“Is that your bed, there?”
“Yes; but why do you ask? Are you not satisfied with your own?”
“May I speak frankly to you?”
“Most assuredly.”
“Well, then, I am not.”
Fouquet started, and then replied, “Will you take my room, Monsieur d’Artagnan?”
“What! deprive you of it, monseigneur? Never!”
“What am I to do then?”
“Allow me to share yours with you.”
Fouquet looked at the musketeer fixedly. “Ah! ah!” he said, “you have just left the King.”
“I have, monseigneur.”
“And the King wishes you to pass the night in my room?”
“Monseigneur—”
“Very well, Monsieur d’Artagnan, very well. You are the master here.”
“I assure you, monseigneur, that I do not wish to abuse—”
Fouquet turned to his valet, and said, “Leave us.” When the man had left, he said to d’Artagnan, “You have something to say to me?”
“I?”
“A man of your superior intelligence cannot have come to talk with a man like myself, at such an hour as the present, without grave motives.”
“Do not interrogate me.”
“On the contrary. What do you want with me?”
“Nothing more than the pleasure of your society.”
“Come into the garden, then,” said the Surintendant suddenly, “or into the park.”
“No,” replied the musketeer hastily, “no.”
“Why?”
“The fresh air—”
“Come, admit at once that you arrest me,” said the Surintendant to the captain.
“Never!” said the latter.
“You intend to look after me, then?”
“Yes, monseigneur, I do, upon my honour.”
“Upon your honour!—ah! that is quite another thing! so I am to be arrested in my own house.”
“Do not say such a thing.”
“On the contrary, I will proclaim it aloud.”
“If you do, I shall be compelled to request you to be silent.”
“Very good! Violence towards me, and in my own house, too!”
“We do not seem to understand each other at all. Stay a moment; there is a chess-board there; we will have a game, if you have no objection.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan, I am in disgrace, then?”
“Not at all; but—”
“I am prohibited, I suppose, from withdrawing from your sight.”
“I do not understand a word you are saying, monseigneur; and if you wish me to withdraw, tell me so.”
“My dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, your mode of action is enough to drive me mad; I was almost sinking for want of sleep, but you have completely awakened me.”
“I shall never forgive myself, I am sure; and if you wish to reconcile me with myself, why, go to sleep in your bed in my presence; I shall be delighted at it.”
“I am under surveillance, I see.”
“I will leave the room if you say such a thing as that.”
“You are beyond my comprehension.”
“Good-night, monseigneur,” said d’Artagnan, as he pretended to withdraw.
Fouquet ran after him. “I will not lie down,” he said. “Seriously, and since you refuse to treat me as a man, and since you finesse with me, I will try to set you at bay, as a hunter does a wild boar.”
“Bah!” cried d’Artagnan, pretending to smile.
“I shall order my horses, and set off for Paris,” said Fouquet, sounding the heart of the captain of the musketeers.
“If that be the case, monseigneur, it is very different.”
“You will arrest me, then?”
“No, but I shall go with you.”
“That is quite sufficient, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” returned Fouquet, in a cold tone of voice. “It is not idly that you have acquired your reputation as a man of intelligence and full of resources; but with me that is quite superfluous. Let us two come to the point. Grant me a service. Why do you arrest me? What have I done?”
“Oh! I know nothing about what you may have done; but I do not arrest you—this evening, at least!”
“This evening!” said Fouquet, turning pale, “but to-morrow?”
“It is not to-morrow just yet, monseigneur. Who can ever answer for the morrow?”
“Quick, quick, captain! let me speak to M. d’Herblay.”
“Alas! that is quite impossible, monseigneur. I have strict orders to see that you hold no communication with any one.”
“With M. d’Herblay, captain—with your friend!”
“Monseigneur, is M. d’Herblay the only person with whom you ought to be prevented from holding any communication?”
Fouquet coloured, and then, assuming an air of resignation, he said: “You are right, monsieur; you have taught me a lesson that I ought not to have provoked. A fallen man cannot assert his right to anything, even from those whose fortunes he may have made; for a still greater reason, he cannot claim anything from those to whom he may never have had the happiness of doing a service.”
“Monseigneur! ”
“It is perfectly true, Monsieur d’Artagnan; you have always acted in the most admirable manner towards me—in such a manner, indeed, as most becomes the man who is destined to arrest me. You, at least, have never aske
d me anything.”
“Monseigneur,” replied the Gascon, touched by his eloquent and noble tone of grief, “will you—I ask it as a favour—pledge me your word, as a man of honour, that you will not leave this room?”
“What is the use of it, dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, since you keep watch and ward over me? Do you suppose that I should struggle against the most valiant sword in the kingdom?”
“It is not that at all, monseigneur; but that I am going to look for M. d’Herblay and, consequently, to leave you alone.”
Fouquet uttered a cry of delight and surprise.
“To look for M. d’Herblay! to leave me alone!” he exclaimed, clasping his hands together.
“Which is M. d’Herblay’s room? the blue room, is it not?”
“Yes, my friend, yes.”
“Your friend! thank you for that word, monseigneur; you confer it upon me to-day, at least, even if you have never done so before.”
“Ah! you have saved me.”
“It will take me a good ten minutes to go from hence to the blue room and to return?” said d’Artagnan.
“Nearly so.”
“And then to wake Aramis, who sleeps very soundly when he is asleep, I put that down at another five minutes, making a total of fifteen minutes’ absence. And now, monseigneur, give me your word that you will not in any way attempt to make your escape, and that when I return, I shall find you here again.”
“I give it you, monsieur,” replied Fouquet, with an expression of the warmest and deepest gratitude.
D‘Artagnan disappeared. Fouquet looked at him as he quitted the room, waited with a feverish impatience until the door was closed behind him and, as soon as it was shut, flew to his keys, opened two or three secret doors concealed in various articles of furniture in the room, looked vainly for certain papers, which doubtless he had left at Saint-Mandé, and which he seemed to regret not having found in them; then hurriedly seizing hold of letters, contracts, paper writings, he heaped them up into a pile, which he burnt in the extremest haste upon the marble hearth of the fireplace, not even taking time to draw from the interior of it the vases and pots of flowers with which it was filled. As soon as he had finished, like a man who has just escaped an imminent danger, and whose strength abandons him as soon as the danger is past, he sank down, completely overcome, on a couch. When d’Artagnan returned, he found Fouquet in the same position; the worthy musketeer had not the slightest doubt that Fouquet, having given his word, would not even think of failing to keep it, but he had thought it most likely that Fouquet would turn his (d‘Artagnan’s) absence to the best advantage in getting rid of all the papers, memorandums, and contracts, which might possibly render his position, which was even now serious enough, still more dangerous than ever. And so, lifting up his head like a dog who gains a scent, he perceived a certain odour resembling smoke which he fully relied upon finding in the atmosphere and, having found it, he made a movement of his head in token of satisfaction. When d’Artagnan had entered, Fouquet had, on his side, raised his head, and not one of d’Artagnan’s movements had escaped him. And then the looks of the two men met, and they both saw that they had understood each other without exchanging a syllable.
Man in the Iron Mask (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 43
