Between Two Kings

by Lawrence Ellsworth

  “God forbid, Madame, that I should ever reproach my mother for anything!”

  “Besides,” continued Anne of Austria, “the Lord doesn’t grant riches on this earth forever; the Lord, as a corrective for honors and wealth, gives us suffering and disease, and no one,” added Anne of Austria with a painful smile that proved she didn’t except herself from this funereal premise, “no one carries their grandeur and wealth into the grave. In that way, the young reap the fruitful harvest sowed by the old.”

  Louis listened with increasing attention to these words, as Anne of Austria seemed to offer them as some sort of consolation. “Madame,” said Louis XIV, looking his mother in the eye, “do you, in fact, have something else you wish to tell me?”

  “Absolutely nothing, my son—only, you must have noticed how ill Monsieur le Cardinal was this evening.”

  Louis looked at his mother, seeking some emotion in her voice, some sadness in her expression. Indeed, Queen Anne’s face seemed somewhat altered, but by a suffering of a personal character. Perhaps this change was due to the cancer that was even then gnawing at her breast.114 The king said, “Indeed, Madame, Monsieur de Mazarin is very ill.”

  “And it would be a great loss to the realm if His Eminence was called to God. Don’t you agree, my son?” asked Anne of Austria.

  “Yes, Madame, certainly, a great loss to the realm,” said Louis, coloring. “But the danger can’t be that great, it seems to me, as Monsieur le Cardinal isn’t that old.”

  The king had just finished speaking when an usher stepped in under the door tapestry and stood with a roll of paper in his hand, waiting for the king to acknowledge him.

  “What’s that?” asked the king.

  “A message from Monsieur de Mazarin,” replied the usher.

  “Give it to me,” said the king. And he took the paper. But just as he was about to unroll it, a great noise arose in the courtyard, the gallery, and the antechambers. “Ah ha!” said Louis XIV, who seemed to recognize this commotion. “Did I say there was only one king in France? I was wrong, there are two.”

  At that moment the door opened, and Superintendent of Finance Fouquet appeared before Louis XIV. His horses had made the noise in the courtyard, his retainers had made the commotion in the gallery, and it was he the courtiers had loudly welcomed in the antechambers, an uproar that stirred as he passed and continued long after his passage. It was this clamor that Louis XIV regretted not hearing when he came through.

  “He’s not the king you think he is,” Anne of Austria said quietly to her son. “He’s just a wealthy man, that’s all.”

  Nonetheless, her bitter feelings gave these words a hateful tone, though Louis’s expression, on the contrary, remained calm, not a wrinkle showing on his forehead. He nodded politely to Fouquet and continued to unroll the paper he’d received from the usher. Fouquet saw this movement, and, with a manner both easy and respectful, approached Anne of Austria so as not to interrupt the king. Louis unrolled the paper, but he didn’t read it; he listened to Fouquet compliment his mother on the graceful turn of her hand and arm.

  The queen’s frown relaxed a bit and she almost smiled. Fouquet noticed that the king, instead of reading, was watching and listening, and he made a half-turn so that, while continuing to speak to Anne of Austria, he was also facing the king.

  “Do you know, Monsieur Fouquet,” said Louis XIV, “that His Eminence is ill?”

  “Yes, Sire, I know that,” said Fouquet, “and very ill indeed. I was at my country estate of Vaux when I heard the news and dropped everything to come.”

  “You left Vaux this evening, Monsieur?”

  “An hour and a half ago, yes, Your Majesty,” said Fouquet, consulting a watch encrusted with diamonds.

  “An hour and a half!” said the king, who had enough control to restrain his anger but not to hide his surprise.

  “I understand Your Majesty is skeptical, and rightly so, but I did come that quickly, wonderful as it sounds. I recently received from England three pairs of horses that I was assured were very lively; I had them posted at intervals of four leagues, and I tried them tonight. I rode them in relay from Vaux to the Louvre115 in an hour and a half, so Your Majesty can see it was money well spent.”

  The queen mother’s smile couldn’t conceal her jealousy. Fouquet reacted before she could express it. “Indeed, Madame,” he hastened to add, “such horses are made, not for subjects, but for kings, for kings must never defer to their subjects in anything.”

  Louis raised his head. “However, so far as I know,” interrupted Anne of Austria, “you’re not a king, are you, Monsieur Fouquet?”

  “Which is why, Madame, the horses await only a signal from His Majesty before entering the stables of the Louvre. If I allowed myself to try them, it was only to ensure that I didn’t offer the king anything less than a marvel.”

  The king flushed deep red.

  “You know, Monsieur Fouquet,” said the queen, “that it isn’t the custom at the Court of France for a subject to offer such a present to his king?”

  Louis started.

  “I had hoped, Madame,” said Fouquet anxiously, “that my love for His Majesty, my unending desire to please him, would serve to mitigate my failure of etiquette. It was not a present that I presumed to offer him, but rather a tribute I hoped to pay him.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur Fouquet,” said the king politely. “I appreciate your intention, as I do love good horses, but I’m not wealthy enough to keep them—as you, my Surintendant des Finances, should know better than anyone. I am unable, however much I might like them, to purchase such an expensive set.”

  The queen mother seemed to be enjoying the minister’s awkward position, but Fouquet gave her a haughty glance and replied, “Luxury is the virtue of kings, Sire; it is by luxury that they approach divinity, for by luxury they are elevated above other men. By luxury a king rewards his subjects and honors them. Under the golden sun of this royal luxury grows the luxury of individuals, the source of wealth for the people.116 His Majesty, by accepting the gift of six such incomparable horses, would pique the vanity of our domestic breeders of Limousin, Perche, and Normandy, and their subsequent efforts to excel would benefit everyone… But the king is silent, and therefore I stand convicted.”

  During this speech Louis XIV, to keep his temper, rolled and unrolled the letter from Mazarin, though without looking at it. His eyes lit upon it at last, and he gasped at its first line.

  “What is it, my son?” asked Anne of Austria, drawing nearer.

  “Can this be from the cardinal?” said the king, continuing to read. “Yes, it is from him.”

  “Has his illness grown worse?”

  “Read it,” said the king, handing the letter to his mother, as if he thought that only by reading it could Anne of Austria believe the paper’s astonishing contents.

  Anne of Austria read it in her turn, and as she did her eyes sparkled with a joy that Fouquet noticed, though she tried to turn away. “It’s a bequest, a regular deed of gift,” she said.

  “A bequest?” repeated Fouquet.

  “Yes,” said the king, speaking to his Surintendant des Finances. “Yes, on the eve of death, Monsieur le Cardinal makes me a bequest of all his wealth.”

  “Forty million!” cried the queen. “Ah, my son! This is a fine gesture on the cardinal’s part, one that will contradict a host of vile rumors. Forty million, slowly gathered and then returned in one fell swoop to the royal treasury, the act of a loyal subject and a true Christian.”

  And after casting a final glance at the note, she returned it to Louis XIV, who was thrilled at the size of the sum mentioned. Fouquet had withdrawn a few steps and was silent. The king approached and handed him the letter. The superintendent gave it a brief, haughty look, then bowed and said, “Yes, Sire, it’s a bequest, as I see.”

  “You must reply, my son,” cried Anne of Austria. “You must reply, and right away.”

  “In what way, Madame?”

  “B
y a visit to the cardinal.”

  “But it’s scarcely an hour since I left His Eminence,” said the king.

  “Then write, Sire.”

  “Write!” said the young king with disgust.

  “Indeed,” replied Anne of Austria. “It seems to me, my son, that a man who makes such a bequest has the right to expect a speedy show of gratitude.” And turning to the superintendent, she said, “Don’t you agree, Monsieur Fouquet?”

  “The bequest is worth the trouble, yes, Madame,” replied the superintendent with a hauteur that didn’t escape the king’s notice.

  “Accept it, then, and thank him,” insisted Anne of Austria.

  “What says Monsieur Fouquet?” asked Louis XIV.

  “His Majesty wants to know what I think?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank him, Sire…”

  “Ah!” said Anne of Austria.

  “But don’t accept it,” continued Fouquet.

  “And why is that?” demanded Anne of Austria.

  “You said so yourself, Madame,” replied Fouquet. “Because kings must not and cannot receive gifts from their subjects.”

  The king remained silent in the face of these two very different opinions.

  “But… forty million!” said Anne of Austria, in the same tone that Marie Antoinette much later said, “You tell me that much!”117

  “I know,” Fouquet said, laughing. “Forty million is a nice round sum, an amount that might tempt even a monarch’s conscience.”

  “But, Monsieur,” said Anne of Austria, “instead of dissuading the king from receiving this present, point out to His Majesty, in your official capacity, that these forty million will make his fortune.”

  “It is precisely, Madame, because this forty million is a subject’s fortune that I say to the king, ‘Sire, if it’s indecent for a king to accept from a subject six horses worth twenty thousand livres, it’s that much more dishonorable to owe his fortune to a subject who was less than scrupulous in the collection of that fortune.’ ”

  “It’s not your place, Monsieur, to give the king such a lesson,” said Anne of Austria, “unless you provide a replacement for the forty million you cause him to lose.”

  “The king shall have it whenever he wishes,” said the Surintendant des Finances, bowing.

  “Yes, by squeezing it out of the people,” said Anne of Austria.

  “And weren’t they squeezed, Madame, when they sweated out the forty million offered in this bequest?” Fouquet replied. “In any event, His Majesty asked for my opinion, and he has it. If His Majesty asks for my assistance, it shall be the same.”

  “Come, come, accept it, my son,” said Anne of Austria. “You are above such petty considerations.”

  “Refuse it, Sire,” said Fouquet. “While a king lives, he has no other measure but his conscience, no other judge but his will—but when he is dead, posterity will applaud or accuse.”

  “Thank you, Mother,” replied Louis, bowing respectfully to the queen. “And thank you, Monsieur Fouquet,” he said, politely dismissing the superintendent.

  “Will you accept it?” Anne of Austria asked again.

  “I’ll think about it,” replied the king, looking at Fouquet.

  XLVIII Agonies

  The same night the bequest was sent to the king, the cardinal had himself taken to Vincennes.118 The king and the Court followed him there. The last glimmers of this torch still cast enough light to outshine, in its radiance, the combined light of the rest of the Court. Moreover, as we saw, the young Louis XIV, a faithful satellite of his minister, still orbited in his gravitation until the final moments. Mazarin’s illness, following Guénaud’s prediction, had worsened; it was no longer an attack of gout, it was the grip of death. And there was one more thing that afflicted the dying man with an even greater agony: the anxiety of having made that bequest to the king, the gift that, according to Colbert, the king would return unaccepted to the cardinal.

  The cardinal had a lot of faith, as we’ve seen, in the predictions of his financial secretary—but the sum was a great one, and no matter how brilliant Colbert was, from time to time the cardinal had his doubts, thinking that it might have been the Theatine who was mistaken, and there was at least as great a chance that he wouldn’t be damned as that Louis XIV would reject his millions.

  Moreover, the longer the delay before the bequest was returned, the more Mazarin thought that forty million was enough to risk losing something as hypothetical as a soul. Mazarin, though a cardinal, was first and foremost a prime minister, and in that capacity committed to materialism almost as much as an atheist. Every time the door opened he turned to look, longing to see the return of his unhappy bequest, but he was deceived by hope and lay back down again with a sigh, finding his sorrow all the deeper because for a moment he’d forgotten it.

  Anne of Austria, too, had followed the cardinal to Vincennes. Her heart, though age had made it selfish, couldn’t refuse to bear this dying man witness to a sadness she owed him in her quality as a wife, according to some, and in her capacity as sovereign, according to others. She had adopted, as it were, the face of mourning in advance, and all the Court followed her example.

  Louis, in order not to show on his face what was passing in his soul, confined himself to his apartment with his old governess as his only company. The more he thought that he was approaching the end when all restraint would be lifted from him, the humbler and more patient he became, gathering himself like all strong men who have secret plans, preparing to spring forward more effectively at the decisive moment.

  Last rites had been secretly administered to the cardinal, who, faithful to his habits of concealment, fought against the appearance, and even the reality, of his situation, pretending to keep to his bed as if merely afflicted by a passing malady. Guénaud, for his part, maintained absolute discretion, and when questioned, tired of being interrogated, he said nothing except, “His Eminence is still full of youth and strength, but God wills what he wills, and when he decides to take a man, that man will be taken.” These words, though spoken with the greatest care and reserve, were really intended for an audience of two: the king and the cardinal.

  Mazarin, despite Guénaud’s predictions, continued to deceive himself, or rather, to play his part so well that even the most cunning courtiers, when saying he deceived himself, were actually his dupes.

  Louis, who hadn’t seen the cardinal for two days—his mind fixed on the bequest that also preoccupied the cardinal—didn’t know the cardinal’s real condition. The son of Louis XIII, following in the footsteps of his father, had been the king so little until then that, while longing for rule, his desire was coupled with the fear of the unknown. As to the bequest, having made up his mind, a resolution he’d shared with no one, he decided to ask Mazarin to receive his visit. It was Anne of Austria, in her constant attendance on the cardinal, who received the king’s proposal, and she passed it on to the dying man, who heard it and trembled. Why did Louis XIV wish this audience? Was it to refuse the bequest, as Colbert had predicted? Was it to accept it with gratitude, as Mazarin feared?

  Nevertheless, despite his rising anxiety, the dying man didn’t hesitate for a moment. “His Majesty will be quite welcome, yes, very welcome indeed,” he said, dismissing Colbert with a gesture that he, sitting at the foot of the bed, understood very well. “Madame,” continued Mazarin, “would Your Majesty please assure the king of the truth of what I’ve just said?”

  Anne of Austria rose; she, too, was eager to resolve the question of the forty million that was at the forefront of everyone’s minds.

  After Queen Anne left, Mazarin made a great effort and leaned toward Colbert, saying, “Well, Colbert! Two unhappy days have passed, two mortal days, and, as you see, the bequest has not been returned.”

  “Patience, Monseigneur,” said Colbert.

  “Patience! Are you mad, you wretch? You advise me to be patient! In truth, Colbert, you mock me—I’m dying, yet you tell me to be patient!”


  “Monseigneur,” said Colbert with his usual coolness, “it’s impossible that things won’t turn out as I said. His Majesty comes to see you so that he can return the bequest personally.”

  “You think so? Well, I, on the contrary, am quite sure His Majesty is coming to thank me for it.”

  Anne of Austria returned at that moment; on her way to find her son, she’d encountered another charlatan with a miracle cure, a medicinal powder sure to save the cardinal. Anne brought a sample of this powder, but that wasn’t what the cardinal was interested in and he wouldn’t even look at it, insisting that life wasn’t worth the trouble it took to continue it. But once he’d uttered this maxim of philosophy, his secret, so long concealed, finally burst forth. “That powder, Madame, has no bearing on the situation. I made a small bequest to the king two or three days ago, and until now, out of delicacy no doubt, His Majesty hasn’t spoken of it. But the moment has arrived for explanations, and I beg Your Majesty to tell me if the king has any ideas on the matter.”

  Anne of Austria opened her mouth to reply, but Mazarin stopped her. “The truth, Madame,” he said. “In the name of heaven, the truth! Don’t flatter a dying man by offering him vain hope.” He stopped himself at a look from Colbert that told him he was going too far.

  “I know,” said Anne of Austria, taking the cardinal’s hand. “I know that you have offered, not a small bequest, as you modestly call it, but a generous, a magnificent gift; I know how painful it would be for you if the king…”

  Mazarin listened, dying as he was, with the intensity of ten living men. “If the king?” he repeated.

  “If the king,” continued Queen Anne, “didn’t heartily accept what you so nobly offer.”

  Mazarin fell back on his pillow like the tragic clown Pantaloon, with the exaggerated despair of a man who abandons himself to a shipwreck—but he retained enough strength and presence of mind to throw at Colbert one of those looks that exceed the tragedy of ten epic poems.