When I shall have asked your highness a question.


Do so.


I sent to your highness a man in my confidence with instructions to deliver some closely written notes, carefully drawn up, which will thoroughly acquaint your highness with the different persons who compose and will compose your court.


I perused those notes.


Attentively?


I know them by heart.


And understand them? Pardon me, but I may venture to ask that question of a poor, abandoned captive of the Bastile? In a week’s time it will not be requisite to further question a mind like yours. You will then be in full possession of liberty and power.


Interrogate me, then, and I will be a scholar representing his lesson to his master.


We will begin with your family, monseigneur.


My mother, Anne of Austria! all her sorrows, her painful malady. Oh! I know her--I know her.


Your second brother?


To these notes, you have added portraits so faithfully painted, that I am able to recognize the persons whose characters, manners, and history you have so carefully portrayed. Monsieur, my brother, is a fine, dark young man, with a pale face; he does not love his wife, Henrietta, whom I, Louis XIV., loved a little, and still flirt with, even although she made me weep on the day she wished to dismiss Mademoiselle de la Vallière from her service in disgrace.


You will have to be careful with regard to the watchfulness of the latter, she is sincerely attached to the actual king. The eyes of a woman who loves are not easily deceived.


She is fair, has blue eyes, whose affectionate gaze reveals her identity. She halts slightly in her gait; she writes a letter every day, to which I have to send an answer by M. de Saint-Aignan.


Do you know the latter?


As if I saw him, and I know the last verses he composed for me, as well as those I composed in answer to his.


Very good. Do you know your ministers?


Colbert, an ugly, dark-browed man, but intelligent enough, his hair covering his forehead, a large, heavy, full head; the mortal enemy of M. Fouquet.


As for the latter, we need not disturb ourselves about him.


No; because necessarily you will not require me to exile him, I suppose?


You will become very great, monseigneur.


You see, that I know my lesson by heart, and with Heaven’s assistance, and yours afterwards, I shall seldom go wrong.


You have still an awkward pair of eyes to deal with, monseigneur.


Yes, the captain of the musketeers, M. d’Artagnan, your friend.


Yes; I can well say ‘my friend.’


He who escorted La Vallière to Le Chaillot; he who delivered up Monk, cooped in an iron box, to Charles II.; he who so faithfully served my mother; he to whom the crown of France owes so much that it owes everything. Do you intend to ask me to exile him also?


Never, sire. D’Artagnan is a man to whom, at a certain given time, I will undertake to reveal everything; but be on your guard with him, for if he discovers our plot before it is revealed to him, you or I will certainly be killed or taken. He is a bold and enterprising man.


I will think it over. Now tell me about M. Fouquet; what do you wish to be done with regard to him?


One moment more, I entreat you, monseigneur; and forgive me, if I seem to fail in respect to questioning you further.


It is your duty to do so, nay, more than that, your right.


Before we pass to M. Fouquet, I should very much regret forgetting another friend of mine.


M. du Vallon, the Hercules of France, you mean; oh! as far as he is concerned, his interests are more than safe.


No; it is not he whom I intended to refer to.


The Comte de la Fere, then?


And his son, the son of all four of us.


That poor boy who is dying of love for La Vallière, whom my brother so disloyally bereft him of? Be easy on that score. I shall know how to rehabilitate his happiness. Tell me only one thing, Monsieur d’Herblay; do men, when they love, forget the treachery that has been shown them? Can a man ever forgive the woman who has betrayed him? Is that a French custom, or is it one of the laws of the human heart?


A man who loves deeply, as deeply as Raoul loves Mademoiselle de la Vallière, finishes by forgetting the fault or crime of the woman he loves; but I do not yet know whether Raoul will be able to forget.


I will see after that. Have you anything further to say about your friend?


No; that is all.


Well, then, now for M. Fouquet. What do you wish me to do for him?


To keep him on as surintendant, in the capacity in which he has hitherto acted, I entreat you.


Be it so; but he is the first minister at present.


Not quite so.


A king, ignorant and embarrassed as I shall be, will, as a matter of course, require a first minister of state.


Your majesty will require a friend.


I have only one, and that is yourself.


You will have many others by and by, but none so devoted, none so zealous for your glory.


You shall be my first minister of state.


Not immediately, monseigneur, for that would give rise to too much suspicion and astonishment.


M. de Richelieu, the first minister of my grandmother, Marie de Medici, was simply bishop of Lucon, as you are bishop of Vannes.


I perceive that your royal highness has studied my notes to great advantage; your amazing perspicacity overpowers me with delight.


I am perfectly aware that M. de Richelieu, by means of the queen’s protection, soon became cardinal.


It would be better, that I should not be appointed first minister until your royal highness has procured my nomination as cardinal.


You shall be nominated before two months are past, Monsieur d’Herblay. But that is a matter of very trifling moment; you would not offend me if you were to ask more than that, and you would cause me serious regret if you were to limit yourself to that.


In that case, I have something still further to hope for, monseigneur.


Speak! speak!


M. Fouquet will not keep long at the head of affairs, he will soon get old. He is fond of pleasure, consistently, I mean, with all his labors, thanks to the youthfulness he still retains; but this protracted youth will disappear at the approach of the first serious annoyance, or at the first illness he may experience. We will spare him the annoyance, because he is an agreeable and noble-hearted man; but we cannot save him from ill-health. So it is determined. When you shall have paid all M. Fouquet’s debts, and restored the finances to a sound condition, M. Fouquet will be able to remain the sovereign ruler in his little court of poets and painters,--we shall have made him rich. When that has been done, and I have become your royal highness’s prime minister, I shall be able to think of my own interests and yours. M. de Richelieu, of whom we were speaking just now, was very much to blame in the fixed idea he had of governing France alone, unaided. He allowed two kings, King Louis XIII. and himself, to be seated on the self-same throne, whilst he might have installed them more conveniently upon two separate and distinct thrones.


Upon two thrones?


In fact, a cardinal, prime minister of France, assisted by the favor and by the countenance of his Most Christian Majesty the King of France, a cardinal to whom the king his master lends the treasures of the state, his army, his counsel, such a man would be acting with twofold injustice in applying these mighty resources to France alone. Besides, you will not be a king such as your father was, delicate in health, slow in judgment, whom all things wearied; you will be a king governing by your brain and by your sword; you will have in the government of the state no more than you will be able to manage unaided; I should only interfere with you. Besides, our friendship ought never to be, I do not say impaired, but in any degree affected, by a secret thought. I shall have given you the throne of France, you will confer on me the throne of St. Peter. Whenever your loyal, firm, and mailed hand should joined in ties of intimate association the hand of a pope such as I shall be, neither Charles V., who owned two-thirds of the habitable globe, nor Charlemagne, who possessed it entirely, will be able to reach to half your stature. I have no alliances, I have no predilections; I will not throw you into persecutions of heretics, nor will I cast you into the troubled waters of family dissension; I will simply say to you: The whole universe is our own; for me the minds of men, for you their bodies. And as I shall be the first to die, you will have my inheritance. What do you say of my plan, monseigneur?


I say that you render me happy and proud, for no other reason than that of having comprehended you thoroughly. Monsieur d’Herblay, you shall be cardinal, and when cardinal, my prime minister; and then you will point out to me the necessary steps to be taken to secure your election as pope, and I will take them. You can ask what guarantees from me you please.


It is useless. Never shall I act except in such a manner that you will be the gainer; I shall never ascend the ladder of fortune, fame, or position, until I have first seen you placed upon the round of the ladder immediately above me; I shall always hold myself sufficiently aloof from you to escape incurring your jealousy, sufficiently near to sustain your personal advantage and to watch over your friendship. All the contracts in the world are easily violated because the interests included in them incline more to one side than to another. With us, however, this will never be the case; I have no need of any guarantees.


And so--my dear brother--will disappear?


Simply. We will remove him from his bed by means of a plank which yields to the pressure of the finger. Having retired to rest a crowned sovereign, he will awake a captive. Alone you will rule from that moment, and you will have no interest dearer and better than that of keeping me near you.


I believe it. There is my hand on it, Monsieur d’Herblay.


Allow me to kneel before you, sire, most respectfully. We will embrace each other on the day we shall have upon our temples, you the crown, I the tiara.


Still embrace me this very day also, and be, for and towards me, more than great, more than skillful, more than sublime in genius; be kind and indulgent--be my father!


His father! yes, his Holy Father.


In an hour--


In an hour!


And the people who ask one another what is the good of these royal fetes!


Alas! I, too, who am not the people, ask myself the same thing.


I will answer you in four and twenty hours, monseigneur. Assume a cheerful countenance, for it should be a day of true rejoicing.


Well, believe me or not, as you like, D’Herblay, he certainly loves me but very little, and I do not care much more for him; but I cannot tell you how it is, that since he is approaching my house--


Well, what?


Well, since I know he is on his way here, as my guest, he is more sacred than ever for me; he is my acknowledged sovereign, and as such is very dear to me.


Dear? yes,


Do not laugh, D’Herblay; I feel that, if he really seemed to wish it, I could love that young man.


You should not say that to me, but rather to M. Colbert.


To M. Colbert! Why so?


Because he would allow you a pension out of the king’s privy purse, as soon as he becomes surintendant,


Where are you going?


To my own apartment, in order to change my costume, monseigneur.


Whereabouts are you lodging, D’Herblay?


In the blue room on the second story.


The room immediately over the king’s room?


Precisely.


You will be subject to very great restraint there. What an idea to condemn yourself to a room where you cannot stir or move about!


During the night, monseigneur, I sleep or read in my bed.


And your servants?


I have but one attendant with me. I find my reader quite sufficient. Adieu, monseigneur; do not overfatigue yourself; keep yourself fresh for the arrival of the king.


We shall see you by and by, I suppose, and shall see your friend Du Vallon also?


He is lodging next to me, and is at this moment dressing.


With men of Aramis’s stamp, one is never the stronger except sword in hand. So long as Aramis continued a soldier, there was hope of getting the better of him; but since he has covered his cuirass with a stole, we are lost. But what can Aramis’s object possibly be? What does it matter to me, after all, if his only object is to overthrow M. Colbert? And what else can he be after?


I will get him, between a couple of candles, suddenly, and when he least expects it, I will place my hand upon his heart, and he will tell me--What will he tell me? Yes, he will tell me something, for mordioux! there is something in it, I know.


But why?


In order to show greater honor to M. Fouquet,


Who was fool enough to occasion this delay?


Not I, certainly, but I believe it was M. Colbert.


What was M. d’Artagnan good enough to say?


I was good enough to remark that it was you who stopped the king’s progress, so that he might taste the vin de Brie. Was I right?


Quite so, monsieur.


In that case, then, it was you whom the king called some name or other.


What name?


I hardly know; but wait a moment--idiot, I think it was--no, no, it was fool or dolt. Yes; his majesty said that the man who had thought of the vin de Melun was something of the sort. Mordioux! the king is going to have an attack of determination of blood to the head. Where the deuce did you get hold of that idea, Monsieur Colbert? You have no luck.


Monsieur, my zeal for the king’s service inspired me with the idea.


Bah!


Monsieur, Melun is a city, an excellent city, which pays well, and which it would be imprudent to displease.


There, now! I, who do not pretend to be a financier, saw only one idea in your idea.


What was that, monsieur?


That of causing a little annoyance to M. Fouquet, who is making himself quite giddy on his donjons yonder, in waiting for us.


Is not the king going to sleep at Melun?


Sire. M. Colbert has been asking me if your majesty does not intend to sleep at Melun.


Sleep at Melun! What for? Sleep at Melun! Who, in Heaven’s name, can have thought of such a thing, when M. Fouquet is expecting us this evening?


It was simply, the fear of causing your majesty the least delay; for, according to established etiquette, you cannot enter any place, with the exception of your own royal residences, until the soldiers’ quarters have been marked out by the quartermaster, and the garrison properly distributed.


We will consult the queen,


I shall be delighted to do whatever your majesty wishes.


How long will it take us to get to Vaux?


An hour for your majesty’s carriages, the roads are tolerably good. And a quarter of an hour for the king,


We should arrive by daylight?


But the billeting of the king’s military escort, will make his majesty lose all the advantage of his speed, however quick he may be.


Double ass that you are! If I were in the king’s place, 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.


That is indeed a very sensible suggestion. We will go to see a friend as friends; the gentlemen who are with the carriages can go slowly: but we who are mounted will ride on.


I shall be quits, by getting a little talk with Aramis this evening. And then, M. Fouquet is a man of honor. Mordioux! I have said so, and it must be so.


It is impossible, monsieur le surintendant, to dine better anywhere.


I love you,


M. Fouquet,


is the man for me.


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. Will you have the goodness to tell M. Colbert I wish to see him.


Well, and so we have come to Vaux,


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 so.


I am told that the king began by showing great distance of manner towards M. Fouquet, but that his majesty grew much more cordial afterwards.


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


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


Ah, indeed! you are the comptroller-general of the fetes here, then?


You know I am a friend of all kinds of amusement where the exercise of the imagination is called into activity; 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 Moliere, Pelisson, 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!


No, it is Monsieur Fouquet.


Ah! you are like all the rest, jealous. I would wager that it was M. Colbert who turned that pretty phrase. He comes of a mean race, does Colbert,


Quite true.


When I think, too, 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,


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


True, true. Why do you tell me that M. Colbert will be minister in four months?


Because M. Fouquet will have ceased to be so,


He will be ruined, you mean?


Completely so.


Why does he give these fetes, then?


It is done with the object of humoring the king.


By ruining himself?


Yes, by ruining himself for the king.


A most eccentric, one might say, sinister calculation, that.


Necessity, necessity, my friend.


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 superintendent?


One must be blind not to see it.


And that a cabal is already armed 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. There are follies, and follies, 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 well and good, I grant; but why were not these expenses sufficient? Why 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 houses to the very sub-cellars; 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?


That of the king, and the surprise as well.


What surprise?


The surprise you seem to have in view, and on account of which you took some specimens away, when I met you at Percerin’s.


That is merely an act of graceful attention,


Aramis, do you still care for me a very little?


What a question to ask!


Very good. One favor, then. Why did you take some patterns of the king’s costumes at Percerin’s?


Come with me and ask poor Lebrun, who has been working upon them for the last two days and nights.


Aramis, that may be truth for everybody else, but for me--


Upon my word, D’Artagnan, you astonish me.


Be a little considerate. Tell me the exact truth; you would not like anything disagreeable to happen to me, would you?


My dear friend, you are becoming quite incomprehensible. What suspicion can you have possibly got hold of?


Do you believe in my instinctive feelings? Formerly you used to have faith in them. Well, then, an instinct tells me that you have some concealed project on foot.


I--a project?


I am convinced of it.


What nonsense!


I am not only sure of it, but I would even swear it.


Indeed, D'Artagnan, you cause me the greatest pain. Is it likely, if I have any project in hand that I ought to keep secret from you, I should tell you about it? If I had one that I could and ought to have revealed, should I not have long ago divulged it?


No, Aramis, no. There are certain projects which are never revealed until the favorable opportunity arrives.


In that case, my dear fellow, the only thing now is, that the ‘opportunity’ has not yet arrived.


Oh, friendship, friendship! what an idle word you are! Here is a man who, if I were but to ask it, would suffer himself to be cut in pieces for my sake.


You are right,


And this man, who would shed every drop of blood in his veins for me, will not open up before me the least corner in his heart. Friendship, I repeat, is nothing but an unsubstantial shadow--a lure, like everything else in this bright, dazzling world.


It is not thus you should speak of our friendship, for ours is not of the same nature as those of which you have been speaking.


Look at us, Aramis; three out of the old ‘four.’ You are deceiving me; I suspect you; and Porthos is fast asleep. An admirable trio of friends, don’t you think so? What an affecting relic of the former dear old times!


I can only tell you one thing, D'Artagnan, and I swear it on the Bible: I love you just as I used to do. If I ever suspect you, it is on account of others, and not on account of either of us. In everything I may do, and should happen to succeed in, you will find your fourth. Will you promise me the same favor?


If I am not mistaken, Aramis, your words--at the moment you pronounce them--are full of generous feeling.


Such a thing is very possible.


You are conspiring against M. Colbert. If that be all, mordioux, tell me so at once. I have the instrument in my own hand, and will pull out the tooth easily enough.


And supposing that I were conspiring against Colbert, what harm would there be in that?


No, no; that would be too trifling a matter for you to take in hand, and it was not on that account you asked Percerin for those patterns of the king’s costumes. Oh! Aramis, we are not enemies, remember--we are brothers. Tell me what you wish to undertake, and, upon the word of a D’Artagnan, if I cannot help you, I will swear to remain neuter.


I am undertaking nothing,


Aramis, a voice within me speaks and seems to trickle forth a rill of light within my darkness: it is a voice that has never yet deceived me. It is the king you are conspiring against.


The king?


Your face will not convince me; the king, I repeat.


Will you help me?


Aramis, I will do more than help you--I will do more than remain neuter--I will save you.


You are mad, D'Artagnan.


I am the wiser of the two, in this matter.


You to suspect me of wishing to assassinate the king!


Who spoke of such a thing?


Well, let us understand one another. I do not see what any one can do to a legitimate king as ours is, if he does not assassinate him. True. You are not in M. Fouquet’s house, but in your own.


True; but in spite of that, Aramis, grant me, for pity’s sake, one single word of a true friend.


A true friend’s word is ever truth itself. If I think of touching, even with my finger, the son of Anne of Austria, the true king of this realm of France--if I have not the firm intention of prostrating myself before his throne--if in every idea I may entertain to-morrow, here at Vaux, will not be the most glorious day my king ever enjoyed--may Heaven’s lightning blast me where I stand!


Are you going away?


Yes. Duty summons me. I have to get the watch-word. It seems I am to be lodged in the king’s ante-room. Where does Porthos sleep?


Take him away with you, if you like, for he rumbles through his sleepy nose like a park of artillery.


Ah! he does not stay with you, then?


Not the least in the world. He has a chamber to himself, but I don’t know where.


Very good!


What, D’Artagnan, my dear fellow, is that you? What a lucky chance! Oh, yes--true; I have forgotten; I am at the fete at Vaux.


Yes; and your beautiful dress, too.


Yes, it was very attentive on the part of Monsieur Coquelin de Voliere, was it not?


Hush! You are walking so heavily you will make the flooring give way.


True, this room is above the dome, I think.


And I did not choose it for a fencing-room, I assure you. The ceiling of the king’s room has all the lightness and calm of wholesome sleep. Do not forget, therefore, that my flooring is merely the covering of his ceiling. Good night, my friends, and in ten minutes I shall be asleep myself. Monseigneur!--monseigneur!


M. d’Artagnan entertains a great many suspicions, it seems. Ah!--you recognized M. d’Artagnan, then?


He is your captain of musketeers.


He is very devoted to me,


As faithful as a dog; but he bites sometimes. If D’Artagnan does not recognize you before the other has disappeared, rely upon D’Artagnan to the end of the world; for in that case, if he has seen nothing, he will keep his fidelity. If he sees, when it is too late, he is a Gascon, and will never admit that he has been deceived.


I thought so. What are we to do, now?


Sit in this folding-chair. I am going to push aside a portion of the flooring; you will look through the opening, which answers to one of the false windows made in the dome of the king’s apartment. Can you see?


Yes. I see the king!


What is he doing?


He seems to wish some man to sit down close to him.


M. Fouquet?


No, no; wait a moment--


Look at the notes and the portraits, my prince.


The man whom the king wishes to sit down in his presence is M. Colbert.


Colbert sit down in the king’s presence! It is impossible. Look. Yes. Colbert himself. Oh, monseigneur! what can we be going to hear--and what can result from this intimacy?


Nothing good for M. Fouquet, at all events.


Colbert, sit down.


Does he accept?


No, he remains standing. Let us listen, then.


Colbert, you have annoyed me exceedingly to-day.


I know it, sire.


Very good; I like that answer. Yes, you knew it, and there was courage in the doing of it.


I ran the risk of displeasing your majesty, but I risked, also, the concealment of your best interests.


What! you were afraid of something on my account?


I was, sire, even if it were nothing more than an indigestion,


The truth is, that M. Fouquet has given me too good a meal. Tell me, Colbert, where does he get all the money required for this enormous expenditure,--can you tell?


Yes, I do know, sire.


Will you be able to prove it with tolerable certainty?


Easily; and to the utmost farthing.


I know you are very exact.


Exactitude is the principal qualification required in an intendant of finances.


But all are not so.


I thank you majesty for so flattering a compliment from your own lips.


M. Fouquet, therefore, is rich--very rich, and I suppose every man knows he is so.


Every one, sire; the living as well as the dead.


What does that mean, Monsieur Colbert?


The living are witnesses of M. Fouquet’s wealth,--they admire and applaud the result produced; but the dead, wiser and better informed than we are, know how that wealth was obtained--and they rise up in accusation.


So that M. Fouquet owes his wealth to some cause or other.


The occupation of an intendant very often favors those who practice it.


You have something to say to me more confidentially, I perceive; do not be afraid, we are quite alone.


I am never afraid of anything under the shelter of my own conscience, and under the protection of your majesty,


If the dead, therefore, were to speak--


They do speak sometimes, sire,--read.


since you are placed here, monseigneur, in order to learn your vocation of a king, listen to a piece of infamy--of a nature truly royal. You are about to be a witness of one of those scenes which the foul fiend alone conceives and executes. Listen attentively,--you will find your advantage in it.


I do not quite understand,


Your majesty has not acquired the utilitarian habit of checking the public accounts. I see that it refers to money that had been given to M. Fouquet.


Thirteen millions. A tolerably good sum.


Yes. Well, these thirteen millions are wanting to balance the total of the account. That is what I do not very well understand. How was this deficit possible?


Possible I do not say; but there is no doubt about fact that it is really so.


You say that these thirteen millions are found to be wanting in the accounts?


I do not say so, but the registry does.


And this letter of M. Mazarin indicates the employment of that sum and the name of the person with whom it was deposited?


As your majesty can judge for yourself.


Yes; and the result is, then, that M. Fouquet has not yet restored the thirteen millions.


That results from the accounts, certainly, sire.


Well, and, consequently--


Well, sire, in that case, inasmuch as M. Fouquet has not yet given back the thirteen millions, he must have appropriated them to his own purpose; and with those thirteen millions one could incur four times and a little more as much expense, and make four times as great a display, as your majesty was able to do at Fontainebleau, where we only spent three millions altogether, if you remember.


Are you aware what is the usual and natural consequence of all this, Monsieur Colbert?


No, sire, I do not know.


Well, then, the fact of the appropriation of the thirteen millions, if it can be proved--


But it is so already.


I mean if it were to be declared and certified, M. Colbert.


I think it will be to-morrow, if your majesty--


Were we not under M. Fouquet’s roof, you were going to say, perhaps,


The king is in his own palace wherever he may be--especially in houses which the royal money has constructed.


I think, that the architect who planned this dome ought, anticipating the use it could be put to at a future opportunity, so to have contrived that it might be made to fall upon the heads of scoundrels such as M. Colbert.


I think so too, but M. Colbert is so very near the king at this moment.


That is true, and that would open the succession.


Of which your younger brother would reap all the advantage, monseigneur. But stay, let us keep quiet, and go on listening.


We shall not have long to listen,


Why not, monseigneur?


Because, if I were king, I should make no further reply.


And what would you do?


I should wait until to-morrow morning to give myself time for reflection.


M. Colbert, I perceive it is getting very late, and I shall now retire to bed. By to-morrow morning I shall have made up my mind.


Very good, sire,


My attendants!


A moment longer, 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!


And now, gentlemen, to the park.


Mademoiselle, should I be guilty of an indiscretion if I were to inquire if you were 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 monarch of these wide domains. Oh! when I think that this king--


Well, sire?


--That this king is a faithless, unworthy servant, who grows proud and self-sufficient upon the strength of property that belongs to me, and which he has stolen. And therefore I am about to change this impudent minister’s fete into 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?


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


Speak, Monsieur Colbert, for I almost believe that Mademoiselle de la Vallière has need of your assistance 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.


Speak, monsieur, 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, a mere abuse of confidence.


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


M. d’Artagnan, sire! 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 as 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.


Sire, it is not M. Fouquet I am defending; it is yourself.


Me! you are defending me?


Sire, you would dishonor yourself if you were to give such an order.


Dishonor myself! In plain truth, mademoiselle, you show a strange persistence in what you say.


If I do, sire, my only motive is that of serving your majesty, for that I would risk, I would sacrifice my very life, without the least reserve. Monsieur, 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, that I too love the king.


Yes, monseigneur, we both love him, but each in a different manner. 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 least of all his servants. But whoso touches his honor assails my life. Therefore, I repeat, that they dishonor the king who advise him to arrest M. Fouquet under his own roof.


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 believe 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 guest of M. Fouquet. Were his 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.’


Mademoiselle, 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?


Should he escape, and take to flight?


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


I am lost Oh! no, no, aha, old fox!--not yet,


Leave me, Louise, for some one is coming.


Mademoiselle, mademoiselle, some one is coming. Ah! Mademoiselle de la Vallière has let something fall.


What is it?


A paper--a letter--something white; look there, sire.


What is the matter, sire?


Nothing.


I am afraid your majesty is suffering?


I am suffering, and have already told you so, monsieur; but it is nothing.


M. Fouquet, you shall hear from me. Be good enough to desire M. d’Artagnan to come here.


Take care. Take care that no one enters here.


Very good, sire. Is there something fresh the matter, your majesty?


How many men have you here?


What for, sire?


How many men have you, I say?


I have the musketeers.


Well; and what others?


Twenty guards and thirteen Swiss.


How many men will be required to--


To do what, sire?


To arrest M. Fouquet.


To arrest M. Fouquet!


Are you going to tell me that it is impossible?


I never say that anything is impossible,


Very well; do it, then.


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 insufficient for 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 besides that?


Oh, I, at least, have certain thoughts and ideas, which, unfortunately, others have not,


What is your thought?


This, sire, you cause a man to be arrested when you are still under his roof; and passion is alone the cause of that. When your anger shall have passed, you will regret what you have done; and then I wish to be in a position to show you your signature. If that, however, should fail to be a reparation, it will at least show us that the king was wrong to lose his temper.


Wrong to lose his temper! Did not my father, my grandfathers, too, before me, lose their temper at times, in Heaven’s name?


The king your father and the king your grandfather never lost their temper 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 any one but M. Colbert; but it happens not to be the truth. The king is at home in every man’s house when he has driven its owner out of it. Can it be possible? here is a man who is positively ruining himself in order to please you, and you wish to have him arrested! Mordioux! Sire, if my name was Fouquet, and people treated me in that manner, I would swallow at a single gulp all sorts of fireworks and other things, and I would set fire to them, and send myself and everybody else in blown-up atoms to the sky. But it is all the same; it is your wish, and it shall be done.


Go, 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 like drinking a glass of wormwood; one makes an ugly face, and that is all.


If he defends himself?


He! it is not at all likely. Defend himself when such extreme harshness as you are going to practice makes the man a very martyr! Nay, I am sure that if he has a million of francs left, which I very much doubt, he would be willing enough to give it in order to have such a termination as this. But what does that matter? it shall be done at once.


Stay, 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 a thousand enthusiastic guests who surround him, and say, ‘In the king’s name, I arrest you.’ But to go up to him, to turn him first one way and then another, to drive him up into one of the corners of the chess-board, in 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 heard anything about it; that, indeed, is a genuine difficulty, the greatest of all, in truth; and I hardly see how it is to be done.


You had better say it is impossible, and you will have finished much sooner. Heaven help me, but I seem to be surrounded by people who prevent me doing what I wish.


I do not prevent your doing anything. Have you indeed decided?


Take care of M. Fouquet, until I shall have made up my mind by to-morrow morning.


That shall be done, sire.


And return, when I rise in the morning, for further orders; and now leave me to myself.


You do not even want M. Colbert, then?


No, no one, no one here! Leave me. Miserable wretch that he is! not only does he squander my finances, but with his ill-gotten plunder he corrupts secretaries, friends, generals, artists, and all, and tries to rob me of the one to whom I am most attached. This is the reason that perfidious girl so boldly took his part! Gratitude! and who can tell whether it was not a stronger feeling--love itself? A satyr! A man who has never found opposition or resistance in any one, who lavishes his gold and jewels in every direction, and who retains his staff of painters in order to take the portraits of his mistresses in the costume of goddesses. He pollutes and profanes everything that belongs to me! He destroys 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, but he shall forthwith fall! I hate him--I hate him--I hate him! To-morrow! to-morrow! oh, happy day! when the sun rises, no other rival shall that brilliant king of space possess but me. That man shall fall so low that when people look at the abject ruin my anger shall have wrought, they will be forced to confess at last and at least that I am indeed greater than he.


I am under the influence of some atrocious dream. It is time to awaken from it. Come! let me wake. It is nothing but a dream, after all. Come, come! wake up,


What is this, monsieur, and what is the meaning of this jest?


It is no jest,


Do you belong to M. Fouquet?


It matters very little to whom we belong, we are your masters now, that is sufficient.


If this is a comedy, you will tell M. Fouquet that I find it unseemly and improper, and that I command it should cease. Well! you do not answer!


We do not answer you, my good monsieur, because there is nothing to say.


At least, tell me what you want,


You will know by and by,


In the meantime tell me where I am.


Look.


Oh--oh!--a dungeon,


No, a subterranean passage. Which leads--? Will you be good enough to follow us?


I shall not stir from hence!


If you are obstinate, my dear young friend. I will lift you up in my arms, and roll you up in your own cloak, and if you should happen to be stifled, why--so much the worse for you.


It seems I have fallen into the hands of a couple of assassins. Move on, then.


Another blow, what do you intend to do with the king of France?


Try to forget that word,


You deserve to be broken on the wheel for the words that you have just made use of, but the king is too kind-hearted.


But tell me, at least, where we are going,


Come. Get in,


By the king’s order,


Go and wake the governor,


What is the matter now? and whom have you brought me there?


And fire at once if he speaks!


Very good,


Monsieur d’Herblay!


Hush! Let us go into your room.


Good heavens! what brings you here at this hour?


A mistake, my dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux. It appears that you were quite right the other day.


What about?


About the order of release, my dear friend.


Yes, for Marchiali.


Very good! we both thought that it was for Marchiali?


Certainly; you will recollect, however, that I would not credit it, but that you compelled me to believe it.


Oh! Baisemeaux, my good fellow, what a word to make use of!--strongly recommended, that was all.


Strongly recommended, yes; strongly recommended to give him up to you; and that you carried him off with you in your carriage.


Well, my dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux, it was a mistake; it was discovered at the ministry, so that I now bring you an order from the king to set at liberty Seldon,--that poor Seldon fellow, you know.


Seldon! are you sure this time?


Well, read it yourself,


Why, this order is the very same that has already passed through my hands.


Indeed?


It is the very one I assured you I saw the other evening. Parbleu! I recognize it by the blot of ink.


I do not know whether it is that; but all I know is, that I bring it for you.


But then, what about the other?


What other?


Marchiali.


I have got him here with me.


But that is not enough for me. I require a new order to take him back again.


Don’t talk such nonsense, my dear Baisemeaux; you talk like a child! Where is the order you received respecting Marchiali?


I am a lost man!


Far from it, my good fellow, since I have brought Marchiali back to you, and all accordingly is just the same as if he had never left.


Ah!


Plain enough, you see; and you will go and shut him up immediately.


I should think so, indeed.


And you will hand over this Seldon to me, whose liberation is authorized by this order. Do you understand?


I--I--


You do understand, I see. Very good.


But why, at all events, after having taken Marchiali away from me, do you bring him back again?


For a friend such as you are, for so devoted a servant, I have no secrets; you know the resemblance between that unfortunate fellow, and--


And the king?--yes!


Very good; the first use that Marchiali made of his liberty was to persist--Can you guess what?


How is it likely I should guess?


To persist in saying that he was king of France; to dress himself up in clothes like those of the king; and then pretend to assume that he was the king himself.


Gracious heavens!


That is the reason why I have brought him back again, my dear friend. He is mad and lets every one see how mad he is.


What is to be done, then?


That is very simple; let no one hold any communication with him. You understand that when his peculiar style of madness came to the king’s ears, the king, who had pitied his terrible affliction, and saw that all his kindness had been repaid by black ingratitude, became perfectly furious; so that, now--and remember this very distinctly, dear Monsieur de Baisemeaux, for it concerns you most closely--so that there is now, I repeat, sentence of death pronounced against all those who may allow him to communicate with any one else but me or the king himself. You understand, Baisemeaux, sentence of death!


You need not ask me whether I understand.


And now, let us go down, and conduct this poor devil back to his dungeon again, unless you prefer he should come up here.


What would be the good of that?


It would be better, perhaps, to enter his name in the prison-book at once!


Of course, certainly; not a doubt of it.


In that case, have him up.


Ah! is that you, miserable wretch? Very good, very good.


It is quite true, that he bears a striking resemblance to the king; but less so than you said.


So that, you would not have been deceived by the substitution of the one for the other?


What a question!


You are a most valuable fellow, Baisemeaux, and now, set Seldon free.


Oh, yes. I was going to forget that. I will go and give orders at once.


Bah! to-morrow will be time enough.


To-morrow!--oh, no. This very minute.


Well; go off to your affairs, I will go away to mine. But it is quite understood, is it not?


What ‘is quite understood’?


That no one is to enter the prisoner’s cell, expect with an order from the king; an order which I will myself bring.


Quite so. Adieu, monseigneur.


Now, Porthos, my good fellow, back again to Vaux, and as fast as possible. A man is light and easy enough, when he has faithfully served his king; and, in serving him, saved his country. The horses will be as light as if our tissues were constructed of the wind of heaven. So let us be off.


Is this what is termed eternity--hell? How can I have died? The bed might have been let down by some artificial means? But no! I do not remember to have felt a bruise, nor any shock either. Would they not rather have poisoned me at my meals, or with the fumes of wax, as they did my ancestress, Jeanne d’Albret? I have seen my father lying dead upon his funeral couch, in his regal robes. That pale face, so calm and worn; those hands, once so skillful, lying nerveless by his side; those limbs stiffened by the icy grasp of death; nothing there betokened a sleep that was disturbed by dreams. And yet, how numerous were the dreams which Heaven might have sent that royal corpse--him whom so many others had preceded, hurried away by him into eternal death! No, that king was still the king: he was enthroned still upon that funeral couch, as upon a velvet armchair; he had not abdicated one title of his majesty. God, who had not punished him, cannot, will not punish me, who have done nothing.


A prisoner! I--I, a prisoner! There are no bells in the Bastile, and it is in the Bastile I am imprisoned. In what way can I have been made a prisoner? It must have been owing to a conspiracy of M. Fouquet. I have been drawn to Vaux, as to a snare. M. Fouquet cannot be acting alone in this affair. His agent--That voice that I but just now heard was M. d’Herblay’s; I recognized it. Colbert was right, then. But what is Fouquet’s object? To reign in my place and stead?--Impossible. Yet who knows! Perhaps my brother, the Duc d’Orleans, is doing that which my uncle wished to do during the whole of his life against my father. But the queen?--My mother, too? And La Vallière? Oh! La Vallière, she will have been abandoned to Madame. Dear, dear girl! Yes, it is--it must be so. They have shut her up as they have me. We are separated forever! There is a governor in this place. I will speak to him, I will summon him to me.


Are you mad?


What is the matter with you this morning?


This morning! Monsieur, are you the governor of the Bastile?


My good fellow, your head is out of sorts,


but that is no reason why you should make such a terrible disturbance. Be quiet; mordioux!


Are you the governor?


A moment will come when the food which is given to the prisoners will be brought to me. I shall then see some one, I shall speak to him, and get an answer.


Heaven is right. Heaven acts wisely. It would be cowardly to pray to Heaven for that which I have so often refused my own fellow-creatures.


Ah! you have broken your chair. I said you had done so! Why, you have gone quite mad.


Monsieur, be careful what you say; it will be a very serious affair for you.


What do you say?


Desire the governor to come to me,


Come, my boy, 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 offense 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,


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 then, really, 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, accordingly, when the prisoner has gone mad, and might bite and make a terrible disturbance in the Bastile; why, in such a 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 have him put out of his misery.


Well. 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 Marechal d’Ancre. But the thing is, how best 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 pass from the height of favor 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 Ahasuerus, he is transferred to the gallows of Haman; in other words, of Enguerrand de Marigny? It almost seems, 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 secret, 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 but a small degree, what my scruples counsel me to undertake upon a great scale now. No, I think that a man of true readiness of wit 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. What can be the reason of M. Fouquet’s disgrace? There seem 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 lost! But shall I put my foot on his neck, I, of all men, when he is falling a prey to the intrigues of a pack 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 mind. If Athos were here, he would do as I have done. Therefore, instead of going, in cold blood, up to M. Fouquet, and arresting him off-hand and shutting him up altogether, I will try and 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.


What! M. d’Artagnan?


At your service,


Come in, my dear M. d’Artagnan.


Thank you.


Have you come to criticise the fete? 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.


Are you going to bed already?


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 fete 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?


My I speak frankly to you?


Most assuredly.


Well, then, I am not.


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.


Ah! ah! 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--


Leave us. 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, or into the park.


No, no.


Why?


The fresh air--


Come, admit at once that you arrest me,


Never!


You intend to look after me, then?


Yes, monseigneur, I do, upon my honor.


Upon your honor--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 so, 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 one another at all. Stay a moment; there is a chess-board there; we will have a game, if you have no objections. 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; and I shall be delighted.


I am under surveillance, I see.


I will leave the room if you say any such thing.


You are beyond my comprehension.


Good night, monseigneur,


I will not lie down. Seriously, and since you refuse to treat me as a man, and since you finesse with me, I will try and set you at bay, as a hunter does a wild boar.


Bah!


I shall order my horses, and set off for Paris,


If that be the case, monseigneur, it is very difficult.


You will arrest me, then?


No, but I shall go along with you.


That is quite sufficient, Monsieur d’Artagnan. It was not for nothing you acquired your reputation as a man of intelligence and resource; but with me all this is quite superfluous. Let us come to the point. Do 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! 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 holding any communication?


You are right, monsieur; you have taught me a lesson I ought not to have evoked. A fallen man cannot assert his right to anything, even from those whose fortunes he may have made; for a still stronger 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 asked me anything.


Monsieur, will you--I ask it as a favor--pledge me your word as a man of honor 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 I should contend 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.


To look for M. d’Herblay! to leave me alone!


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, if you have never done so before.


Ah! you have saved me.


It will take a good ten minutes to go from hence to the blue room, and to return?


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, monsieur,


Well! and M. d’Herblay?


Upon my word, monseigneur. M. d’Herblay must be desperately fond of walking out at night, and composing verses by moonlight in the park of Vaux, with some of your poets, in all probability, for he is not in his own room.


What! not in his own room?


Or, indeed, if he is in his own room, he has very good reasons for not answering.


But surely you did not call him in such a manner that he could have heard you?


You can hardly suppose, monseigneur, that having already exceeded my orders, which forbade me leaving you a single moment--you can hardly suppose, I say, that I should have been mad enough to rouse the whole house and allow myself to be seen in the corridor of the bishop of Vannes, in order that M. Colbert might state with positive certainty that I gave you time to burn your papers.


My papers?


Of course; at least that is what I should have done in your place. When any one opens a door for me I always avail myself of it.


Yes, yes, and I thank you, for I have availed myself of it.


And you have done perfectly right. Every man has his own peculiar secrets with which others have nothing to do. But let us return to Aramis, monseigneur.


Well, then, I tell you, you could not have called loud enough, or Aramis would have heard you.


However softly any one may call Aramis, monseigneur, Aramis always hears when he has an interest in hearing. I repeat what I said before--Aramis was not in his own room, or Aramis had certain reasons for not recognizing my voice, of which I am ignorant, and of which you may be even ignorant yourself, notwithstanding your liege-man is His Greatness the Lord Bishop of Vannes. I have seen a good many men arrested in my life. I have seen both M. de Cinq-Mars and M. de Chalais arrested, though I was very young then. I have seen M. de Conde arrested with the princes; I have seen M. de Retz arrested; I have seen M. Broussel arrested. Stay a moment, monseigneur, it is disagreeable to have to say, but the very one of all those whom you most resemble at this moment was that poor fellow Broussel. You were very near doing as he did, putting your dinner napkin in your portfolio, and wiping your mouth with your papers. Mordioux! Monseigneur Fouquet, a man like you ought not to be dejected in this manner. Suppose your friends saw you?


Monsieur d’Artagnan, you do not understand me; it is precisely because my friends are not looking on, that I am as you see me now. I do not live, exist even, isolated from others; I am nothing when left to myself. Understand that throughout my whole life I have passed every moment of my time in making friends, whom I hoped to render my stay and support. In times of prosperity, all these cheerful, happy voices--rendered so through and by my means--formed in my honor a concert of praise and kindly actions. In the least disfavor, these humbler voices accompanied in harmonious accents the murmur of my own heart. Isolation I have never yet known. Poverty (a phantom I have sometimes beheld, clad in rags, awaiting me at the end of my journey through life)--poverty has been the specter with which many of my own friends have trifled for years past, which they poetize and caress, and which has attracted me towards them. Poverty! I accept it, acknowledge it, receive it, as a disinherited sister; for poverty is neither solitude, nor exile, nor imprisonment. Is it likely I shall ever be poor, with such friends as Pelisson, as La Fontaine, as Moliere? with such a mistress as--Oh! if you knew how utterly lonely and desolate I feel at this moment, and how you, who separate me from all I love, seem to resemble the image of solitude, of annihilation--death itself.


But I have already told you, Monsieur Fouquet, that you are woefully exaggerating. The king likes you.


No, no,


M. Colbert hates you.


M. Colbert! What does that matter to me?


He will ruin you.


Ah! I defy him to do that, for I am ruined already. What can be done with such wealth of substance as surrounds us, when a man can no longer cultivate his taste for the magnificent? Do you know what good the greater part of the wealth and the possessions which we rich enjoy, confer upon us? merely to disgust us, by their very splendor even, with everything which does not equal it! Vaux! you will say, and the wonders of Vaux! What of it? What boot these wonders? If I am ruined, how shall I fill with water the urns which my Naiads bear in their arms, or force the air into the lungs of my Tritons? To be rich enough, Monsieur d’Artagnan, a man must be too rich. Oh! I know very well what you think. If Vaux were yours, you would sell it, and would purchase an estate in the country; an estate which should have woods, orchards, and land attached, so that the estate should be made to support its master. With forty millions you might--


Ten millions,


Not a million, my dear captain. No one in France is rich enough to give two millions for Vaux, and to continue to maintain it as I have done; no one could do it, no one would know how.


Well, in any case, a million is not abject misery.


It is not far from it, my dear monsieur. But you do not understand me. No; I will not sell my residence at Vaux; I will give it to you, if you like;


Give it to the king; you will make a better bargain.


The king does not require me to give it to him, he will take it away from me with the most absolute ease and grace, if it pleases him to do so; and that is the very reason I should prefer to see it perish. Do you know, Monsieur d’Artagnan, that if the king did not happen to be under my roof, I would take this candle, go straight to the dome, and set fire to a couple of huge chests of fusees and fireworks which are in reserve there, and would reduce my palace to ashes.


Bah! At all events, you would not be able to burn the gardens, and that is the finest feature of the place.


And yet, what was I saying? Great heavens! burn Vaux! destroy my palace! But Vaux is not mine; these wonderful creations are, it is true, the property, as far as sense of enjoyment goes, of the man who has paid for them; but as far as duration is concerned, they belong to those who created them. Vaux belongs to Lebrun, to Lenotre, to Pelisson, to Levau, to La Fontaine, to Moliere; Vaux belongs to posterity, in fact. You see, Monsieur d’Artagnan, that my very house has ceased to be my own.


That is all well and good, the idea is agreeable enough, and I recognize M. Fouquet himself in it. That idea, indeed, makes me forget that poor fellow Broussel altogether; and I now fail to recognize in you the whining complaints of that old Frondeur. If you are ruined, monsieur, look at the affair manfully, for you too, mordioux! belong to posterity, and have no right to lessen yourself in any way. Stay a moment; look at me, I who seem to exercise in some degree a kind of superiority over you, because I am arresting you; fate, which distributes their different parts to the comedians of this world, accorded me a less agreeable and less advantageous part to fill than yours has been. I am one of those who think that the parts which kings and powerful nobles are called upon to act are infinitely of more worth than the parts of beggars or lackeys. It is far better on the stage--on the stage, I mean, of another theater than the theater of this world--it is far better to wear a fine coat and to talk a fine language, than to walk the boards shod with a pair of old shoes, or to get one’s backbone gently polished by a hearty dressing with a stick. In one word, you have been a prodigal with money, you have ordered and been obeyed--have been steeped to the lips in enjoyment; while I have dragged my tether after me, have been commanded and have obeyed, and have drudged my life away. Well, although I may seem of such trifling importance beside you, monseigneur, I do declare to you, that the recollection of what I have done serves me as a spur, and prevents me from bowing my old head too soon. I shall remain unto the very end a trooper; and when my turn comes, I shall fall perfectly straight, all in a heap, still alive, after having selected my place beforehand. Do as I do, Monsieur Fouquet, you will not find yourself the worse for it; a fall happens only once in a lifetime to men like yourself, and the chief thing is, to take it gracefully when the chance presents itself. There is a Latin proverb--the words have escaped me, but I remember the sense of it very well, for I have thought over it more than once--which says, ‘The end crowns the work!’


An excellent homily,


A soldier’s, monseigneur.


You have a regard for me, in telling me all that.


Perhaps.


Where can M. d’Herblay be? I dare not ask you to send for him.


You would not ask me, because I would not do it, Monsieur Fouquet. People would learn it, and Aramis, who is not mixed up with the affair, might possibly be compromised and included in your disgrace.


I will wait here till daylight,


Yes; that is best.


What shall we do when daylight comes?


I know nothing at all about it, monseigneur.


Monsieur d’Artagnan, will you do me a favor?


Most willingly.


You guard me, I remain; you are acting in the full discharge of your duty, I suppose?


Certainly.


Very good, then; remain as close to me as my shadow if you like; and I infinitely prefer such a shadow to any one else. But, forget that you are Monsieur d’Artagnan, captain of the musketeers; forget that I am Monsieur Fouquet, surintendant of the finances; and let us talk about my affairs.


That is rather a delicate subject.


Indeed?


Yes; but, for your sake, Monsieur Fouquet, I will do what may almost be regarded as an impossibility.


Thank you. What did the king say to you?


Nothing.


Ah! is that the way you talk?


The deuce!


What do you think of my situation?


I do not know.


However, unless you have some ill feeling against me--


Your position is a difficult one.


In what respect?


Because you are under your own roof.


However difficult it may be, I understand it very well.


Do you suppose that, with any one else but yourself, I should have shown so much frankness?


What! so much frankness, do you say? you, who refuse to tell me the slightest thing?


At all events, then, so much ceremony and consideration.


Ah! I have nothing to say in that respect.


One moment, monseigneur: let me tell you how I should have behaved towards any one but yourself. It might be that I happened to arrive at your door just as your guests or your friends had left you--or, if they had not gone yet, I should wait until they were leaving, and should then catch them one after the other, like rabbits; I should lock them up quietly enough, I should steal softly along the carpet of your corridor, and with one hand upon you, before you suspected the slightest thing amiss, I should keep you safely until my master’s breakfast in the morning. In this way, I should just the same have avoided all publicity, all disturbance, all opposition; but there would also have been no warning for M. Fouquet, no consideration for his feelings, none of those delicate concessions which are shown by persons who are essentially courteous in their natures, whenever the decisive moment may arrive. Are you satisfied with the plan?


It makes me shudder.


I thought you would not like it. It would have been very disagreeable to have made my appearance to-morrow, without any preparation, and to have asked you to deliver up your sword.


Oh! monsieur, I should have died of shame and anger.


Your gratitude is too eloquently expressed. I have not done enough to deserve it, I assure you.


Most certainly, monsieur, you will never get me to believe that.


Well, then, monseigneur, if you are satisfied with what I have done, and have somewhat recovered from the shock which I prepared you for as much as I possibly could, let us allow the few hours that remain to pass away undisturbed. You are harassed, and should arrange your thoughts; I beg you, therefore, go to sleep, or pretend to go to sleep, either on your bed, or in your bed; I will sleep in this armchair; and when I fall asleep, my rest is so sound that a cannon would not wake me.


I expect, however,


Monsieur d’Artagnan,


you are certainly the most witty and the most courteous man I ever met with; and you will leave me only one regret, that of having made your acquaintance so late.


I am face to face with my destiny. Is it likely to be more terrifying than my captivity has been sad and gloomy? Though I am compelled to follow out, at every moment, the sovereign power and authority I have usurped, shall I cease to listen to the scruples of my heart? Yes! the king has lain on this bed; it is indeed his head that has left its impression on this pillow; his bitter tears that have stained this handkerchief: and yet, I hesitate to throw myself on the bed, or to press in my hand the handkerchief which is embroidered with my brother’s arms. Away with such weakness; let me imitate M. d’Herblay, who asserts that a man’s action should be always one degree above his thoughts; let me imitate M. d’Herblay, whose thoughts are of and for himself alone, who regards himself as a man of honor, so long as he injures or betrays his enemies only. I, I alone, should have occupied this bed, if Louis XIV. had not, owing to my mother’s criminal abandonment, stood in my way; and this handkerchief, embroidered with the arms of France, would in right and justice belong to me alone, if, as M. d’Herblay observes, I had been left my royal cradle. Philippe, son of France, take your place on that bed; Philippe, sole king of France, resume the blazonry that is yours! Philippe, sole heir presumptive to Louis XIII., your father, show yourself without pity or mercy for the usurper who, at this moment, has not even to suffer the agony of the remorse of all that you have had to submit to.


Well, M. d’Herblay?


Well, sire, all is accomplished.


How?


Exactly as we expected.


Did he resist?


Terribly! tears and entreaties.


And then?


A perfect stupor.


But at last?


Oh! at last, a complete victory, and absolute silence.


Did the governor of the Bastile suspect anything?


Nothing.


The resemblance, however--


Was the cause of the success.


But the prisoner cannot fail to explain himself. Think well of that. I have myself been able to do as much as that, on former occasion.


I have already provided for every chance. In a few days, sooner if necessary, we will take the captive out of his prison, and will send him out of the country, to a place of exile so remote--


People can return from their exile, Monsieur d’Herblay.


To a place of exile so distant, I was going to say, that human strength and the duration of human life would not be enough for his return.


And M. du Vallon?


He will be presented to you to-day, and confidentially will congratulate you on the danger which that conspirator has made you run.


What is to be done with him?


With M. du Vallon?


Yes; confer a dukedom on him, I suppose.


A dukedom,


Why do you laugh, Monsieur d’Herblay?


I laugh at the extreme caution of your idea.


Cautious, why so?


Your majesty is doubtless afraid that poor Porthos may possible become a troublesome witness, and you wish to get rid of him.


What! in making him a duke?


Certainly; you would assuredly kill him, for he would die from joy, and the secret would die with him.


Good heavens!


Yes,


What is that?


The dawn, sire.


Well?


Well, before you retired to bed last night, you probably decided to do something this morning at break of day.


Yes, I told my captain of the musketeers,


that I should expect him.


If you told him that, he will certainly be here, for he is a most punctual man.


I hear a step in the vestibule.


It must be he.


Come, let us begin the attack,


Be cautious for Heaven’s sake. To begin the attack, and with D’Artagnan, would be madness. D’Artagnan knows nothing, he has seen nothing; he is a hundred miles from suspecting our mystery in the slightest degree, but if he comes into this room the first this morning, he will be sure to detect something of what has taken place, and which he would imagine it his business to occupy himself about. Before we allow D’Artagnan to penetrate into this room, we must air the room thoroughly, or introduce so many people into it, that the keenest scent in the whole kingdom may be deceived by the traces of twenty different persons.


But how can I send him away, since I have given him a rendezvous?


I will take care of that,


and in order to begin, I am going to strike a blow which will completely stupefy our man.


He, too, is striking a blow, for I hear him at the door,


Are you going out?


Yes, monseigneur. And you?


I shall remain.


You pledge your word?


Certainly.


Very good. Besides, my only reason for going out is to try and get that reply,--you know what I mean?


That sentence, you mean--


Stay, I have something of the old Roman in me. This morning, when I got up, I remarked that my sword had got caught in one of the aiguillettes, and that my shoulder-belt had slipped quite off. That is an infallible sign.


Of prosperity?


Yes, be sure of it; for every time that that confounded belt of mine stuck fast to my back, it always signified a punishment from M. de Treville, or a refusal of money by M. de Mazarin. Every time my sword hung fast to my shoulder-belt, it always predicted some disagreeable commission or another for me to execute, and I have had showers of them all my life through. Every time, too, my sword danced about in its sheath, a duel, fortunate in its result, was sure to follow: whenever it dangled about the calves of my legs, it signified a slight wound; every time it fell completely out of the scabbard, I was booked, and made up my mind that I should have to remain on the field of battle, with two or three months under surgical bandages into the bargain.


I did not know your sword kept you so well informed,


Is your sword bewitched, or under the influence of some imperial charm?


Why, you must know that my sword may almost be regarded as part of my own body. I have heard that certain men seem to have warnings given them by feeling something the matter with their legs, or a throbbing of their temples. With me, it is my sword that warns me. Well, it told me of nothing this morning. But, stay a moment--look here, it has just fallen of its own accord into the last hole of the belt. Do you know what that is a warning of?


No.


Well, that tells me of an arrest that will have to be made this very day.


Well,


if there is nothing disagreeable predicted to you by your sword, I am to conclude that it is not disagreeable for you to arrest me.


You! arrest you!


Of course. The warning--


Does not concern you, since you have been arrested ever since yesterday. It is not you I shall have to arrest, be assured of that. That is the reason why I am delighted, and also the reason why I said that my day will be a happy one.


One last mark of kindness.


What is it, monseigneur?


M. d’Herblay; let me see Monsieur d’Herblay.


I am going to try and get him to come to you.


Aramis!


Good morning, dear D’Artagnan,


You here!


His majesty desires you to report that he is still sleeping, after having been greatly fatigued during the whole night.


Ah!


Moreover, you will be good enough, monsieur le capitaine des mousquetaires, to allow those only to pass into the king’s room this morning who have special permission. His majesty does not wish to be disturbed just yet.


But, but, monsieur l’eveque, his majesty gave me a rendezvous for this morning.


Later, later,


And then, as an answer to what you were coming to ask the king, my dear D’Artagnan, here is an order of his majesty, which you will be good enough to attend to forthwith, for it concerns M. Fouquet.


To be set at liberty! Ah!


I am going with you,


Where to?


To M. Fouquet; I wish to be a witness of his delight.


Ah! Aramis, how you puzzled me just now!


But you understand now, I suppose?


Of course I understand. No, no, I do not understand yet. But it is all the same, for here is the order for it. I will lead the way, monseigneur,


Well, captain, so you have brought M. d’Herblay to me.


And something better still, monseigneur.


What is that?


Liberty.


I am free!


Yes; by the king’s order. Oh! yes, you can thank M. l’eveque de Vannes, for it is indeed to him that you owe the change that has taken place in the king.


Oh!


But you, you, who have become M. Fouquet’s protector and patron, can you not do something for me?


Anything in the wide world you like, my friend,


One thing only, then, and I shall be perfectly satisfied. How on earth did you manage to become the favorite of the king, you who have never spoken to him more than twice in your life?


From a friend such as you are. I cannot conceal anything.


Ah! very good, tell me, then.


Very well. You think that I have seen the king only twice, whilst the fact is I have seen him more than a hundred times; only we have kept it very secret, that is all. Monseigneur, the king desires me to inform you that he is more than ever your friend, and that your beautiful fete, so generously offered by you on his behalf, has touched him to the very heart.


You will not forget, my friend, the king’s order respecting those whom he intends to receive this morning on rising.


My dear D’Herblay, I think it now high time you should explain all that has passed, for, in plain and honest truth, I do not understand anything.


We will explain all that to you. Where shall I begin?


With this first of all. Why does the king set me at liberty?


You ought rather to ask me what his reason was for having you arrested.


Since my arrest, I have had time to think over it, and my idea is that it arises out of some slight feeling of jealousy. My fete put M. Colbert out of temper, and M. Colbert discovered some cause of complaint against me; Belle-Isle, for instance.


No; there is no question at all just now of Belle-Isle.


What is it, then?


Do you remember those receipts for thirteen millions which M. de Mazarin contrived to steal from you?


Yes, of course!


Well, you are pronounced a public robber.


Good heavens!


Oh! that is not all. Do you also remember that letter you wrote to La Vallière?


Alas! yes.


And that proclaims you a traitor and a suborner.


Why should he have pardoned me, then?


We have not yet arrived at that part of our argument. I wish you to be quite convinced of the fact itself. Observe this well: the king knows you to be guilty of an appropriation of public funds. Oh! of course I know that you have done nothing of the kind; but, at all events, the king has seen the receipts, and he can do no other than believe you are incriminated.


I beg your pardon, I do not see--


You will see presently, though. The king, moreover, having read your love-letter to La Vallière, and the offers you there made her, cannot retain any doubt of your intentions with regard to that young lady; you will admit that, I suppose?


Certainly. Pray conclude.


In the fewest words. The king, we may henceforth assume, is your powerful, implacable, and eternal enemy.


Agreed. But am I, then, so powerful, that he has not dared to sacrifice me, notwithstanding his hatred, with all the means which my weakness, or my misfortunes, may have given him as a hold upon me?


It is clear, beyond all doubt, that the king has quarreled with you--irreconcilably.


But, since he has absolved me--


Do you believe it likely?


Without believing in his sincerity, I believe it in the accomplished fact. But why, then, should Louis XIV. have commissioned you to tell me what you have just stated?


The king charged me with no message for you.


With nothing! But, that order--


Oh! yes. You are quite right. There is an order, certainly;


You are concealing something from me, I see. What is it? Does the king exile me?


Do not act as if you were playing at the game children play at when they have to try and guess where a thing has been hidden, and are informed, by a bell being rung, when they are approaching near to it, or going away from it.


Speak, then.


Guess.


You alarm me.


Bah! that is because you have not guessed, then.


What did the king say to you? In the name of our friendship, do not deceive me.


The king has not said one word to me.


You are killing me with impatience, D’Herblay. Am I still superintendent?


As long as you like.


But what extraordinary empire have you so suddenly acquired over his majesty’s mind?


Ah! that’s the point.


He does your bidding?


I believe so.


It is hardly credible.


So any one would say.


D’Herblay, by our alliance, by our friendship, by everything you hold dearest in the world, speak openly, I implore you. By what means have you succeeded in overcoming Louis XIV.’s prejudices, for he did not like you, I am certain.


The king will like me now,


You have something particular, then, between you?


Yes.


A secret, perhaps?


A secret.


A secret of such a nature as to change his majesty’s interests?


You are, indeed, a man of superior intelligence, monseigneur, and have made a particularly accurate guess. I have, in fact, discovered a secret, of a nature to change the interests of the king of France.


Ah!


And you shall judge of it yourself, and you shall tell me if I am mistaken with regard to the importance of this secret.


I am listening, since you are good enough to unbosom yourself to me; only do not forget that I have asked you about nothing which it may be indiscreet in you to communicate. Do not speak! there is still time enough.


Do you remember, the birth of Louis XIV.?


As if it were yesterday.


Have you ever heard anything particular respecting his birth?


Nothing; except that the king was not really the son of Louis XIII.


That does not matter to us, or the kingdom either; he is the son of his father, says the French law, whose father is recognized by law.


True; but it is a grave matter, when the quality of races is called into question.


A merely secondary question, after all. So that, in fact, you have never learned or heard anything in particular?


Nothing.


That is where my secret begins. The queen, you must know, instead of being delivered of a son, was delivered of twins.


And the second is dead?


You will see. These twins seemed likely to be regarded as the pride of their mother, and the hope of France; but the weak nature of the king, his superstitious feelings, made him apprehend a series of conflicts between two children whose rights were equal; so he put out of the way--he suppressed--one of the twins.


Suppressed, do you say?


Have patience. Both the children grew up; the one on the throne, whose minister you are--the other, who is my friend, in gloom and isolation.


Good heavens! What are you saying, Monsieur d’Herblay? And what is this poor prince doing?


Ask me, rather, what has he done.


Yes, yes.


He was brought up in the country, and then thrown into a fortress which goes by the name of the Bastile.


Is it possible?


The one was the most fortunate of men: the other the most unhappy and miserable of all living beings.


Does his mother not know this?


Anne of Austria knows it all.


And the king?


Knows absolutely nothing.


So much the better. I beg your pardon; I interrupted you,


I was saying, that this poor prince was the unhappiest of human beings, when Heaven, whose thoughts are over all His creatures, undertook to come to his assistance.


Oh! in what way? Tell me.


You will see. The reigning king--I say the reigning king--you can guess very well why?


No. Why?


Because both of them, being legitimate princes, ought to have been kings. Is not that your opinion?


It is, certainly.


Unreservedly?


Most unreservedly; twins are one person in two bodies.


I am pleased that a legist of your learning and authority should have pronounced such an opinion. It is agreed, then, that each of them possessed equal rights, is it not?


Incontestably! but, gracious heavens, what an extraordinary circumstance!


We are not at the end of it yet.--Patience.


Oh! I shall find ‘patience’ enough.


Heaven wished to raise up for that oppressed child an avenger, or a supporter, or vindicator, if you prefer it. It happened that the reigning king, the usurper--you are quite of my opinion, I believe, that it is an act of usurpation quietly to enjoy, and selfishly to assume the right over, an inheritance to which a man has only half a right?


Yes, usurpation is the word.


In that case, I continue. It was Heaven’s will that the usurper should possess, in the person of his first minister, a man of great talent, of large and generous nature.


Well, well. I understand you; you have relied upon me to repair the wrong which has been done to this unhappy brother of Louis XIV. You have thought well; I will help you. I thank you, D’Herblay, I thank you.


Oh, no, it is not that at all; you have not allowed me to finish,


I will not say another word, then.


M. Fouquet, I was observing, the minister of the reigning sovereign, was suddenly taken into the greatest aversion, and menaced with the ruin of his fortune, loss of liberty, loss of life even, by intrigue and personal hatred, to which the king gave too readily an attentive ear. But Heaven permits (still, however, out of consideration for the unhappy prince who had been sacrificed) that M. Fouquet should in his turn have a devoted friend who knew this state secret, and felt that he possessed strength and courage enough to divulge this secret, after having had the strength to carry it locked up in his own heart for twenty years.


Go no farther. I understand you, and can guess everything now. You went to see the king when the intelligence of my arrest reached you; you implored him, he refused to listen to you; then you threatened him with that secret, threatened to reveal it, and Louis XIV., alarmed at the risk of its betrayal, granted to the terror of your indiscretion what he refused to your generous intercession. I understand, I understand; you have the king in your power; I understand.


You understand nothing--as yet, and again you interrupt me. Then, too, allow me to observe that you pay no attention to logical reasoning, and seem to forget what you ought most to remember.


What do you mean?


You know upon what I laid the greatest stress at the beginning of our conversation?


Yes, his majesty’s hate, invincible hate for me; yes, but what feeling of hate could resist the threat of such a revelation?


Such a revelation, do you say? that is the very point where your logic fails you. What! do you suppose that if I had made such a revelation to the king, I should have been alive now?


It is not ten minutes ago that you were with the king.


That may be. He might not have had the time to get me killed outright, but he would have had the time to get me gagged and thrown in a dungeon. Come, come, show a little consistency in your reasoning, mordieu! And then, should I be the man I really am, should I be the true friend you believe me, if I were to expose you, whom the king already hates so bitterly, to a feeling more than ever to be dreaded in that young man? To have robbed him, is nothing; to have addressed the woman he loves, is not much; but to hold in your keeping both his crown and his honor, why, he would pluck out your heart with his own hands.


You have not allowed him to penetrate your secret, then?


I would sooner, far sooner, have swallowed at one draught all the poisons that Mithridates drank in twenty years, in order to try and avoid death, than have betrayed my secret to the king.


What have you done, then?


Ah! now we are coming to the point, monseigneur. I think I shall not fail to excite in you a little interest. You are listening, I hope.


How can you ask me if I am listening? Go on.


I forgot to tell you. I forgot to mention a most remarkable circumstance respecting these twins, namely, that God had formed them so startlingly, so miraculously, like each other, that it would be utterly impossible to distinguish the one from the other. Their own mother would not be able to distinguish them.


Is it possible?


The same noble character in their features, the same carriage, the same stature, the same voice.


But their thoughts? degree of intelligence? their knowledge of human life?


There is inequality there, I admit, monseigneur. Yes; for the prisoner of the Bastile is, most incontestably, superior in every way to his brother; and if, from his prison, this unhappy victim were to pass to the throne, France would not, from the earliest period of its history, perhaps, have had a master more powerful in genius and nobility of character. There is a further inequality, an inequality which concerns yourself, monseigneur, between the twins, both sons of Louis XIII., namely, the last comer does not know M. Colbert.


I understand you, you are proposing a conspiracy to me?


Something like it.


One of those attempts which, as you said at the beginning of this conversation, alters the fate of empires?


And of superintendents, too; yes, monseigneur.


In a word, you propose that I should agree to the substitution of the son of Louis XIII., who is now a prisoner in the Bastile, for the son of Louis XIII., who is at this moment asleep in the Chamber of Morpheus?


Exactly,


Have you thought that we must assemble the nobility, the clergy, and the third estate of the realm; that we shall have to depose the reigning sovereign, to disturb by so frightful a scandal the tomb of their dead father, to sacrifice the life, the honor of a woman, Anne of Austria, the life and peace of mind and heart of another woman, Maria Theresa; and suppose that it were all done, if we were to succeed in doing it--


I do not understand you. There is not a single syllable of sense in all you have just said.


What! a man like you refuse to view the practical bearing of the case! Do you confine yourself to the childish delight of a political illusion, and neglect the chances of its being carried into execution; in other words, the reality itself, is it possible?


My friend, what does Heaven do in order to substitute one king for another?


Heaven! Heaven gives directions to its agent, who seizes upon the doomed victim, hurries him away, and seats the triumphant rival on the empty throne. But you forget that this agent is called death. Oh! Monsieur d’Herblay, in Heaven’s name, tell me if you have had the idea--


There is no question of that, monseigneur; you are going beyond the object in view. Who spoke of Louis XIV.’s death? who spoke of adopting the example which Heaven sets in following out the strict execution of its decrees? No, I wish you to understand that Heaven effects its purposes without confusion or disturbance, without exciting comment or remark, without difficulty or exertion; and that men, inspired by Heaven, succeed like Heaven itself, in all their undertakings, in all they attempt, in all they do.


What do you mean?


I mean, my friend, that if there has been any confusion, scandal, and even effort in the substitution of the prisoner for the king, I defy you to prove it.


What!


Go to the king’s apartment, and you who know the mystery, I defy even you to perceive that the prisoner of the Bastile is lying in his brother’s bed.


But the king,


What king? the one who hates you, or the one who likes you?


The king--of--yesterday.


The king of yesterday! be quite easy on that score; he has gone to take the place in the Bastile which his victim occupied for so many years.


Great God! And who took him there?


I.


You?


Yes, and in the simplest way. I carried him away last night. While he was descending into midnight, the other was ascending into day. I do not think there has been any disturbance whatever. A flash of lightning without thunder awakens nobody.


You did that?


Cleverly enough, too; what do you think of it?


You dethroned the king? imprisoned him, too?


Yes, that has been done.


And such an action was committed here, at Vaux?


Yes, here, at Vaux, in the Chamber of Morpheus. It would almost seem that it had been built in anticipation of such an act.


And at what time did it occur?


Last night, between twelve and one o’clock.


At Vaux; under my roof!


I believe so! for it is still your house, and it is likely to continue so, since M. Colbert cannot rob you of it now.


It was under my roof, then, monsieur, that you committed this crime?


This crime?


This abominable crime! this crime more execrable than an assassination! this crime which dishonors my name forever, and entails upon me the horror of posterity.


You are not in your senses, monsieur; you are speaking too loudly; take care!


I will call out so loudly, that the whole world shall hear me.


Monsieur Fouquet, take care!


You have dishonored me, in committing so foul an act of treason, so heinous a crime upon my guest, upon one who was peacefully reposing beneath my roof. Oh! woe, woe is me!


Woe to the man, rather, who beneath your roof meditated the ruin of your fortune, your life. Do you forget that?


He was my guest, my sovereign.


Have I a man out of his senses to deal with?


You have an honorable man to deal with.


You are mad.


A man who will prevent you consummating your crime.


You are mad, I say.


A man who would sooner, oh! far sooner, die; who would kill you even, rather than allow you to complete his dishonor. Monsieur, I would sooner die here on the spot than survive this terrible disgrace; and if you have any pity left for me, I entreat you to take my life.


Reflect, monseigneur, upon everything we have to expect. As the matter now stands, the king is still alive, and his imprisonment saves your life.


Yes, you may have been acting on my behalf, but I will not, do not, accept your services. But, first of all, I do not wish your ruin. You will leave this house.


I am hospitable towards all who are dwellers beneath my roof; you will not be more fatally lost than he whose ruin you have consummated. You will be so, you will be so, believe me.


I accept the augury, Monsieur d’Herblay; but nothing shall prevent me, nothing shall stop me. You will leave Vaux--you must leave France; I give you four hours to place yourself out of the king’s reach.


Four hours?


Upon the word of Fouquet, no one shall follow you before the expiration of that time. You will therefore have four hours’ advance of those whom the king may wish to dispatch after you.


Four hours!


It is more than you will need to get on board a vessel and flee to Belle-Isle, which I give you as a place of refuge.


Ah!