The Man in the Iron Mask Page 11

  Chapter XI. The Chateau de Vaux-le-Vicomte.

  The chateau of Vaux-le-Vicomte, situated about a league from Melun, hadbeen built by Fouquet in 1655, at a time when there was a scarcityof money in France; Mazarin had taken all that there was, and Fouquetexpended the remainder. However, as certain men have fertile, false, anduseful vices, Fouquet, in scattering broadcast millions of money inthe construction of this palace, had found a means of gathering, as theresult of his generous profusion, three illustrious men together: Levau,the architect of the building; Lenotre, the designer of the gardens;and Lebrun, the decorator of the apartments. If the Chateau de Vauxpossessed a single fault with which it could be reproached, it was itsgrand, pretentious character. It is even at the present day proverbialto calculate the number of acres of roofing, the restoration of whichwould, in our age, be the ruin of fortunes cramped and narrowed as theepoch itself. Vaux-le-Vicomte, when its magnificent gates, supportedby caryatides, have been passed through, has the principal front of themain building opening upon a vast, so-called, court of honor, inclosedby deep ditches, bordered by a magnificent stone balustrade. Nothingcould be more noble in appearance than the central forecourt raised uponthe flight of steps, like a king upon his throne, having around itfour pavilions at the angles, the immense Ionic columns of which rosemajestically to the whole height of the building. The friezes ornamentedwith arabesques, and the pediments which crowned the pilasters,conferred richness and grace on every part of the building, while thedomes which surmounted the whole added proportion and majesty. Thismansion, built by a subject, bore a far greater resemblance to thoseroyal residences which Wolsey fancied he was called upon to construct,in order to present them to his master from the fear of rendering himjealous. But if magnificence and splendor were displayed in any oneparticular part of this palace more than another,--if anything couldbe preferred to the wonderful arrangement of the interior, to thesumptuousness of the gilding, and to the profusion of the paintings andstatues, it would be the park and gardens of Vaux. The _jets d'eau_,which were regarded as wonderful in 1653, are still so, even at thepresent time; the cascades awakened the admiration of kings and princes;and as for the famous grotto, the theme of so many poetical effusions,the residence of that illustrious nymph of Vaux, whom Pelisson madeconverse with La Fontaine, we must be spared the description of allits beauties. We will do as Despreaux did,--we will enter the park, thetrees of which are of eight years' growth only--that is to say, in theirpresent position--and whose summits even yet, as they proudly toweraloft, blushingly unfold their leaves to the earliest rays of the risingsun. Lenotre had hastened the pleasure of the Maecenas of his period;all the nursery-grounds had furnished trees whose growth had beenaccelerated by careful culture and the richest plant-food. Every tree inthe neighborhood which presented a fair appearance of beauty or staturehad been taken up by its roots and transplanted to the park. Fouquetcould well afford to purchase trees to ornament his park, since he hadbought up three villages and their appurtenances (to use a legal word)to increase its extent. M. de Scudery said of this palace, that, for thepurpose of keeping the grounds and gardens well watered, M. Fouquet haddivided a river into a thousand fountains, and gathered the waters of athousand fountains into torrents. This same Monsieur de Scudery said agreat many other things in his "Clelie," about this palace of Valterre,the charms of which he describes most minutely. We should be far wiserto send our curious readers to Vaux to judge for themselves, than torefer them to "Clelie;" and yet there are as many leagues from Paris toVaux, as there are volumes of the "Clelie."

  This magnificent palace had been got ready for the reception of thegreatest reigning sovereign of the time. M. Fouquet's friends hadtransported thither, some their actors and their dresses, others theirtroops of sculptors and artists; not forgetting others with theirready-mended pens,--floods of impromptus were contemplated. Thecascades, somewhat rebellious nymphs though they were, poured forththeir waters brighter and clearer than crystal: they scattered over thebronze triton and nereids their waves of foam, which glistened like firein the rays of the sun. An army of servants were hurrying to and fro insquadrons in the courtyard and corridors; while Fouquet, who hadonly that morning arrived, walked all through the palace with a calm,observant glance, in order to give his last orders, after his intendantshad inspected everything.

  It was, as we have said, the 15th of August. The sun poured down itsburning rays upon the heathen deities of marble and bronze: it raisedthe temperature of the water in the conch shells, and ripened, on thewalls, those magnificent peaches, of which the king, fifty years later,spoke so regretfully, when, at Marly, on an occasion of a scarcity ofthe finer sorts of peaches being complained of, in the beautiful gardensthere--gardens which had cost France double the amount that had beenexpended on Vaux--the _great king_ observed to some one: "You are fartoo young to have eaten any of M. Fouquet's peaches."

  Oh, fame! Oh, blazon of renown! Oh, glory of this earth! That very manwhose judgment was so sound and accurate where merit was concerned--hewho had swept into his coffers the inheritance of Nicholas Fouquet, whohad robbed him of Lenotre and Lebrun, and had sent him to rot for theremainder of his life in one of the state prisons--merely remembered thepeaches of that vanquished, crushed, forgotten enemy! It was to littlepurpose that Fouquet had squandered thirty millions of francs in thefountains of his gardens, in the crucibles of his sculptors, inthe writing-desks of his literary friends, in the portfolios of hispainters; vainly had he fancied that thereby he might be remembered. Apeach--a blushing, rich-flavored fruit, nestling in the trellis workon the garden-wall, hidden beneath its long, green leaves,--this littlevegetable production, that a dormouse would nibble up without a thought,was sufficient to recall to the memory of this great monarch themournful shade of the last surintendant of France.

  With a perfect reliance that Aramis had made arrangements fairly todistribute the vast number of guests throughout the palace, and that hehad not omitted to attend to any of the internal regulations for theircomfort, Fouquet devoted his entire attention to the _ensemble_ alone.In one direction Gourville showed him the preparations which had beenmade for the fireworks; in another, Moliere led him over the theater; atlast, after he had visited the chapel, the _salons_, and the galleries,and was again going downstairs, exhausted with fatigue, Fouquet sawAramis on the staircase. The prelate beckoned to him. The surintendantjoined his friend, and, with him, paused before a large picture scarcelyfinished. Applying himself, heart and soul, to his work, the painterLebrun, covered with perspiration, stained with paint, pale from fatigueand the inspiration of genius, was putting the last finishing toucheswith his rapid brush. It was the portrait of the king, whom they wereexpecting, dressed in the court suit which Percerin had condescended toshow beforehand to the bishop of Vannes. Fouquet placed himself beforethis portrait, which seemed to live, as one might say, in the coolfreshness of its flesh, and in its warmth of color. He gazed upon itlong and fixedly, estimated the prodigious labor that had been bestowedupon it, and, not being able to find any recompense sufficiently greatfor this Herculean effort, he passed his arm round the painter's neckand embraced him. The surintendant, by this action, had utterly ruineda suit of clothes worth a thousand pistoles, but he had satisfied, morethan satisfied, Lebrun. It was a happy moment for the artist; it was anunhappy moment for M. Percerin, who was walking behind Fouquet, and wasengaged in admiring, in Lebrun's painting, the suit that he had made forhis majesty, a perfect _objet d'art_, as he called it, which was not tobe matched except in the wardrobe of the surintendant. His distress andhis exclamations were interrupted by a signal which had been givenfrom the summit of the mansion. In the direction of Melun, in thestill empty, open plain, the sentinels of Vaux had just perceivedthe advancing procession of the king and the queens. His majesty wasentering Melun with his long train of carriages and cavaliers.

  "In an hour--" said Aramis to Fouquet.

  "In an hour!" replied the latter, sighing.

  "And the people who ask one
another what is the good of these royal_fetes!_" continued the bishop of Vannes, laughing, with his falsesmile.

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

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

  "Well, believe me or not, as you like, D'Herblay," said thesurintendant, with a swelling heart, pointing at the _cortege_ of Louis,visible in the horizon, "he certainly loves me but very little, and I donot care much more for him; but I cannot tell you how it is, that sincehe is approaching my house--"

  "Well, what?"

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

  "Dear? yes," said Aramis, playing upon the word, as the Abbe Terray did,at a later period, with Louis XV.

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

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

  "To M. Colbert!" exclaimed Fouquet. "Why so?"

  "Because he would allow you a pension out of the king's privy purse,as soon as he becomes surintendant," said Aramis, preparing to leave assoon as he had dealt this last blow.

  "Where are you going?" returned Fouquet, with a gloomy look.

  "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 tocondemn 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 forthe arrival of the king."

  "We shall see you by and by, I suppose, and shall see your friend DuVallon also?"

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

  And Fouquet, bowing, with a smile, passed on like a commander-in-chiefwho pays the different outposts a visit after the enemy has beensignaled in sight. [2]