The Man in the Iron Mask Read online

  Chapter XVI. Jealousy.

  The torches we have just referred to, the eager attention every onedisplayed, and the new ovation paid to the king by Fouquet, arrived intime to suspend the effect of a resolution which La Valliere had alreadyconsiderably shaken in Louis XIV.'s heart. He looked at Fouquet with afeeling almost of gratitude for having given La Valliere an opportunityof showing herself so generously disposed, so powerful in the influenceshe exercised over his heart. The moment of the last and greatestdisplay had arrived. Hardly had Fouquet conducted the king towardsthe chateau, when a mass of fire burst from the dome of Vaux, with aprodigious uproar, pouring a flood of dazzling cataracts of rays onevery side, and illumining the remotest corners of the gardens. Thefireworks began. Colbert, at twenty paces from the king, who wassurrounded and _feted_ by the owner of Vaux, seemed, by the obstinatepersistence of his gloomy thoughts, to do his utmost to recall Louis'sattention, which the magnificence of the spectacle was already, in hisopinion, too easily diverting. Suddenly, just as Louis was on the pointof holding it out to Fouquet, he perceived in his hand the paper which,as he believed, La Valliere had dropped at his feet as she hurried away.The still stronger magnet of love drew the young prince's attentiontowards the _souvenir_ of his idol; and, by the brilliant light, whichincreased momentarily in beauty, and drew from the neighboring villagesloud cheers of admiration, the king read the letter, which he supposedwas a loving and tender epistle La Valliere had destined for him. But ashe read it, a death-like pallor stole over his face, and an expressionof deep-seated wrath, illumined by the many-colored fire which gleamedso brightly, soaringly around the scene, produced a terrible spectacle,which every one would have shuddered at, could they only have read intohis heart, now torn by the most stormy and most bitter passions. Therewas no truce for him now, influenced as he was by jealousy and madpassion. From the very moment when the dark truth was revealed tohim, every gentler feeling seemed to disappear; pity, kindness ofconsideration, the religion of hospitality, all were forgotten. Inthe bitter pang which wrung his heart, he, still too weak to hide hissufferings, was almost on the point of uttering a cry of alarm, andcalling his guards to gather round him. This letter which Colbert hadthrown down at the king's feet, the reader has doubtlessly guessed, wasthe same that had disappeared with the porter Toby at Fontainebleau,after the attempt which Fouquet had made upon La Valliere's heart.Fouquet saw the king's pallor, and was far from guessing the evil;Colbert saw the king's anger, and rejoiced inwardly at the approachof the storm. Fouquet's voice drew the young prince from his wrathfulreverie.

  "What is the matter, sire?" inquired the superintendent, with anexpression of graceful interest.

  Louis made a violent effort over himself, as he replied, "Nothing."

  "I am afraid your majesty is suffering?"

  "I am suffering, and have already told you so, monsieur; but it isnothing."

  And the king, without waiting for the termination of the fireworks,turned towards the chateau. Fouquet accompanied him, and the whole courtfollowed, leaving the remains of the fireworks consuming for their ownamusement. The superintendent endeavored again to question Louis XIV.,but did not succeed in obtaining a reply. He imagined there had beensome misunderstanding between Louis and La Valliere in the park,which had resulted in a slight quarrel; and that the king, who was notordinarily sulky by disposition, but completely absorbed by his passionfor La Valliere, had taken a dislike to every one because his mistresshad shown herself offended with him. This idea was sufficient to consolehim; he had even a friendly and kindly smile for the young king, whenthe latter wished him good night. This, however, was not all the kinghad to submit to; he was obliged to undergo the usual ceremony, which onthat evening was marked by close adherence to the strictest etiquette.The next day was the one fixed for the departure; it was but proper thatthe guests should thank their host, and show him a little attentionin return for the expenditure of his twelve millions. The only remark,approaching to amiability, which the king could find to say to M.Fouquet, as he took leave of him, were in these words, "M. Fouquet,you shall hear from me. Be good enough to desire M. d'Artagnan to comehere."

  But the blood of Louis XIV., who had so profoundly dissimulated hisfeelings, boiled in his veins; and he was perfectly willing to orderM. Fouquet to be put an end to with the same readiness, indeed, as hispredecessor had caused the assassination of le Marechal d'Ancre; and sohe disguised the terrible resolution he had formed beneath one of thoseroyal smiles which, like lightning-flashes, indicated _coups d'etat_.Fouquet took the king's hand and kissed it; Louis shuddered throughouthis whole frame, but allowed M. Fouquet to touch his hand with his lips.Five minutes afterwards, D'Artagnan, to whom the royal order had beencommunicated, entered Louis XIV.'s apartment. Aramis and Philippe werein theirs, still eagerly attentive, and still listening with all theirears. The king did not even give the captain of the musketeers timeto approach his armchair, but ran forward to meet him. "Take care," heexclaimed, "that no one enters here."

  "Very good, sire," replied the captain, whose glance had for a long timepast analyzed the stormy indications on the royal countenance. He gavethe necessary order at the door; but, returning to the king, he said,"Is there something fresh the matter, your majesty?"

  "How many men have you here?" inquired the king, without making anyother reply to the question addressed to him.

  "What for, sire?"

  "How many men have you, I say?" repeated the king, stamping upon theground with his foot.

  "I have the musketeers."

  "Well; and what others?"

  "Twenty guards and thirteen Swiss."

  "How many men will be required to--"

  "To do what, sire?" replied the musketeer, opening his large, calm eyes.

  "To arrest M. Fouquet."

  D'Artagnan fell back a step.

  "To arrest M. Fouquet!" he burst forth.

  "Are you going to tell me that it is impossible?" exclaimed the king, intones of cold, vindictive passion.

  "I never say that anything is impossible," replied D'Artagnan, woundedto the quick.

  "Very well; do it, then."

  D'Artagnan turned on his heel, and made his way towards the door; it wasbut a short distance, and he cleared it in half a dozen paces; when hereached it he suddenly paused, and said, "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 insufficientfor 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 besidesthat?"

  "Oh, I, at least, have certain thoughts and ideas, which, unfortunately,others have not," D'Artagnan replied, impertinently.

  The king, in the tempest of his wrath, hesitated, and drew back in theface of D'Artagnan's frank courage, just as a horse crouches on hishaunches under the strong hand of a bold and experienced rider. "What isyour thought?" he exclaimed.

  "This, sire," replied D'Artagnan: "you cause a man to be arrested whenyou 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 thatthe king was wrong to lose his temper."

  "Wrong to lose his temper!" cried the king, in a loud, passionate voice."Did not my father, my grandfathers, too, before me, lose their temperat times, in Heaven's name?"

  "The king your father and the king your grandfather never lost theirtemper 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 fromany one but M. Colbert; but it happens not to be the truth. The king isat home in every man's house when he has driven its owner out of it."

  The king bit his
lips, but said nothing.

  "Can it be possible?" said D'Artagnan; "here is a man who is positivelyruining himself in order to please you, and you wish to have himarrested! _Mordioux!_ Sire, if my name was Fouquet, and people treatedme in that manner, I would swallow at a single gulp all sorts offireworks and other things, and I would set fire to them, and sendmyself and everybody else in blown-up atoms to the sky. But it is allthe same; it is your wish, and it shall be done."

  "Go," said the king; "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 likedrinking 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 harshnessas you are going to practice makes the man a very martyr! Nay, I am surethat if he has a million of francs left, which I very much doubt, hewould be willing enough to give it in order to have such a terminationas this. But what does that matter? it shall be done at once."

  "Stay," said the king; "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 ofa thousand enthusiastic guests who surround him, and say, 'In the king'sname, I arrest you.' But to go up to him, to turn him first one wayand then another, to drive him up into one of the corners of thechess-board, in such a way that he cannot escape; to take him away fromhis 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 muchsooner. Heaven help me, but I seem to be surrounded by people whoprevent 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 byto-morrow morning."

  "That shall be done, sire."

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

  "You do not even want M. Colbert, then?" said the musketeer, firing hislast shot as he was leaving the room. The king started. With his wholemind fixed on the thought of revenge, he had forgotten the cause andsubstance of the offense.

  "No, no one," he said; "no one here! Leave me."

  D'Artagnan quitted the room. The king closed the door with his ownhands, and began to walk up and down his apartment at a furious pace,like a wounded bull in an arena, trailing from his horn the coloredstreamers and the iron darts. At last he began to take comfort in theexpression of his violent feelings.

  "Miserable wretch that he is! not only does he squander my finances, butwith his ill-gotten plunder he corrupts secretaries, friends, generals,artists, and all, and tries to rob me of the one to whom I am mostattached. This is the reason that perfidious girl so boldly tookhis part! Gratitude! and who can tell whether it was not a strongerfeeling--love itself?" He gave himself up for a moment to the bitterestreflections. "A satyr!" he thought, with that abhorrent hate with whichyoung men regard those more advanced in life, who still think of love."A man who has never found opposition or resistance in any one, wholavishes his gold and jewels in every direction, and who retains hisstaff of painters in order to take the portraits of his mistressesin the costume of goddesses." The king trembled with passion as hecontinued, "He pollutes and profanes everything that belongs to me! Hedestroys everything that is mine. He will be my death at last, Iknow. That man is too much for me; he is my mortal enemy, but heshall forthwith fall! I hate him--I hate him--I hate him!" and as hepronounced these words, he struck the arm of the chair in which he wassitting violently, over and over again, and then rose like one in anepileptic fit. "To-morrow! to-morrow! oh, happy day!" he murmured, "whenthe sun rises, no other rival shall that brilliant king of space possessbut me. That man shall fall so low that when people look at the abjectruin my anger shall have wrought, they will be forced to confess atlast and at least that I am indeed greater than he." The king, who wasincapable of mastering his emotions any longer, knocked over with a blowof his fist a small table placed close to his bedside, and in the verybitterness of anger, almost weeping, and half-suffocated, he threwhimself on his bed, dressed as he was, and bit the sheets in hisextremity of passion, trying to find repose of body at least there. Thebed creaked beneath his weight, and with the exception of a few brokensounds, emerging, or, one might say, exploding, from his overburdenedchest, absolute silence soon reigned in the chamber of Morpheus.