“Let us go,” cried Fouquet; “desire the door to be opened, Gourville.”
“Be cautious,” said the latter, “the Abbé Fouquet is there.”
“Ah! my brother,” replied Fouquet, in a tone of annoyance; “he is there, is he? he knows all the ill news, then, and is rejoiced to bring it to me, as usual. The devil! if my brother is there, my affairs are bad, Gourville; why did you not tell me that sooner: I should have been the more readily convinced.”
“Monseigneur calumniates him,” said Gourville, laughing; “if he is come, it is not with a bad intention.”
“What, do you excuse him?” cried Fouquet; “a fellow without a heart, without ideas; a devourer of wealth.”
“He knows you are rich.”
“And would ruin me.”
“No, but he would have your purse. That is all.”
“Enough! enough! A hundred thousand crowns per month, during two years. Corbleu! it is I that pay, Gourville, and I know my figures.” Gourville laughed in a silent, sly manner. “Yes, yes, you mean to say it is the king pays,” said the superintendent. “Ah, Gourville, that is a vile joke; this is not the place.”
“Monseigneur, do not be angry.”
“Well, then, send away the Abbé Fouquet; I have not a sou.” Gourville made a step towards the door. “He has been a month without seeing me,” continued Fouquet, “why could he not be two months?”
“Because he repents of living in bad company,” said Gourville, “and prefers you to all his bandits.”
“Thanks for the preference! You make a strange advocate, Gourville, today—the advocate of the Abbé Fouquet!”
“Eh! but everything and every man has a good side—their useful side, Monseigneur.”
“The bandits whom the abbé keeps in pay and drink have their useful side, have they? Prove that, if you please.”
“Let the circumstance arise, Monseigneur, and you will be very glad to have these bandits under your hand.”
“You advise me, then, to be reconciled to the abbé?” said Fouquet, ironically.
“I advise you, Monseigneur, not to quarrel with a hundred or a hundred and twenty loose fellows, who, by putting their rapiers end to end, would form a cordon of steel capable of surrounding three thousand men.”
Fouquet darted a searching glance at Gourville, and passing before him—“That is all very well; let M. l’Abbé Fouquet be introduced,” said he to the footman. “You are right, Gourville.”
Two minutes after, the Abbé Fouquet appeared in the doorway, with profound reverence. He was a man of from forty to forty-five years of age, half churchman, half soldier—a spadassin grafted upon an abbé; upon seeing that he had not a sword by his side, you might be sure he had pistols. Fouquet saluted him more as elder brother than as a minister.
“What can I do to serve you, Monsieur l’Abbé?” said he.
“Oh! oh! how coldly you speak to me, brother!”
“I speak like a man who is in a hurry, Monsieur.”
The abbé looked maliciously at Gourville, and anxiously at Fouquet, and said, “I have three hundred pistoles to pay to M. de Bregi this evening. A play debt, a sacred debt.”
“What next?” said Fouquet bravely, for he comprehended that the Abbé Fouquet would not have disturbed him for such a want.
“A thousand to my butcher, who will supply no more meat.”
“Next?”
“Twelve hundred to my tailor,” continued the abbé; “the fellow has made me take back seven suits of my people’s, which compromises my liveries, and my mistress talks of replacing me by a farmer of the revenue, which would be a humiliation for the church.”
“What else?” said Fouquet.
“You will please to remark,” said the abbé, humbly, “that I have asked nothing for myself.”
“That is delicate, Monsieur,” replied Fouquet; “so, as you see, I wait.”
“And I ask nothing, oh! no—it is not for want of need, though, I assure you.”
The minister reflected for a minute. “Twelve hundred pistoles to the tailor; that seems a great deal for clothes,” said he.
“I maintain a hundred men,” said the abbé, proudly; “that is a charge, I believe.”
“Why a hundred men?” said Fouquet. “Are you a Richelieu or a Mazarin, to require a hundred men as a guard? What use do you make of these men?—speak.”
“And do you ask me that?” cried the Abbé Fouquet; “ah! how can you put such a question—why I maintain a hundred men? Ah!”
“Why, yes, I do put that question to you. What have you to do with a hundred men?—answer.”
“Ingrate!” continued the abbé, more and more affected.
“Explain yourself.”
“Why, Monsieur the superintendent, I only want one valet de chambre, for my part, and even if I were alone, could help myself very well; but you, you who have so many enemies—a hundred men are not enough for me to defend you with. A hundred men!—you ought to have ten thousand. I maintain, then, these men in order that in public places, in assemblies, no voice may be raised against you; and without them, Monsieur, you would be loaded with imprecations, you would be torn to pieces, you would not last a week; no, not a week, do you understand?”
“Ah! I did not know you were my champion to such an extent, Monsieur le Abbé.”
“You doubt it!” cried the abbé. “Listen, then, to what happened, no longer ago than yesterday, in the Rue de la Hochette. A man was cheapening a fowl.”
“Well, how could that injure me, abbé?”
“This way. The fowl was not fat. The purchaser refused to give eighteen sous for it, saying that he could not afford eighteen sous for the skin of a fowl from which M. Fouquet had sucked all the fat.”
“Go on.”
“The joke caused a deal of laughter,” continued the abbé; “laughter at your expense, death to the devils! and the canaille were delighted. The joker added, ‘Give me a fowl fed by M. Colbert, if you like! and I will pay all you ask.’ And immediately there was a clapping of hands. A frightful scandal! you understand; a scandal which forces a brother to hide his face.”
Fouquet colored. “And you veiled it?” said the superintendent.
“No, for
