“But it is not done,” replied Fouquet.
“Oh, do not flatter yourself, Monseigneur; if they have thus lulled your friendship and suspicions—if things have gone so far, you will be able to undo nothing.”
“But I have not given my sanction.”
“M. de Lyonne has ratified for you.”
“I will go to the Louvre.”
“Oh, no, you will not.”
“Would you advise such baseness?” cried Fouquet, “would you advise me to abandon my friends? would you advise me, whilst able to fight, to throw the arms I hold in my hand to the ground?”
“I do not advise you to do anything of the kind, Monseigneur. Are you in a position to quit the post of superintendent at this moment?”
“No.”
“Well, if the king wishes to displace you—”
“He will displace me absent as well as present.”
“Yes, but you will not have insulted him.”
“Yes, but I shall have been base; now I am not willing that my friends should die; and they shall not die!”
“For that it is necessary you should go to the Louvre, is it not?”
“Gourville!”
“Beware! once at the Louvre, you will be forced to defend your friends openly, that is to say, to make a profession of faith; or you will be forced to abandon them irrevocably.”
“Never!”
“Pardon me;—the king will propose the alternative to you, rigorously, or else you will propose it to him yourself.”
“That is true.”
“That is the reason why conflict must be avoided. Let us return to Saint-Mandé, Monseigneur.”
“Gourville, I will not stir from this place, where the crime is to be carried out, where my disgrace is to be accomplished; I will not stir, I say, till I have found some means of combating my enemies.”
“Monseigneur,” replied Gourville, “you would excite my pity, if I did not know you for one of the great spirits of this world. You possess a hundred and fifty millions, you are equal to the king in position, and a hundred and fifty millions his superior in money. M. Colbert has not even had the wit to have the will of Mazarin accepted. Now, when a man is the richest person in a kingdom, and will take the trouble to spend the money, if things are done he does not like, it is because he is a poor man. Let us return to Saint-Mandé, I say.”
“To consult with Pélisson?—we will.”
“No, Monseigneur, to count your money.”
“So be it,” said Fouquet, with angry eyes;—“yes, yes, to Saint-Mandé!” He got into his carriage again, and Gourville with him. Upon their road, at the end of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, they overtook the humble equipage of Vatel, who was quietly conveying home his vin de Joigny. The black horses, going at a swift pace, alarmed, as they passed, the timid hack of the maître d’hôtel, who, putting his head out at the window, cried, in a fright, “Take care of my bottles!”
57
The Gallery of Saint-Mandé
Fifty persons were waiting for the superintendent. He did not even take the time to place himself in the hands of his valet de chambre for a minute, but from the perron went straight into the premier salon. There his friends were assembled in full chat. The intendant was about to order supper to be served, but, above all, the Abbé Fouquet watched for the return of his brother, and was endeavoring to do the honors of the house in his absence. Upon the arrival of the superintendent, a murmur of joy and affection was heard; Fouquet, full of affability, good humor, and munificence, was beloved by his poets, his artists, and his men of business. His brow, upon which his little court read, as upon that of a god, all the movements of his soul, and thence drew rules of conduct—his brow, upon which affairs of state never impressed a wrinkle, was this evening paler than usual, and more than one friendly eye remarked that pallor. Fouquet placed himself at the head of the table, and presided gayly during supper. He recounted Vatel’s expedition to La Fontaine, he related the history of Menneville and the skinny fowl to Pélisson, in such a manner that all the table heard it. A tempest of laughter and jokes ensued, which was only checked by a serious and even sad gesture from Pélisson. The Abbé Fouquet, not being able to comprehend why his brother should have led the conversation in that direction, listened with all his ears, and sought in the countenance of Gourville, or in that of his brother, an explanation which nothing afforded him. Pélisson took up the matter:—“Did they mention M. Colbert, then?” said he.
“Why not?” replied Fouquet; “if true, as it is said to be, that the king has made him his intendant?” Scarcely had Fouquet uttered these words, with a marked intention, than an explosion broke forth among the guests.
“The miser!” said one.
“The mean, pitiful fellow!” said another.
“The hypocrite!” said a third.
Pélisson exchanged a meaning look with Fouquet. “Messieurs,” said he, “in truth we are abusing a man whom no one knows: it is neither charitable nor reasonable; and here is Monsieur le Surintendant, who, I am sure, agrees with me.”
“Entirely,” replied Fouquet. “Let the fat fowls of M. Colbert alone; our business today is with the faisans truffés of M. Vatel.” This speech stopped the dark cloud which was beginning to throw its shade over the guests. Gourville succeeded so well in animating the poets with the vin de Joigny; the abbé, intelligent as a man who stands in need of his host’s money, so enlivened the financiers and the men of the sword, that, amidst the vapors of this joy and the noise of conversation, inquietudes disappeared completely. The will of Cardinal Mazarin was the text of the conversation at the second course and dessert; then Fouquet ordered bowls of sweetmeats and fountains of liquor to be carried into the salon adjoining the gallery. He led the
