“A hundred thousand francs profit!” cried the goldsmith. “Oh, Monseigneur, what generosity!”
“Nay, nay, not so, Monsieur,” said Fouquet, touching him on the shoulder; “there are certain kindnesses which can never be repaid. This profit is only what you have earned; but the interest of your money still remains to be arranged.” And, saying this, he unfastened from his sleeve a diamond button, which the goldsmith himself had often valued at three thousand pistoles. “Take this,” he said to the goldsmith, “in remembrance of me. Farewell; you are an honest man.”
“And you, Monseigneur,” cried the goldsmith, completely overcome, “are the noblest man that ever lived.”
Fouquet let the worthy goldsmith pass out of the room by a secret door, and then went to receive Madame de Bellière, who was already surrounded by all the guests. The marquise was always beautiful, but now her loveliness was more dazzling than ever. “Do you not think, gentlemen,” said Fouquet, “that Madame is more than usually beautiful this evening? And do you happen to know why?”
“Because Madame is really the most beautiful of all women,” said someone present.
“No; but because she is the best. And yet—”
“Yet?” said the marquise, smiling.
“And yet, all the jewels which Madame is wearing this evening are nothing but false stones.” At this remark the marquise blushed most painfully.
“Oh, oh!” exclaimed all the guests, “that can very well be said of one who has the finest diamonds in Paris.”
“Well?” said Fouquet to Pélisson, in a low tone.
“Well, at last I have understood you,” returned the latter; “and you have done exceedingly well.”
“Supper is ready, Monseigneur,” said Vatel, with majestic air and tone.
The crowd of guests hurried, more quickly than is usually the case with ministerial entertainments, towards the banqueting-room, where a magnificent spectacle presented itself. Upon the buffets, upon the side-tables, upon the supper-table itself, in the midst of flowers and light, glittered most dazzlingly the richest and most costly gold and silver plate that could possibly be seen—relics of those ancient magnificent productions the Florentine artists, whom the Medici family patronized, sculptured, chased, and moulded for the purpose of holding flowers, at a time when gold existed still in France. These hidden marvels, which had been buried during the civil wars, timidly reappeared during the intervals of that war of good taste called La Fronde; at a time when noblemen fighting against nobleman killed, but did not pillage each other. All the plate present had Madame de Bellière’s arms engraved upon it. “Look,” cried La Fontaine, “here is a P and a B.”
But the most remarkable object present was the cover which Fouquet had assigned to the marquise. Near her was a pyramid of diamonds, sapphires, emeralds, antique cameos, sardonyx stones, carved by the old Greeks of Asia Minor, with mountings of Mysian gold; curious mosaics of ancient Alexandria, set in silver; massive Egyptian bracelets lay heaped on a large plate of Palissy ware, supported by a tripod of gilt bronze, sculptured by Benvenuto Cellini. The marquise turned pale, as she recognized what she had never expected to see again. A profound silence fell on every one of the restless and excited guests. Fouquet did not even make a sign in dismissal of the richly liveried servants who crowded like bees round the huge buffets and other tables in the room. “Gentlemen,” he said, “all this plate which you behold once belonged to Madame de Bellière, who, having observed one of her friends in great distress, sent all this gold and silver, together with the heap of jewels now before her, to her goldsmith. This noble conduct of a devoted friend can well be understood by such friends as you. Happy indeed is that man who sees himself loved in such a manner. Let us drink to the health of Madame de Bellière.”
A tremendous burst of applause followed his words, and made poor Madame de Bellière sink back dumb and breathless in her seat. “And then,” added Pélisson, who was always affected by a noble action, as he was invariably impressed by beauty, “let us also drink to the health of him who inspired Madame’s noble conduct; for such a man is worthy of being worthily loved.”
It was now the marquise’s turn. She rose, pale and smiling; and as she held out her glass with a faltering hand, and her trembling fingers touched those of Fouquet, her look, full of love, found its mirror in that of her ardent and generous-hearted lover. Begun in this manner, the supper soon became a fête; no one tried to be witty, but no one failed in being so. La Fontaine forgot his Gorgny wine, and allowed Vatel to reconcile him to the wines of the Rhone, and those from the shores of Spain. The Abbé Fouquet became so kind and good-natured, that Gourville said to him, “Take care, Monsieur l’Abbé; if you are so tender, you will be carved and eaten.”
The hours passed away so joyously, that, contrary to his usual custom, the superintendent did not leave the table before the end of the dessert. He smiled upon his friends, delighted as a man is whose heart becomes intoxicated before his head—and, for the first time, looked at the clock. Suddenly a carriage rolled into the courtyard, and, strange to say, it was heard high above the noise of the mirth which prevailed. Fouquet listened attentively, and then turned his eyes
