“My dear friend,” said Fouquet, mournfully, “you are like the teacher of philosophy whom La Fontaine was telling us about the other day; he saw a child drowning, and began to read him a lecture divided into three heads.”
Aramis smiled as he said, “Philosophy—yes; teacher—yes; a drowning child—yes; but a child can be saved—you shall see. But first of all let us talk about business. Did you not some time ago,” he continued, as Fouquet looked at him with a bewildered air, “speak to me about an idea you had of giving a fête at Vaux?”
“Oh!” said Fouquet, “that was when affairs were flourishing.”
“A fête, I believe, to which the king invited himself of his own accord?”
“No, no, my dear prelate; a fête to which M. Colbert advised the king to invite himself.”
“Ah—exactly; as it would be a fête of so costly a character that you would be ruined in giving it.”
“Precisely so. In happier days, as I said just now, I had a kind of pride in showing my enemies how inexhaustible my resources were; I felt it a point of honor to strike them with amazement, by creating millions under circumstances where they imagined nothing but bankruptcies and failures would follow. But, at present, I am arranging my accounts with the state, with the king, with myself; and I must now become a mean, stingy man; I shall be able to prove to the world that I can act or operate with my pence as I used to do with my bags of pistoles, and from tomorrow my equipages shall be sold, my mansions mortgaged, my expenses curtailed.”
“From tomorrow,” interrupted Aramis, quietly, “you will occupy yourself, without the slightest delay, with your fête at Vaux, which must hereafter be spoken of as one of the most magnificent productions of your most prosperous days.”
“Are you mad, Chevalier d’Herblay?”
“I! do you think so?”
“What do you mean, then? Do you not know that a fête at Vaux, one of the very simplest possible character, would cost four or five millions?”
“I do not speak of a fête of the very simplest possible character, my dear superintendent.”
“But, since the fête is to be given to the king,” replied Fouquet, who misunderstood Aramis’s idea, “it cannot be simple.”
“Just so: it ought to be on a scale of the most unbounded magnificence.”
“In that case, I shall have to spend ten or twelve millions.”
“You shall spend twenty, if you require it,” said Aramis, in a perfectly calm voice.
“Where shall I get them?” exclaimed Fouquet.
“That is my affair, Monsieur le Surintendant; and do not be uneasy for a moment about it. The money shall be placed at once at your disposal, the moment you have arranged the plans of your fête.”
“Chevalier! chevalier!” said Fouquet, giddy with amazement, “whither are you hurrying me?”
“Across the gulf into which you were about to fall,” replied the bishop of Vannes. “Take hold of my cloak, and throw fear aside.”
“Why did you not tell me that sooner, Aramis? There was a day when, with one million only, you could have saved me; whilst today—”
“Whilst today I can give you twenty,” said the prelate. “Such is the case, however—the reason is very simple. On the day you speak of, I had not the million which you had need of at my disposal, whilst now I can easily procure the twenty millions we require.”
“May Heaven hear you, and save me!”
Aramis resumed his usual smile, the expression of which was so singular. “Heaven never fails to hear me,” he said.
“I abandon myself to you unreservedly,” Fouquet murmured.
“No, no; I do not understand it in that manner. I am unreservedly devoted to you. Therefore, as you have the clearest, the most delicate, and the most ingenious mind of the two, you shall have entire control over the fête, even to the very smallest details. Only—”
“Only?” said Fouquet, as a man accustomed to understand and appreciate the value of a parenthesis.
“Well, then, leaving the entire invention of the details to you, I shall reserve to myself a general superintendence over the execution.”
“In what way?”
“I mean, that you will make of me, on that day, a majordomo, a sort of inspector-general, or factotum—something between a captain of the guard and manager or steward. I will look after the people, and will keep the keys of the doors. You will give your orders, of course: but will give them to no one but me. They will pass through my lips, to reach those for whom they are intended—you understand?”
“No, I am very far from understanding.”
“But you agree?”
“Of course, of course, my friend.”
“That is all I care about, then. Thanks; and now go and prepare your list of invitations.”
“Whom shall I invite?”
“Everybody you know.”
190
In Which the Author Thinks It Is High Time to Return to the Vicomte de Bragelonne
Our readers will have observed in this story, the adventures of the new and of the past generation being detailed, as it were, side by side. He will have noticed in the former, the reflection of the glory of earlier years, the experience of the bitter things of this world; in the former, also, that peace which takes possession of the heart, and that healing of the scars which were formerly deep and painful wounds. In the latter, the conflicts of love and vanity; bitter disappointments, ineffable delights; life instead of memory. If, therefore, any variety has been presented to the reader in the different episodes of this tale, it is to be attributed to the numerous shades of color which are presented on this double tablet, where two pictures are seen side by side, mingling and harmonizing their severe and pleasing tones. The repose of the emotions of one is found in harmonious contrast
