“But it appears to me, Mademoiselle,” Colbert ventured to say, “that I too love the king.”
“Yes, Monseigneur, we both love him, but each in a different manner,” replied La Vallière, with such an accent that the heart of the young king was powerfully affected by it. “I love him so deeply, that the whole world is aware of it; so purely, that the king himself does not doubt my affection. He is my king and my master; I am the least of all his servants. But whoso touches his honor assails my life. Therefore, I repeat, that they dishonor the king who advise him to arrest M. Fouquet under his own roof.”
Colbert hung down his head, for he felt that the king had abandoned him. However, as he bent his head, he murmured, “Mademoiselle, I have only one word to say.”
“Do not say it, then, Monsieur; for I would not listen to it. Besides, what could you have to tell me? That M. Fouquet has been guilty of certain crimes? I believe he has, because the king has said so; and, from the moment the king said, ‘I think so,’ I have no occasion for other lips to say, ‘I affirm it.’ But, were M. Fouquet the vilest of men, I should say aloud, ‘M. Fouquet’s person is sacred to the king because he is the guest of M. Fouquet. Were his house a den of thieves, were Vaux a cave of coiners or robbers, his home is sacred, his palace is inviolable, since his wife is living in it; and that is an asylum which even executioners would not dare to violate.’ ”
La Vallière paused, and was silent. In spite of himself the king could not but admire her; he was overpowered by the passionate energy of her voice; by the nobleness of the cause she advocated. Colbert yielded, overcome by the inequality of the struggle. At last the king breathed again more freely, shook his head, and held out his hand to La Vallière. “Mademoiselle,” he said, gently, “why do you decide against me? Do you know what this wretched fellow will do, if I give him time to breathe again?”
“Is he not a prey which will always be within your grasp?”
“Should he escape, and take to flight?” exclaimed Colbert.
“Well, Monsieur, it will always remain on record, to the king’s eternal honor, that he allowed M. Fouquet to flee; and the more guilty he may have been, the greater will the king’s honor and glory appear, compared with such unnecessary misery and shame.”
Louis kissed La Vallière’s hand, as he knelt before her.
I am lost
, thought Colbert; then suddenly his face brightened up again. Oh! no, no, aha, old fox!—not yet
, he said to himself.
And while the king, protected from observation by the thick covert of an enormous lime, pressed La Vallière to his breast, with all the ardor of ineffable affection, Colbert tranquilly fumbled among the papers in his pocketbook and drew out of it a paper folded in the form of a letter, somewhat yellow, perhaps, but one that must have been most precious, since the intendant smiled as he looked at it; he then bent a look, full of hatred, upon the charming group which the young girl and the king formed together—a group revealed but for a moment, as the light of the approaching torches shone upon it. Louis noticed the light reflected upon La Vallière’s white dress. “Leave me, Louise,” he said, “for someone is coming.”
“Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle, someone is coming,” cried Colbert, to expedite the young girl’s departure.
Louise disappeared rapidly among the trees; and then, as the king, who had been on his knees before the young girl, was rising from his humble posture, Colbert exclaimed, “Ah! Mademoiselle de La Vallière has let something fall.”
“What is it?” inquired the king.
“A paper—a letter—something white; look there, sire.”
The king stooped down immediately and picked up the letter, crumpling it in his hand, as he did so; and at the same moment the torches arrived, inundating the blackness of the scene with a flood of light as bight as day.
223
Jealousy
The torches we have just referred to, the eager attention everyone displayed, and the new ovation paid to the king by Fouquet, arrived in time to suspend the effect of a resolution which La Vallière had already considerably shaken in Louis XIV’s heart. He looked at Fouquet with a feeling almost of gratitude for having given La Vallière an opportunity of showing herself so generously disposed, so powerful in the influence she exercised over his heart. The moment of the last and greatest display had arrived. Hardly had Fouquet conducted the king towards the château, when a mass of fire burst from the dome of Vaux, with a prodigious uproar, pouring a flood of dazzling cataracts of rays on every side, and illumining the remotest corners of the gardens. The fireworks began. Colbert, at twenty paces from the king, who was surrounded and fêted by the owner of Vaux, seemed, by the obstinate persistence of his gloomy thoughts, to do his utmost to recall Louis’s attention, which the magnificence of the spectacle was already, in his opinion, too easily diverting. Suddenly, just as Louis was on the point of holding it out to Fouquet, he perceived in his hand the paper which, as he believed, La Vallière had dropped at his feet as she hurried away. The still stronger magnet of love drew the young prince’s attention towards the souvenir of his idol; and, by the brilliant light, which increased momentarily in beauty, and drew from the neighboring villages loud cheers of admiration, the king read the letter, which he supposed was a loving and tender epistle La Vallière had destined for him. But as he read it, a deathlike pallor stole over his face, and an expression of deep-seated wrath, illumined by the many-colored fire which gleamed so brightly, soaringly around the scene, produced a terrible spectacle, which everyone would
