“Speak, then.”
“Guess.”
“You alarm me.”
“Bah! that is because you have not guessed, then.”
“What did the king say to you? In the name of our friendship, do not deceive me.”
“The king has not said one word to me.”
“You are killing me with impatience, d’Herblay. Am I still superintendent?”
“As long as you like.”
“But what extraordinary empire have you so suddenly acquired over His Majesty’s mind?”
“Ah! that’s the point.”
“He does your bidding?”
“I believe so.”
“It is hardly credible.”
“So anyone would say.”
“D’Herblay, by our alliance, by our friendship, by everything you hold dearest in the world, speak openly, I implore you. By what means have you succeeded in overcoming Louis XIV’s prejudices, for he did not like you, I am certain.”
“The king will like me now,” said Aramis, laying stress upon the last word.
“You have something particular, then, between you?”
“Yes.”
“A secret, perhaps?”
“A secret.”
“A secret of such a nature as to change His Majesty’s interests?”
“You are, indeed, a man of superior intelligence, Monseigneur, and have made a particularly accurate guess. I have, in fact, discovered a secret, of a nature to change the interests of the king of France.”
“Ah!” said Fouquet, with the reserve of a man who does not wish to ask any more questions.
“And you shall judge of it yourself,” pursued Aramis; “and you shall tell me if I am mistaken with regard to the importance of this secret.”
“I am listening, since you are good enough to unbosom yourself to me; only do not forget that I have asked you about nothing which it may be indiscreet in you to communicate.”
Aramis seemed, for a moment, as if he were collecting himself.
“Do not speak!” said Fouquet: “there is still time enough.”
“Do you remember,” said the bishop, casting down his eyes, “the birth of Louis XIV?”
“As if it were yesterday.”
“Have you ever heard anything particular respecting his birth?”
“Nothing; except that the king was not really the son of Louis XIII.”
“That does not matter to us, or the kingdom either; he is the son of his father, says the French law, whose father is recognized by law.”
“True; but it is a grave matter, when the quality of races is called into question.”
“A merely secondary question, after all. So that, in fact, you have never learned or heard anything in particular?”
“Nothing.”
“That is where my secret begins. The queen, you must know, instead of being delivered of a son, was delivered of twins.”
Fouquet looked up suddenly as he replied:
“And the second is dead?”
“You will see. These twins seemed likely to be regarded as the pride of their mother, and the hope of France; but the weak nature of the king, his superstitious feelings, made him apprehend a series of conflicts between two children whose rights were equal; so he put out of the way—he suppressed—one of the twins.”
“Suppressed, do you say?”
“Have patience. Both the children grew up; the one on the throne, whose minister you are—the other, who is my friend, in gloom and isolation.”
“Good heavens! What are you saying, Monsieur d’Herblay? And what is this poor prince doing?”
“Ask me, rather, what has he done.”
“Yes, yes.”
“He was brought up in the country, and then thrown into a fortress which goes by the name of the Bastille.”
“Is it possible?” cried the surintendant, clasping his hands.
“The one was the most fortunate of men: the other the most unhappy and miserable of all living beings.”
“Does his mother not know this?”
“Anne of Austria knows it all.”
“And the king?”
“Knows absolutely nothing.”
“So much the better,” said Fouquet.
This remark seemed to make a great impression on Aramis; he looked at Fouquet with the most anxious expression of countenance.
“I beg your pardon; I interrupted you,” said Fouquet.
“I was saying,” resumed Aramis, “that this poor prince was the unhappiest of human beings, when Heaven, whose thoughts are over all His creatures, undertook to come to his assistance.”
“Oh! in what way? Tell me.”
“You will see. The reigning king—I say the reigning king—you can guess very well why?”
“No. Why?”
“Because both of them, being legitimate princes, ought to have been kings. Is not that your opinion?”
“It is, certainly.”
“Unreservedly?”
“Most unreservedly; twins are one person in two bodies.”
“I am pleased that a legist of your learning and authority should have pronounced such an opinion. It is agreed, then, that each of them possessed equal rights, is it not?”
“Incontestably! but, gracious heavens, what an extraordinary circumstance!”
“We are not at the end of it yet.—Patience.”
“Oh! I shall find ‘patience’ enough.”
“Heaven wished to raise up for that oppressed child an avenger, or a supporter, or vindicator, if you prefer it. It happened that the reigning king, the usurper—you are quite of my opinion, I believe, that it is an act of usurpation quietly to enjoy, and selfishly to assume the right over, an inheritance to which a man has only half a right?”
“Yes, usurpation is the word.”
“In that case, I continue. It was Heaven’s will that the usurper should possess, in the person of his first minister, a man of great talent, of large and generous nature.”
“Well, well,” said Fouquet, “I understand you; you have relied upon me to repair the wrong which has been done to this unhappy brother of Louis XIV. You have thought well; I will help you. I thank you, d’Herblay, I thank you.”
“Oh, no, it is not that at all; you have not allowed me to finish,” said Aramis, perfectly unmoved.
“I will not say another word, then.”
“M. Fouquet, I was observing, the minister of the reigning sovereign, was suddenly taken into the greatest aversion, and menaced with the ruin of his fortune, loss of liberty, loss of life even, by intrigue and personal hatred, to which the king gave too readily an attentive ear. But Heaven permits (still, however, out of consideration for the unhappy prince who had been sacrificed) that M. Fouquet should in his turn have a devoted friend who knew this state secret, and felt that he possessed strength and courage enough to divulge this secret, after having had the strength to carry it locked up in his own heart
