Madame Fouquet permitted her countenance to show clearly that if Fouquet had conducted himself well towards the king, the king had hardly done the like to the minister. But d’Artagnan knew the terrible secret. He alone with Fouquet knew it; those two men had not, the one the courage to complain, the other the right to accuse. The captain, to whom the two hundred pistoles were brought, was about to take his leave, when Fouquet, rising, took a glass of wine, and ordered one to be given to d’Artagnan.
“Monsieur,” said he, “to the health of the king, whatever may happen.”
“And to your health, Monseigneur, whatever may happen,” said d’Artagnan.
He bowed, with these words of evil omen, to all the company, who rose as soon as they heard the sound of his spurs and boots at the bottom of the stairs.
“I, for a moment, thought it was I and not my money he wanted,” said Fouquet, endeavoring to laugh.
“You!” cried his friends; “and what for, in the name of Heaven!”
“Oh! do not deceive yourselves, my dear brothers in Epicurus,” said the superintendent; “I do not wish to make a comparison between the most humble sinner on the earth and the God we adore, but remember, he gave one day to his friends a repast which is called the Last Supper, and which was nothing but a farewell dinner, like that which we are making at this moment.”
A painful cry of denial arose from all parts of the table. “Shut the doors,” said Fouquet, and the servants disappeared. “My friends,” continued Fouquet, lowering his voice, “what was I formerly? What am I now? Consult among yourselves and reply. A man like me sinks when he does not continue to rise. What shall we say, then, when he really sinks? I have no more money, no more credit; I have no longer anything but powerful enemies, and powerless friends.”
“Quick!” cried Pélisson. “Since you explain yourself with such frankness, it is our duty to be frank, likewise. Yes, you are ruined—yes, you are hastening to your ruin—stop. And, in the first place, what money have we left?”
“Seven hundred thousand livres,” said the intendant.
“Bread,” murmured Madame Fouquet.
“Relays,” said Pélisson, “relays, and fly!”
“Whither?”
“To Switzerland—to Savoy—but fly!”
“If Monseigneur flies,” said Madame Bellière, “it will be said that he was guilty—was afraid.”
“More than that, it will be said that I have carried away twenty millions with me.”
“We will draw up memoirs to justify you,” said La Fontaine. “Fly!”
“I will remain,” said Fouquet. “And, besides, does not everything serve me?”
“You have Belle-Isle,” cried the Abbé Fouquet.
“And I am naturally going there, when going to Nantes,” replied the superintendent. “Patience, then, patience!”
“Before arriving at Nantes, what a distance!” said Madame Fouquet.
“Yes, I know that well,” replied Fouquet. “But what is to be done there? The king summons me to the States. I know well it is for the purpose of ruining me; but to refuse to go would be to evince uneasiness.”
“Well, I have discovered the means of reconciling everything,” cried Pélisson. “You are going to set out for Nantes.”
Fouquet looked at him with an air of surprise.
“But with friends; but in your own carriage as far as Orléans; in your own barge as far as Nantes; always ready to defend yourself, if you are attacked; to escape, if you are threatened. In fact, you will carry your money against all chances; and, whilst flying, you will only have obeyed the king; then, reaching the sea when you like, you will embark for Belle-Isle, and from Belle-Isle you will shoot out wherever it may please you, like the eagle that leaps into space when it has been driven from its eyrie.”
A general assent followed Pélisson’s words. “Yes, do so,” said Madame Fouquet to her husband.
“Do so,” said Madame de Bellière.
“Do it! do it!” cried all his friends.
“I will do so,” replied Fouquet.
“This very evening?”
“In an hour?”
“Instantly.”
“With seven hundred thousand livres you can lay the foundation of another fortune,” said the Abbé Fouquet. “What is there to prevent our arming corsairs at Belle-Isle?”
“And, if necessary, we will go and discover a new world,” added La Fontaine, intoxicated with fresh projects and enthusiasm.
A knock at the door interrupted this concert of joy and hope. “A courier from the king,” said the master of the ceremonies.
A profound silence immediately ensued, as if the message brought by this courier was nothing but a reply to all the projects given birth to a moment before. Everyone waited to see what the master would do. His brow was streaming with perspiration, and he was really suffering from his fever at that instant. He passed into his cabinet, to receive the king’s message. There prevailed, as we have said, such a silence in the chambers, and throughout the attendance, that from the dining-room could be heard the voice of Fouquet, saying, “That is well, Monsieur.” This voice was, however, broken by fatigue, and trembled with emotion. An instant after, Fouquet called Gourville, who crossed the gallery amidst the universal expectation. At length, he himself reappeared among his guests; but it was no longer the same pale, spiritless countenance they had beheld when he left them; from pale he had become livid; and from spiritless, annihilated. A breathing, living specter, he advanced with his arms stretched out, his mouth parched, like a shade that comes to salute the friends of former days. On seeing him thus, everyone cried out, and everyone rushed towards Fouquet. The latter, looking at Pélisson, leaned upon his wife, and pressed the icy hand of the Marquise de Bellière.
“Well,” said he, in a voice which had nothing human in it.
“What has happened, my God!” said someone to him.
Fouquet opened his right hand, which was clenched, but glistening with perspiration, and displayed a paper, upon which Pélisson cast a terrified glance. He read the following lines, written by the king’s hand:
“ ‘Dear and well-beloved Monsieur Fouquet—Give us, upon that which you have left
