Chapter XVI. Jealousy.

by Alexandre Dumas

　　The torches we have just referred to, the eager attention every onedisplayed, and the new ovation paid to the king by Fouquet, arrived intime to suspend the effect of a resolution which La Valliere had alreadyconsiderably shaken in Louis XIV.'s heart. He looked at Fouquet with afeeling almost of gratitude for having given La Valliere an opportunityof showing herself so generously disposed, so powerful in the influenceshe exercised over his heart. The moment of the last and greatestdisplay had arrived. Hardly had Fouquet conducted the king towards thechateau, when a mass of fire burst from the dome of Vaux, with aprodigious uproar, pouring a flood of dazzling cataracts of rays on everyside, and illumining the remotest corners of the gardens. The fireworksbegan. Colbert, at twenty paces from the king, who was surrounded andfeted by the owner of Vaux, seemed, by the obstinate persistence of hisgloomy thoughts, to do his utmost to recall Louis's attention, which themagnificence of the spectacle was already, in his opinion, too easilydiverting. Suddenly, just as Louis was on the point of holding it out toFouquet, he perceived in his hand the paper which, as he believed, LaValliere had dropped at his feet as she hurried away. The still strongermagnet of love drew the young prince's attention towards the souvenirof his idol; and, by the brilliant light, which increased momentarily inbeauty, and drew from the neighboring villages loud cheers of admiration,the king read the letter, which he supposed was a loving and tenderepistle La Valliere had destined for him. But as he read it, a death-like pallor stole over his face, and an expression of deep-seated wrath,illumined by the many-colored fire which gleamed so brightly, soaringlyaround the scene, produced a terrible spectacle, which every one wouldhave shuddered at, could they only have read into his heart, now torn bythe most stormy and most bitter passions. There was no truce for himnow, influenced as he was by jealousy and mad passion. From the verymoment when the dark truth was revealed to him, every gentler feelingseemed to disappear; pity, kindness of consideration, the religion ofhospitality, all were forgotten. In the bitter pang which wrung hisheart, he, still too weak to hide his sufferings, was almost on the pointof uttering a cry of alarm, and calling his guards to gather round him.This letter which Colbert had thrown down at the king's feet, the readerhas doubtlessly guessed, was the same that had disappeared with theporter Toby at Fontainebleau, after the attempt which Fouquet had madeupon La Valliere's heart. Fouquet saw the king's pallor, and was farfrom guessing the evil; Colbert saw the king's anger, and rejoicedinwardly at the approach of the storm. Fouquet's voice drew the youngprince from his wrathful reverie."What is the matter, sire?" inquired the superintendent, with anexpression of graceful interest.Louis made a violent effort over himself, as he replied, "Nothing.""I am afraid your majesty is suffering?""I am suffering, and have already told you so, monsieur; but it isnothing."And the king, without waiting for the termination of the fireworks,turned towards the chateau. Fouquet accompanied him, and the whole courtfollowed, leaving the remains of the fireworks consuming for their ownamusement. The superintendent endeavored again to question Louis XIV.,but did not succeed in obtaining a reply. He imagined there had beensome misunderstanding between Louis and La Valliere in the park, whichhad resulted in a slight quarrel; and that the king, who was notordinarily sulky by disposition, but completely absorbed by his passionfor La Valliere, had taken a dislike to every one because his mistresshad shown herself offended with him. This idea was sufficient to consolehim; he had even a friendly and kindly smile for the young king, when thelatter wished him good night. This, however, was not all the king had tosubmit to; he was obliged to undergo the usual ceremony, which on thatevening was marked by close adherence to the strictest etiquette. Thenext day was the one fixed for the departure; it was but proper that theguests should thank their host, and show him a little attention in returnfor the expenditure of his twelve millions. The only remark, approachingto amiability, which the king could find to say to M. Fouquet, as he tookleave of him, were in these words, "M. Fouquet, you shall hear from me.Be good enough to desire M. d'Artagnan to come here."But the blood of Louis XIV., who had so profoundly dissimulated hisfeelings, boiled in his veins; and he was perfectly willing to order M.Fouquet to be put an end to with the same readiness, indeed, as hispredecessor had caused the assassination of le Marechal d'Ancre; and sohe disguised the terrible resolution he had formed beneath one of thoseroyal smiles which, like lightning-flashes, indicated coups d'etat.Fouquet took the king's hand and kissed it; Louis shuddered throughouthis whole frame, but allowed M. Fouquet to touch his hand with his lips.Five minutes afterwards, D'Artagnan, to whom the royal order had beencommunicated, entered Louis XIV.'s apartment. Aramis and Philippe werein theirs, still eagerly attentive, and still listening with all theirears. The king did not even give the captain of the musketeers time toapproach his armchair, but ran forward to meet him. "Take care," heexclaimed, "that no one enters here.""Very good, sire," replied the captain, whose glance had for a long timepast analyzed the stormy indications on the royal countenance. He gavethe necessary order at the door; but, returning to the king, he said, "Isthere something fresh the matter, your majesty?""How many men have you here?" inquired the king, without making any otherreply to the question addressed to him."What for, sire?""How many men have you, I say?" repeated the king, stamping upon theground with his foot."I have the musketeers.""Well; and what others?""Twenty guards and thirteen Swiss.""How many men will be required to - ""To do what, sire?" replied the musketeer, opening his large, calm eyes."To arrest M. Fouquet."D'Artagnan fell back a step."To arrest M. Fouquet!" he burst forth."Are you going to tell me that it is impossible?" exclaimed the king, intones of cold, vindictive passion."I never say that anything is impossible," replied D'Artagnan, wounded tothe quick."Very well; do it, then."D'Artagnan turned on his heel, and made his way towards the door; it wasbut a short distance, and he cleared it in half a dozen paces; when hereached it he suddenly paused, and said, "Your majesty will forgive me,but, in order to effect this arrest, I should like written directions.""For what purpose - and since when has the king's word been insufficientfor you?""Because the word of a king, when it springs from a feeling of anger, maypossibly change when the feeling changes.""A truce to set phrases, monsieur; you have another thought besides that?""Oh, I, at least, have certain thoughts and ideas, which, unfortunately,others have not," D'Artagnan replied, impertinently.The king, in the tempest of his wrath, hesitated, and drew back in theface of D'Artagnan's frank courage, just as a horse crouches on hishaunches under the strong hand of a bold and experienced rider. "What isyour thought?" he exclaimed."This, sire," replied D'Artagnan: "you cause a man to be arrested whenyou are still under his roof; and passion is alone the cause of that.When your anger shall have passed, you will regret what you have done;and then I wish to be in a position to show you your signature. If that,however, should fail to be a reparation, it will at least show us thatthe king was wrong to lose his temper.""Wrong to lose his temper!" cried the king, in a loud, passionate voice."Did not my father, my grandfathers, too, before me, lose their temper attimes, in Heaven's name?""The king your father and the king your grandfather never lost theirtemper except when under the protection of their own palace.""The king is master wherever he may be.""That is a flattering, complimentary phrase which cannot proceed from anyone but M. Colbert; but it happens not to be the truth. The king is athome in every man's house when he has driven its owner out of it."The king bit his lips, but said nothing."Can it be possible?" said D'Artagnan; "here is a man who is positivelyruining himself in order to please you, and you wish to have himarrested! Mordioux! Sire, if my name was Fouquet, and people treatedme in that manner, I would swallow at a single gulp all sorts offireworks and other things, and I would set fire to them, and send myselfand everybody else in blown-up atoms to the sky. But it is all the same;it is your wish, and it shall be done.""Go," said the king; "but have you men enough?""Do you suppose I am going to take a whole host to help me? Arrest M.Fouquet! why, that is so easy that a very child might do it! It is likedrinking a glass of wormwood; one makes an ugly face, and that is all.""If he defends himself?""He! it is not at all likely. Defend himself when such extreme harshnessas you are going to practice makes the man a very martyr! Nay, I am surethat if he has a million of francs left, which I very much doubt, hewould be willing enough to give it in order to have such a termination asthis. But what does that matter? it shall be done at once.""Stay," said the king; "do not make his arrest a public affair.""That will be more difficult.""Why so?""Because nothing is easier than to go up to M. Fouquet in the midst of athousand enthusiastic guests who surround him, and say, 'In the king'sname, I arrest you.' But to go up to him, to turn him first one way andthen another, to drive him up into one of the corners of the chess-board,in such a way that he cannot escape; to take him away from his guests,and keep him a prisoner for you, without one of them, alas! having heardanything about it; that, indeed, is a genuine difficulty, the greatest ofall, in truth; and I hardly see how it is to be done.""You had better say it is impossible, and you will have finished muchsooner. Heaven help me, but I seem to be surrounded by people whoprevent me doing what I wish.""I do not prevent your doing anything. Have you indeed decided?""Take care of M. Fouquet, until I shall have made up my mind by to-morrowmorning.""That shall be done, sire.""And return, when I rise in the morning, for further orders; and nowleave me to myself.""You do not even want M. Colbert, then?" said the musketeer, firing hislast shot as he was leaving the room. The king started. With his wholemind fixed on the thought of revenge, he had forgotten the cause andsubstance of the offense."No, no one," he said; "no one here! Leave me."D'Artagnan quitted the room. The king closed the door with his ownhands, and began to walk up and down his apartment at a furious pace,like a wounded bull in an arena, trailing from his horn the coloredstreamers and the iron darts. At last he began to take comfort in theexpression of his violent feelings."Miserable wretch that he is! not only does he squander my finances, butwith his ill-gotten plunder he corrupts secretaries, friends, generals,artists, and all, and tries to rob me of the one to whom I am mostattached. This is the reason that perfidious girl so boldly took hispart! Gratitude! and who can tell whether it was not a stronger feeling- love itself?" He gave himself up for a moment to the bitterestreflections. "A satyr!" he thought, with that abhorrent hate with whichyoung men regard those more advanced in life, who still think of love."A man who has never found opposition or resistance in any one, wholavishes his gold and jewels in every direction, and who retains hisstaff of painters in order to take the portraits of his mistresses in thecostume of goddesses." The king trembled with passion as he continued,"He pollutes and profanes everything that belongs to me! He destroyseverything that is mine. He will be my death at last, I know. That manis too much for me; he is my mortal enemy, but he shall forthwith fall!I hate him - I hate him - I hate him!" and as he pronounced these words,he struck the arm of the chair in which he was sitting violently, overand over again, and then rose like one in an epileptic fit. "To-morrow!to-morrow! oh, happy day!" he murmured, "when the sun rises, no otherrival shall that brilliant king of space possess but me. That man shallfall so low that when people look at the abject ruin my anger shall havewrought, they will be forced to confess at last and at least that I amindeed greater than he." The king, who was incapable of mastering hisemotions any longer, knocked over with a blow of his fist a small tableplaced close to his bedside, and in the very bitterness of anger, almostweeping, and half-suffocated, he threw himself on his bed, dressed as hewas, and bit the sheets in his extremity of passion, trying to findrepose of body at least there. The bed creaked beneath his weight, andwith the exception of a few broken sounds, emerging, or, one might say,exploding, from his overburdened chest, absolute silence soon reigned inthe chamber of Morpheus.