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_ The king had returned to Paris, and with him D'Artagnan, who, in twenty-
four hours, having made with greatest care all possible inquiries at
Belle-Isle, succeeded in learning nothing of the secret so well kept by
the heavy rock of Locmaria, which had fallen on the heroic Porthos. The
captain of the musketeers only knew what those two valiant men - these
two friends, whose defense he had so nobly taken up, whose lives he had
so earnestly endeavored to save - aided by three faithful Bretons, had
accomplished against a whole army. He had seen, spread on the
neighboring heath, the human remains which had stained with clouted blood
the scattered stones among the flowering broom. He learned also that a
bark had been seen far out at sea, and that, like a bird of prey, a royal
vessel had pursued, overtaken, and devoured the poor little bird that was
flying with such palpitating wings. But there D'Artagnan's certainties
ended. The field of supposition was thrown open. Now, what could he
conjecture? The vessel had not returned. It is true that a brisk wind
had prevailed for three days; but the corvette was known to be a good
sailer and solid in its timbers; it had no need to fear a gale of wind,
and it ought, according to the calculation of D'Artagnan, to have either
returned to Brest, or come back to the mouth of the Loire. Such was the
news, ambiguous, it is true, but in some degree reassuring to him
personally, which D'Artagnan brought to Louis XIV., when the king,
followed by all the court, returned to Paris.
Louis, satisfied with his success - Louis, more mild and affable as he
felt himself more powerful - had not ceased for an instant to ride beside
the carriage door of Mademoiselle de la Valliere. Everybody was anxious
to amuse the two queens, so as to make them forget this abandonment by
son and husband. Everything breathed the future, the past was nothing to
anybody. Only that past was like a painful bleeding wound to the hearts
of certain tender and devoted spirits. Scarcely was the king reinstalled
in Paris, when he received a touching proof of this. Louis XIV. had just
risen and taken his first repast when his captain of the musketeers
presented himself before him. D'Artagnan was pale and looked unhappy.
The king, at the first glance, perceived the change in a countenance
generally so unconcerned. "What is the matter, D'Artagnan?" said he.
"Sire, a great misfortune has happened to me."
"Good heavens! what is that?"
"Sire, I have lost one of my friends, M. du Vallon, in the affair of
Belle-Isle."
And, while speaking these words, D'Artagnan fixed his falcon eye upon
Louis XIV., to catch the first feeling that would show itself.
"I knew it," replied the king, quietly.
"You knew it, and did not tell me!" cried the musketeer.
"To what good? Your grief, my friend, was so well worthy of respect. It
was my duty to treat it gently. To have informed you of this misfortune,
which I knew would pain you so greatly, D'Artagnan, would have been, in
your eyes, to have triumphed over you. Yes, I knew that M. du Vallon had
buried himself beneath the rocks of Locmaria; I knew that M. d'Herblay
had taken one of my vessels with its crew, and had compelled it to convey
him to Bayonne. But I was willing you should learn these matters in a
direct manner, in order that you might be convinced my friends are with
me respected and sacred; that always in me the man will sacrifice himself
to subjects, whilst the king is so often found to sacrifice men to
majesty and power."
"But, sire, how could you know?"
"How do you yourself know, D'Artagnan?"
"By this letter, sire, which M. d'Herblay, free and out of danger, writes
me from Bayonne."
"Look here," said the king, drawing from a casket placed upon the table
closet to the seat upon which D'Artagnan was leaning, "here is a letter
copied exactly from that of M. d'Herblay. Here is the very letter, which
Colbert placed in my hands a week before you received yours. I am well
served, you may perceive."
"Yes, sire," murmured the musketeer, "you were the only man whose star
was equal to the task of dominating the fortune and strength of my two
friends. You have used your power, sire, you will not abuse it, will
you?"
"D'Artagnan," said the king, with a smile beaming with kindness, "I could
have M. d'Herblay carried off from the territories of the king of Spain,
and brought here, alive, to inflict justice upon him. But, D'Artagnan,
be assured I will not yield to this first and natural impulse. He is
free - let him continue free."
"Oh, sire! you will not always remain so clement, so noble, so generous
as you have shown yourself with respect to me and M. d'Herblay; you will
have about you counselors who will cure you of that weakness."
"No, D'Artagnan, you are mistaken when you accuse my council of urging me
to pursue rigorous measures. The advice to spare M. d'Herblay comes from
Colbert himself."
"Oh, sire!" said D'Artagnan, extremely surprised.
"As for you," continued the king, with a kindness very uncommon to him,
"I have several pieces of good news to announce to you; but you shall
know them, my dear captain, the moment I have made my accounts all
straight. I have said that I wish to make, and would make, your fortune;
that promise will soon become reality."
"A thousand times thanks, sire! I can wait. But I implore you, whilst I
go and practice patience, that your majesty will deign to notice those
poor people who have for so long a time besieged your ante-chamber, and
come humbly to lay a petition at your feet."
"Who are they?"
"Enemies of your majesty." The king raised his head.
"Friends of M. Fouquet," added D'Artagnan.
"Their names?"
"M. Gourville, M. Pelisson, and a poet, M. Jean de la Fontaine."
The king took a moment to reflect. "What do they want?"
"I do not know."
"How do they appear?"
"In great affliction."
"What do they say?"
"Nothing."
"What do they do?"
"They weep."
"Let them come in," said the king, with a serious brow.
D'Artagnan turned rapidly on his heel, raised the tapestry which closed
the entrance to the royal chamber, and directing his voice to the
adjoining room, cried, "Enter."
The three men D'Artagnan had named immediately appeared at the door of
the cabinet in which were the king and his captain. A profound silence
prevailed in their passage. The courtiers, at the approach of the
friends of the unfortunate superintendent of finances, drew back, as if
fearful of being affected by contagion with disgrace and misfortune.
D'Artagnan, with a quick step, came forward to take by the hand the
unhappy men who stood trembling at the door of the cabinet; he led them
in front of the king's _fauteuil_, who, having placed himself in the
embrasure of a window, awaited the moment of presentation, and was
preparing himself to give the supplicants a rigorously diplomatic
reception.
The first of the friends of Fouquet's to advance was Pelisson. He did
not weep, but his tears were only restrained that the king might better
hear his voice and prayer. Gourville bit his lips to check his tears,
out of respect for the king. La Fontaine buried his face in his
handkerchief, and the only signs of life he gave were the convulsive
motions of his shoulders, raised by his sobs.
The king preserved his dignity. His countenance was impassible. He even
maintained the frown which appeared when D'Artagnan announced his
enemies. He made a gesture which signified, "Speak;" and he remained
standing, with his eyes fixed searchingly on these desponding men.
Pelisson bowed to the ground, and La Fontaine knelt as people do in
churches. This dismal silence, disturbed only by sighs and groans, began
to excite in the king, not compassion, but impatience.
"Monsieur Pelisson," said he, in a sharp, dry tone. "Monsieur Gourville,
and you, Monsieur - " and he did not name La Fontaine, "I cannot, without
sensible displeasure, see you come to plead for one of the greatest
criminals it is the duty of justice to punish. A king does not allow
himself to soften save at the tears of the innocent, the remorse of the
guilty. I have no faith either in the remorse of M. Fouquet or the tears
of his friends, because the one is tainted to the very heart, and the
others ought to dread offending me in my own palace. For these reasons,
I beg you, Monsieur Pelisson, Monsieur Gourville, and you, Monsieur - ,
to say nothing that will not plainly proclaim the respect you have for my
will."
"Sire," replied Pelisson, trembling at these words, "we are come to say
nothing to your majesty that is not the most profound expression of the
most sincere respect and love that are due to a king from all his
subjects. Your majesty's justice is redoubtable; every one must yield to
the sentences it pronounces. We respectfully bow before it. Far from us
the idea of coming to defend him who has had the misfortune to offend
your majesty. He who has incurred your displeasure may be a friend of
ours, but he is an enemy to the state. We abandon him, but with tears,
to the severity of the king."
"Besides," interrupted the king, calmed by that supplicating voice, and
those persuasive words, "my parliament will decide. I do not strike
without first having weighed the crime; my justice does not wield the
sword without employing first a pair of scales."
"Therefore we have every confidence in that impartiality of the king, and
hope to make our feeble voices heard, with the consent of your majesty,
when the hour for defending an accused friend strikes."
"In that case, messieurs, what do you ask of me?" said the king, with his
most imposing air.
"Sire," continued Pelisson, "the accused has a wife and family. The
little property he had was scarcely sufficient to pay his debts, and
Madame Fouquet, since her husband's captivity, is abandoned by
everybody. The hand of your majesty strikes like the hand of God. When
the Lord sends the curse of leprosy or pestilence into a family, every
one flies and shuns the abode of the leprous or plague-stricken.
Sometimes, but very rarely, a generous physician alone ventures to
approach the ill-reputed threshold, passes it with courage, and risks his
life to combat death. He is the last resource of the dying, the chosen
instrument of heavenly mercy. Sire, we supplicate you, with clasped
hands and bended knees, as a divinity is supplicated! Madame Fouquet has
no longer any friends, no longer any means of support; she weeps in her
deserted home, abandoned by all those who besieged its doors in the hour
of prosperity; she has neither credit nor hope left. At least, the
unhappy wretch upon whom your anger falls receives from you, however
culpable he may be, his daily bread though moistened by his tears. As
much afflicted, more destitute than her husband, Madame Fouquet - the
lady who had the honor to receive your majesty at her table - Madame
Fouquet, the wife of the ancient superintendent of your majesty's
finances, Madame Fouquet has no longer bread."
Here the mortal silence which had chained the breath of Pelisson's two
friends was broken by an outburst of sobs; and D'Artagnan, whose chest
heaved at hearing this humble prayer, turned round towards the angle of
the cabinet to bite his mustache and conceal a groan.
The king had preserved his eye dry and his countenance severe; but the
blood had mounted to his cheeks, and the firmness of his look was visibly
diminished.
"What do you wish?" said he, in an agitated voice.
"We come humbly to ask your majesty," replied Pelisson, upon whom emotion
was fast gaining, "to permit us, without incurring the displeasure of
your majesty, to lend to Madame Fouquet two thousand pistoles collected
among the old friends of her husband, in order that the widow may not
stand in need of the necessaries of life."
At the word _widow_, pronounced by Pelisson whilst Fouquet was still
alive, the king turned very pale; - his pride disappeared; pity rose from
his heart to his lips; he cast a softened look upon the men who knelt
sobbing at his feet.
"God forbid," said he, "that I should confound the innocent with the
guilty. They know me but ill who doubt my mercy towards the weak. I
strike none but the arrogant. Do, messieurs, do all that your hearts
counsel you to assuage the grief of Madame Fouquet. Go, messieurs - go!"
The three now rose in silence with dry eyes. The tears had been scorched
away by contact with their burning cheeks and eyelids. They had not the
strength to address their thanks to the king, who himself cut short their
solemn reverences by entrenching himself suddenly behind the _fauteuil_.
D'Artagnan remained alone with the king.
"Well," said he, approaching the young prince, who interrogated him with
his look. "Well, my master! If you had not the device which belongs to
your sun, I would recommend you one which M. Conrart might translate into
eclectic Latin, 'Calm with the lowly; stormy with the strong.'"
The king smiled, and passed into the next apartment, after having said to
D'Artagnan, "I give you the leave of absence you must want to put the
affairs of your friend, the late M. du Vallon, in order." _
Read next: CHAPTER LV - Porthos's Will
Read previous: CHAPTER LIII - King Louis XIV
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