The Man in the Iron Mask (AmazonClassics Edition)
The Shadow of M. Fouquet
D’Artagnan, still confused and oppressed by the conversation he had just had with the king, could not resist asking himself if he were really in possession of his senses, if he were really and truly at Vaux; if he, D’Artagnan, were really the captain of the musketeers and M. Fouquet the owner of the château in which Louis XIV was at that moment partaking of his hospitality. These reflections were not those of a drunken man, although everything was in prodigal profusion at Vaux, and the surintendant’s wines had met with a distinguished reception at the fête. The Gascon, however, was a man of calm self-possession; and no sooner did he touch his bright steel blade than he knew how to adopt morally the cold, keen weapon as his guide of action.
“Well,” he said, as he quitted the royal apartment, “I seem now to be mixed up historically with the destinies of the king and the minister; it will be written that Monsieur D’Artagnan, a younger son of a Gascon family, placed his hand on the shoulder of Monsieur Nicolas Fouquet, the surintendant of the finances of France. My descendants, if I have any, will flatter themselves with the distinction which this arrest will confer, just as the members of the De Luynes family have done with regard to the estates of the poor Maréchal D’Ancre. But the question is, to execute the king’s direction in a proper manner. Any man would know how to say to Monsieur Fouquet, ‘Your sword, monsieur.’ But it is not every one who would be able to take care of Monsieur Fouquet without others knowing anything about it. How am I to manage, then, so that Monsieur le Surintendant pass from the height of favor to the direst disgrace; that Vaux be turned into a dungeon for him; that after having been steeped to his lips, as it were, in all the perfumes and incense of Assuerus, he is transferred to the gallows of Haman—in other words, of Enguerrand de Marigny?”
And at this reflection D’Artagnan’s brow became clouded with perplexity. The musketeer had certain scruples on the matter, it must be admitted. To deliver up to death (for not a doubt existed that Louis hated Fouquet mortally) the man who had just shown himself so delightful and charming a host in every way, was a real case of conscience. “It almost seems,” said D’Artagnan to himself, “that if I am not a poor, mean, miserable fellow, I should let Monsieur Fouquet know the opinion the king has about him. Yet, if I betray my master’s secret, I shall be a false-hearted, treacherous knave, a traitor, too—a crime provided for and punishable by military laws—so much so, indeed, that twenty times, in former days when wars were rife, I have seen many a miserable fellow strung up to a tree for doing, in a small degree, what my scruples counsel me to do to a greater extent now. No, I think that a man of true readiness of wit ought to get out of this difficulty with more skill than that. And now, let us admit that I do possess a little readiness of invention—it is not at all certain, though—for, after having for forty years absorbed so large a quantity, I shall be lucky if there were to be a pistole’s worth left.”
D’Artagnan buried his head in his hands, tore at his mustache in sheer vexation, and added:
“What can be the reason of Monsieur Fouquet’s disgrace? There seem to be three good ones: the first, because Monsieur Colbert doesn’t like him; the second, because he wished to fall in love with Mademoiselle de la Valliere, and, lastly, because the king likes Monsieur Colbert and loves Mademoiselle de la Valliere. Oh, he is a lost man! But shall I put my foot on his neck, I of all men, when he is falling a prey to the intrigues of a set of women and clerks? For shame! If he be dangerous, I will lay him low enough; if, however, he be only persecuted, I will look on. I have come to such a decisive determination that neither king nor living man shall change my opinion. If Athos were here, he would do as I have done. Therefore, instead of going cold-bloodedly up to Monsieur Fouquet, and arresting him off-hand and shutting him up altogether, I will try and conduct myself like a man who understands what good manners are. People will talk about it, of course; but they shall talk well of it, I am determined.”
And D’Artagnan, drawing by a gesture peculiar to himself his shoulder-belt over his shoulder, went straight off to M. Fouquet, who, after he had taken leave of his guests, was preparing to retire for the night and to sleep tranquilly after the triumphs of the day. The air was still perfumed, or infected, whichever way it may be considered, with the odor of the fireworks. The wax-lights were dying away in their sockets, the flowers fell unfastened from the garlands, the groups of dancers and courtiers were separating in the saloons. Surrounded by his friends, who complimented him and received his flattering remarks in return, the surintendant half-closed his wearied eyes. He longed for rest and quiet; he sank upon the bed of laurels, which had been heaped up for him for so many days past; it might almost have been said that he seemed bowed beneath the weight of the new debts which he had incurred for the purpose of giving the greatest possible honor to this fête. Fouquet had just retired to his room, still smiling, but more than half-dead. He could listen to nothing more, he could hardly keep his eyes open; his bed seemed to possess a fascinating and irresistible attraction for him. The god Morpheus, the presiding deity of the dome painted by Lebrun, had extended his influence over the adjoining rooms, and showered down his most sleep-inducing poppies upon the master of the house. Fouquet, almost entirely alone, was being assisted by his valet de chambre to undress, when M. D’Artagnan appeared at the entrance of the room. D’Artagnan had never been able to succeed in making himself common at the court; and notwithstanding he was seen everywhere and on all occasions, he never failed to produce an effect wherever and whenever he made his appearance. Such is the happy privilege of certain natures, which in that respect resemble either thunder or lightning; every one recognizes them; but their appearance never fails to arouse surprise and astonishment, and whenever they occur, the impression is always left that the last was the loudest or brightest and most violent.
“What! Monsieur D’Artagnan?” said Fouquet, who had already taken his right arm out of the sleeve of his doublet.
“At your service,” replied the musketeer.
“Come in, my dear Monsieur D’Artagnan.”
“Thank you.”
“Have you come to criticise the fête? You are ingenious enough in your criticisms, I know.”
“By no means.”
“Are not your men looked after properly?”
“In every way.”
“You are not comfortably lodged, perhaps?”
“Nothing could be better.”
“In that case, I have to thank you for being so amiably disposed, and I must not fail to express my obligations to you for all your flattering kindness.”
These words were as much as to say, “My dear D’Artagnan, pray go to bed, since you have a bed to lie down on, and let me do the same.”
D’Artagnan did not seem to understand it.
“Are you going to bed already?” he said to the surintendant.
“Yes; have you anything to say to me?”
“Nothing, monsieur, nothing at all. You sleep in this room, then?”
“Yes, as you see.”
“You have given a most charming fête to the king.”
“Oh, beautiful!”
“Is the king pleased?”
“Enchanted.”
“Did he desire you to say as much to me?”
“He would not choose so unworthy a messenger, monseigneur.”
“You do not do yourself justice, Monsieur D’Artagnan.”
“Is that your bed there?”
“Yes; but why do you ask? Are you not satisfied with your own?”
“My I speak frankly to you?”
“Most assuredly.”
“Well, then, I am not.”
Fouquet started, and then replied:
“Will you take my room, Monsieur D’Artagnan?”
“What! deprive you of it, monseigneur? Never!”
“What am I to do, then?”
“Allow me to share yours with you.”
Fouquet looked at the musketeer fixedly.
“Ah! ah!” he said, “you have just left the king.”
“I have, monseigneur.”
“And the king wishes you to pass the night in my room?”
“Monseigneur——”
“Very well, Monsieur D’Artagnan, very well. You are the master here.”
“I assure you, monseigneur, that I do not wish to abuse——”
Fouquet turned to his valet, and said:
“Leave us.”
When the man had left he said to D’Artagnan:
“You have something to say to me?”
“I?”
“A man of your superior intelligence cannot have come to talk with a man like myself, at such an hour as the present without grave motives.”
“On the contrary. What do you want with me?”
“Nothing more than the pleasure of your society.”
“Come into the garden, then,” said the surintendant suddenly, “or into the park.”
“No,” replied the musketeer hastily, “no!”
“Why?”
“The fresh air——”
“Come, admit at once that you arrest me,” said the surintendant to the captain.
“Never!” said the latter.
“You intend to look after me, then?”
“Yes, monseigneur; I do, upon my honor.”
“Upon your honor? Ah! that is quite another thing. So I am to be arrested in my own house!”
“Do not say such a thing.”
“On the contrary, I will proclaim it aloud.”
“If you do so, I shall be compelled to request you to be silent.”
“Very good! Violence toward me, and in my own house, too!”
“We do not seem to understand each other at all. Stay a moment; there is a chessboard there; we will have a game, if you have no objection.”
“Monsieur D’Artagnan, I am in disgrace, then?”
“Not at all; but——”
“I am prohibited, I suppose, from withdrawing from your sight?”
“I do not understand a word you are saying, monseigneur; and if you wish me to withdraw, tell me so.”
“My dear Monsieur D’Artagnan, your mode of action is enough to drive me mad; I was almost sinking for want of sleep, but you have completely awakened me.”
“I shall never forgive myself, I am sure; and if you wish to reconcile me with myself, why, go to sleep in your bed in my presence; I shall be delighted at it.”
“I am under surveillance, I see.”
“I will leave the room if you say such a thing as that.”
“You are beyond my comprehension.”
“Good-night, monseigneur,” said D’Artagnan, as he pretended to withdraw.
Fouquet ran after him.
“I will not lie down,” he said. “Seriously, and since you refuse to treat me as a man, and since you finesse with me, I will try and set you at bay, as a hunter does a wild boar.”
“Bah!” cried D’Artagnan, pretending to smile.
“I shall order my horses, and set off for Paris,” said Fouquet, sounding the heart of the captain of the musketeers.
“If that be the case, monseigneur, it is very different.”
“You will arrest me, then?”
“No; but I shall go along with you.”
“That is quite sufficient, Monsieur D’Artagnan,” returned Fouquet, in a cold tone of voice. “It is not idly that you have acquired your reputation as a man of intelligence and full of resources; but with me all this is quite superfluous. Let us two come to the point. Grant me a service. Why do you arrest me? What have I done?”
“Oh! I know nothing about what you may have done; but I do not arrest you—this evening, at least.”
“This evening!” said Fouquet, turning pale, “but to-morrow?”
“It is not to-morrow just yet, monseigneur. Who can ever answer for the morrow?”
“Quick, quick, captain! let me speak to Monsieur D’Herblay.”
“Alas! that is quite impossible, monseigneur. I have strict orders to see that you hold no communication with any one.”
“With Monsieur D’Herblay, captain—with your friend.”
“Monseigneur, is Monsieur D’Herblay the only person with whom you ought to be prevented holding any communication?”
Fouquet colored, and then, assuming an air of resignation, he said:
“You are right, monsieur; you have taught me a lesson I ought not to have provoked. A fallen man cannot assert his right to anything, even from those whose fortunes he may have made; for a still greater reason, he cannot claim anything from those to whom he may never have had the happiness of doing a service.”
“Monseigneur!”
“It is perfectly true, Monsieur D’Artagnan; you have always acted in the most admirable manner toward me—in such a manner, indeed, as most becomes the man who is destined to arrest me. You, at least, have never asked me anything.”
“Monseigneur,” replied the Gascon, touched by his eloquent and noble tone of grief, “will you—I ask it as a favor—pledge me your word as a man of honor that you will not leave this room?”
“What is the use of it, dear Monsieur D’Artagnan, since you keep watch and ward over me? Do you suppose I should struggle against the most valiant sword in the kingdom?”
“It is not that at all, monseigneur; but that I am going to look for Monsieur D’Herblay, and, consequently, to leave you alone.”
Fouquet uttered a cry of delight and surprise.
“To look for Monsieur D’Herblay! to leave me alone!” he exclaimed, clasping his hands together.
“Which is Monsieur D’Herblay’s room? The blue room, is it not?”
“Yes, my friend, yes.”
“Your friend! thank you for that word, monseigneur; you confer it upon me to-day, at least, if you have never done so before.”
“Ah! you have saved me.”
“It will take a good ten minutes to go from hence to the blue room, and to return?” said D’Artagnan.
“Nearly so.”
“And then to wake Aramis, who sleeps very soundly when he is asleep, I put that down at another five minutes; making a total of fifteen minutes’ absence. And now, monseigneur, give me your word that you will not in any way attempt to make your escape, and that when I return I shall find you here again.”
“I give it you, monsieur,” replied Fouquet, with an expression of the warmest and deepest gratitude.
D’Artagnan disappeared. Fouquet looked at him as he quitted the room, waited with a feverish impatience until the door was closed behind him, and, as soon as it was shut, flew to his keys, opened two or three secret doors concealed in various articles of furniture in the room, looked vainly for certain papers, which doubtless he had left at St. Mandé, and which he seemed to regret not having found in them; then, hurriedly seizing hold of letters, contracts, paper writings, he heaped them up into a pile, which he burned in the extremest haste upon the marble hearth of the fireplace, not even taking time to draw from the interior of it the vases and pots of flowers with which it was filled. As soon as he had finished, like a man who has just escaped an imminent danger, and whose strength abandons him as soon as the danger is past, he sunk down, completely overcome, on a couch. When D’Artagnan returned he found Fouquet in the same position; the worthy musketeer had not the slightest doubt that Fouquet, having given his word, would not even think of failing to keep it, but he had thought it most likely that Fouquet would turn his (D’Artagnan’s) absence to the best advantage in getting rid of all the papers, memorandums, and contracts, which might possibly render his position, which was even now serious enough, more dangerous than ever. And so, lifting up his head like a dog who gains the scent, he perceived an odor resembling smoke which he fully relied upon finding in the atmosphere, and having found it, he made a movement of his head in token of satisfaction. When D’Artagnan had entered, Fouquet had, on his side, raised his head, and not one of D’Artagnan’s movements had escaped him. And then the looks of the two men met, and they both saw that they had understood each other without exchanging a syllable.
“Well!” asked Fouquet, the first to speak, “and Monsieur D’Herblay?”
“Upon my word, monseigneur,” replied D’Artagnan, “Monsieur D’Herblay must be desperately fond of walks by night, and composing verses by moonlight in the park of Vaux, with some of your poets, in all probability, for he is not in his own room.”
“What! not in his own room?” cried Fouquet, whose last hope thus escaped him; for, unless he could ascertain in what way the bishop of Vannes could assist him, he perfectly well knew that in reality he could not expect assistance from any one but him.
“Or, indeed,” continued D’Artagnan, “if he is in his own room, he has very good reasons for not answering.”
“But surely you did not call him in such a manner that he could have heard you?”
“You can hardly suppose, monseigneur, that, having already exceeded my orders, which forbid me leaving you a single moment—you can hardly suppose, I say, that I should have been mad enough to rouse the whole house and allow myself to be seen in the corridor of the bishop of Vannes, in order that Monsieur Colbert might state with positive certainty that I gave you time to burn your papers.”
“My papers?”
“Of course; at least, that is what I should have done in your place; when any one opens a door for me, I always avail myself of it.”
“Yes, yes, and I thank you, for I have availed myself of it.”
“And you have done perfectly right. Every man has his own peculiar secrets with which others have nothing to do. But let us return to Aramis, monseigneur.”
“Well, then, I tell you, you could not have called loud enough, or Aramis would have heard you.”
“However softly any one may call Aramis, monseigneur, Aramis always hears when he has an interest in hearing. I repeat what I said before—Aramis was not in his own room, or Aramis had certain reasons for not recognizing my voice, of which I am ignorant, and of which you may be even ignorant yourself, notwithstanding your liege-man is his greatness the Lord Bishop of Vannes.”
Fouquet drew a deep sigh, rose from his seat, made three or four turns in his room, and finished by seating himself, with an expression of extreme dejection, upon his magnificent bed with velvet hangings, and trimmed with the costliest lace. D’Artagnan looked at Fouquet with feelings of the deepest and sincerest pity.
“I have seen a good many men arrested in my life,” said the musketeer sadly; “I have seen both Monsieur de Cinq-Mars and Monsieur de Chalais arrested, though I was very young then. I have seen Monsieur de Condé arrested with the princes; I have seen Monsieur de Retz arrested; I have seen Monsieur Broussel arrested. Stay a moment, monseigneur, it is disagreeable to have to say, but the very one of all those whom you most resemble at this moment was that poor fellow, Broussel. You were very near doing as he did, putting your dinner-napkin in your portfolio, and wiping your mouth with your papers. Mordioux! Monseigneur Fouquet, a man like you ought not to be dejected in this manner. Suppose your friends saw you?”
“Monsieur D’Artagnan,” returned the surintendant, with a smile full of gentleness, “you do not understand me; it is precisely because my friends do not see me that that I am such as you see me now. I do not live, exist even, isolated from others; I am nothing when left to myself. Understand that throughout my whole life I have passed every moment of my time in making friends, whom I hoped to render my stay and support. In times of prosperity, all these cheerful, happy voices—and rendered so through and by my means—formed in my honor a concert of praises and kindly actions. In the least disfavor, these humbler voices accompanied in harmonious accents the murmur of my own heart. Isolation I have never yet known. Poverty (a phantom I have sometimes beheld, clad in rags, awaiting me at the end of my journey through life)—this poverty has been the specter with which many of my own friends have trifled for years past, which they poetize and caress, and which has attracted me toward them. Poverty! I accept it, acknowledge it, receive it, as a disinherited sister; for poverty is neither solitude, nor exile, nor imprisonment. Is it likely I shall ever be poor, with such friends as Pellisson, as La Fontaine, as Molière? with such a mistress as— Oh! if you knew how utterly lonely and desolate I feel at this moment, and how you, who separate me from all I love, seem to resemble the image of solitude, of annihilation, and of death itself!”
“But I have already told you, Monsieur Fouquet,” replied D’Artagnan, moved to the depths of his soul, “that you exaggerate matters a great deal too much. The king likes you.”
“No, no!” said Fouquet, shaking his head.
“Monsieur de Colbert hates you.”
“Monsieur de Colbert! What does that matter to me?”
“He will ruin you.”
“Oh! I defy him to do that, for I am ruined already.”
At this singular confession of the surintendant, D’Artagnan cast his glance all round the room; and although he did not open his lips, Fouquet understood him so thoroughly that he added:
“What can be done with such wealth of substance as surrounds us, when a man can no longer cultivate his taste for the magnificent? Do you know what good the greater part of the wealth and the possessions which we rich enjoy confer upon us? merely to disgust us, by their very splendor even, with everything which does not equal this splendor. Vaux! you will say, and the wonders of Vaux! What then? What boot these wonders? If I am ruined, how shall I fill with water the urns which my Naiads bear in their arms, or force the air into the lungs of my Tritons? To be rich enough, Monsieur D’Artagnan, a man must be too rich.”
D’Artagnan shook his head.
“Oh! I know very well what you think,” replied Fouquet quickly. “If Vaux were yours, you would sell it, and would purchase an estate in the country; an estate which should have woods, orchards, and land attached, and that this estate should be made to support its master. With forty millions you might——”
“Ten millions,” interrupted D’Artagnan.
“Not a million, my dear captain. No one in France is rich enough to give two millions for Vaux, and to continue to maintain it as I have done; no one could do it, no one would know how.”
“Well,” said D’Artagnan, “in any case, a million is not abject misery.”
“It is not far from it, my dear monsieur. But you do not understand me. No; I will not sell my residence at Vaux; I will give it to you, if you like;” and Fouquet accompanied these words with a movement of the shoulders to which it would be impossible to do justice.
“Give it to the king; you will make a better bargain.”
“The king does not require me to give it to him,” said Fouquet; “he will take it away from me with the most perfect ease and grace, if it please him to do so; and that is the reason why I should prefer to see it perish. Do you know, Monsieur D’Artagnan, that if the king did not happen to be under my roof, I would take this candle, go straight to the dome, and set fire to a couple of huge chests of fuses and fireworks which are in reserve there, and would reduce my palace to ashes?”
“Bah!” said the musketeer negligently. “At all events, you would not be able to burn the gardens, and that is the best part about the place.”
“And yet,” resumed Fouquet thoughtfully, “what was I saying? Great heavens! burn Vaux! destroy my palace! But Vaux is not mine; these wonderful creations are, it is true, the property, as far as sense of enjoyment goes, of the man who has paid for them; but as far as duration is concerned, they belong to those who created them. Vaux belongs to Lebrun, to Lenôtre, to Pellisson, to Levau, to La Fontaine, to Molière; Vaux belongs to posterity, in fact. You see, Monsieur D’Artagnan, that my very house ceases to be my own.”
“That is all well and good,” said D’Artagnan; “the idea is agreeable enough, and I recognize Monsieur Fouquet himself in it. That idea, indeed, makes me forget that poor fellow, Broussel, altogether; and I now fail to recognize in you the whining complaints of that old frondeur. If you are ruined, monsieur, look at the affair manfully, for you, too, mordioux! belong to posterity, and have no right to lessen yourself in any way. Stay a moment; look at me, I who seem to exercise in a degree a kind of superiority over you, because I arrest you; fate, which distributes their different parts to the comedians of this world, accorded me a less agreeable and less advantageous part to fill than yours has been; I am one of those who think that the parts which kings and powerful nobles are called upon to act are infinitely of more worth than the parts of beggars or lackeys. It is far better on the stage—on the stage, I mean, of another theater than the theater of this world—it is far better to wear a fine coat and to talk fine language than to walk the boards shod with a pair of old shoes, or to get one’s backbone gently caressed by a sound thrashing with a stick. In one word, you have been a prodigal with money, you have ordered and been obeyed—have been steeped to the lips in enjoyment; while I have dragged my tether after me, have been commanded and have obeyed, and have drudged my life away. Well, although I may seem of such trifling importance beside you, monseigneur, I do declare to you that the recollection of what I have done serves me as a spur, and prevents me from bowing my old head too soon. I shall remain unto the very end a good trooper; and when my turn comes I shall fall perfectly straight, all in a heap, still alive, after having selected my place beforehand. Do as I do, Monsieur Fouquet; you will not find yourself the worse for it; that happens only once in a lifetime to men like yourself, and the chief thing is to do it well when the chance presents itself. There is a Latin proverb—the words have escaped me, but I remember the sense of it very well, for I have thought over it more than once, which says, ‘The end crowns the work!’”
Fouquet rose from his seat, passed his arm round D’Artagnan’s neck, and clasped him in a close embrace, while with the other hand he pressed his hand.
“An excellent homily,” he said, after a moment’s pause.
“A soldier’s, monseigneur.”
“You have a regard for me in telling me all that.”
“Perhaps.”
Fouquet resumed his pensive attitude once more, and then, a moment after, he said:
“Where can Monsieur D’Herblay be? I dare not ask you to send for him.”
“You would not ask me, because I would not do it, Monsieur Fouquet. People would learn it, and Aramis, who is not mixed up with the affair, might possibly be compromised and included in your disgrace.”
“I will wait here till daylight,” said Fouquet.
“Yes; that is best.”
“What shall we do when daylight comes?”
“I know nothing at all about it, monseigneur.”
“Monsieur D’Artagnan, will you do me a favor?”
“Most willingly.”
“You guard me, I remain, you are acting in the full discharge of your duty, I suppose?”
“Certainly.”
“Very good, then; remain as close to me as my shadow, if you like; and I infinitely prefer such a shadow to any one else.”
D’Artagnan bowed to the compliment.
“But, forget that you are Monsieur D’Artagnan, captain of the musketeers; forget that I am Monsieur Fouquet, surintendant of the finances, and let us talk about my affairs.”
“That is rather a delicate subject.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes; but, for your sake, Monsieur Fouquet, I will do what may almost be regarded as an impossibility.”
“Thank you. What did the king say to you?”
“Nothing.”
“Ah! is that the way you talk?”
“The deuce!”
“What do you think of my situation?”
“Nothing.”
“However, unless you have some ill feeling against me——”
“Your position is a difficult one.”
“In what respect?”
“Because you are under your own roof.”
“However difficult it may be, yet I understand it very well.”
“Do you suppose that with any one else but yourself I should have shown so much frankness?”
“What! so much frankness, do you say? you, who refuse to tell me the slightest thing?”
“At all events, then, so much ceremony and consideration.”
“Ah! I have nothing to say in that respect.”
“One moment, monseigneur; let me tell you how I should have behaved toward any one but yourself. It might be that I happened to arrive at your door just as your guests or your friends had left you—or, if they had not yet gone, I should wait until they were leaving, and should then catch them one after the other, like rabbits; I should lock them up quietly enough; I should steal softly along the carpet of your corridor, and with one hand upon you, before you suspected the slightest thing about it, I should keep you safely until my master’s breakfast in the morning. In this way, I should just the same have avoided all publicity, all disturbance, all opposition; but there would also have been no warning for Monsieur Fouquet, no consideration for his feelings, none of those delicate concessions which are shown by persons who are essentially courteous in their natures, whenever the decisive moment may arrive. Are you satisfied with the plan?”
“It makes me shudder.”
“I thought you would not like it. It would have been very disagreeable to have made my appearance to-morrow, without any preparation, and to have asked you to deliver up your sword.”
“Oh, monsieur, I should have died from sheer shame and anger!”
“Your gratitude is too eloquently expressed. I have not done enough to deserve it, I assure you.”
“Most certainly, monsieur, you will never get me to believe that.”
“Well, then, monseigneur, if you are satisfied with what I have done, and have somewhat recovered from the shock which I prepared you for as much as I possibly could, let us allow the few hours that remain to pass away undisturbed. You are harassed, and require to arrange your thoughts; I beg you, therefore, to go to sleep, or pretend to go to sleep, either on your bed or in your bed; I shall sleep in this armchair; and when I fall asleep, my rest is so sound that a cannon would not wake me.”
Fouquet smiled.
“I except, however,” continued the musketeer, “the case of a door being opened, whether a secret door or any other, or the case of any one going out of or coming into the room. For anything like that my ear is as quick and sensitive as possible. Any creaking noise makes me start. It arises, I suppose, from a natural antipathy to anything of the kind. Move about as much as you like; walk up and down in any part of the room; write, efface, destroy, burn—nothing like that will prevent me from going to sleep, or even prevent me from snoring; but do not touch either the key or the handle of the door! for I should start up in a moment, and that would shake my nerves terribly.”
“Monsieur D’Artagnan,” said Fouquet, “you are certainly the most witty and the most courteous man I ever met with; and you will leave me only one regret, that of having made your acquaintance so late.”
D’Artagnan drew a deep sigh, which seemed to say, “Alas! you have, perhaps, made it too soon.” He then settled himself in his armchair, while Fouquet, half-lying on his bed and leaning on his arm, was meditating on his adventure. In this way, both of them, leaving the candles burning, awaited the first dawn of day; and when Fouquet happened to sigh too loudly, D’Artagnan only snored the louder. Not a single visit, not even from Aramis, disturbed their quietude; not a sound even was heard throughout the whole vast palace. Outside, however, the guards of honor on duty, and the patrols of the musketeers, paced up and down; and the sound of their feet could be heard on the gravel-walks. It seemed to act as an additional soporific for the sleepers; while the murmuring of the wind through the trees, and the unceasing music of the fountains, whose waters fell tumbling into the basins, still went on uninterruptedly, without being disturbed at the slight noises and matters of trifling moment which constitute the life and death of human nature.