Louise de la Valliere, Alexandre Dumas [smallest ebook reader TXT] 📗
- Author: Alexandre Dumas
Book online «Louise de la Valliere, Alexandre Dumas [smallest ebook reader TXT] 📗». Author Alexandre Dumas
“Do not forget the proverb, monseigneur.”
“What is it?”
“That he who becomes responsible for another has to pay for his fancy.”
“Let that make no difference.”
Vanel rose, bewildered by this offer which had been so suddenly and unexpectedly made to him. “You are not trifling with me, monseigneur?” he said.
“Stay; you say that M. Gourville has spoken to you about M. Fouquet’s post?”
“Yes; and M. Pelisson, also.”
“Officially so, or only through their own suggestion?”
“These were their very words: ‘The parliament members are as proud as they are wealthy; they ought to club together two or three millions among themselves, to present to their protector and leader, M. Fouquet.’”
“And what did you reply?”
“I said that, for my own part, I would give ten thousand francs if necessary.”
“Ah! you like M. Fouquet, then!” exclaimed Colbert, with a look of hatred.
“No; but M. Fouquet is our chief. He is in debt—is on the high road to ruin; and we ought to save the honor of the body of which we are members.”
“Exactly; and that explains why M. Fouquet will be always safe and sound, so long as he occupies his present post,” replied Colbert.
“Thereupon,” said Vanel, “M. Gourville added, ‘If we were to do anything out of charity to M. Fouquet, it could not be otherwise than most humiliating to him; and he would be sure to refuse it. Let the parliament subscribe among themselves to purchase, in a proper manner, the post of procureur-general; in that case, all would go well; the honor of our body would be saved, and M. Fouquet’s pride spared.’”
“That is an opening.”
“I considered it so, monseigneur.”
“Well, Monsieur Vanel, you will go at once, and find out either M. Gourville or M. Pelisson. Do you know any other friend of M. Fouquet?”
“I know M. de la Fontaine very well.”
“La Fontaine, the rhymester?”
“Yes; he used to write verses to my wife, when M. Fouquet was one of our friends.”
“Go to him, then, and try and procure an interview with the superintendent.”
“Willingly—but the sum itself?”
“On the day and hour you arrange to settle the matter, Monsieur Vanel, you shall be supplied with the money, so do not make yourself uneasy on that account.”
“Monseigneur, such munificence! You eclipse kings even—you surpass M. Fouquet himself.”
“Stay a moment—do not let us mistake each other: I do not make you a present of fourteen hundred thousand francs, Monsieur Vanel; for I have children to provide for—but I will lend you that sum.”
“Ask whatever interest, whatever security you please, monseigneur; I am quite ready. And when all your requisitions are satisfied, I will still repeat, that you surpass kings and M. Fouquet in munificence. What conditions do you impose?”
“The repayment in eight years, and a mortgage upon the appointment itself.”
“Certainly. Is that all?”
“Wait a moment. I reserve to myself the right of purchasing the post from you at one hundred and fifty thousand francs profit for yourself, if, in your mode of filling the office, you do not follow out a line of conduct in conformity with the interests of the king and with my projects.”
“Ah-h!” said Vanel, in an altered tone.
“Is there anything in that which can possibly be objectionable to you, Monsieur Vanel?” said Colbert, coldly.
“Oh! no, no,” replied Vanel, nervously.
“Very good. We will sign an agreement to that effect whenever you like. And now go as quickly as you can to M. Fouquet’s friend, obtain an interview with the superintendent; do not be too difficult in making whatever concessions may be required of you; and when once the arrangements are all made—”
“I will press him to sign.”
“Be most careful to do nothing of the kind; do not speak of signatures with M. Fouquet, nor of deeds, nor even ask him to pass his word. Understand this: otherwise you will lose everything. All you have to do is to get M. Fouquet to give you his hand on the matter. Go, go.”
Chapter XLIII. An Interview with the Queen-Mother.
The queen-mother was in the bedroom at the Palais Royal, with Madame de Motteville and Senora Molina. King Louis, who had been impatiently expected the whole day, had not made his appearance; and the queen, who was growing impatient, had often sent to inquire about him. The moral atmosphere of the court seemed to indicate an approaching storm; the courtiers and the ladies of the court avoided meeting in the ante-chambers and the corridors in order not to converse on compromising subjects. Monsieur had joined the king early in the morning for a hunting-party; Madame remained in her own apartment, cool and distant to every one; and the queen-mother, after she had said her prayers in Latin, talked of domestic matters with her two friends in pure Castilian. Madame de Motteville, who understood the language perfectly, answered her in French. When the three ladies had exhausted every form of dissimulation and of politeness, as a circuitous mode of expressing that the king’s conduct was making the queen and the queen-mother pine away through sheer grief and vexation, and when, in the most guarded and polished phrases, they had fulminated every variety of imprecation against Mademoiselle de la Valliere, the queen-mother terminated her attack by an exclamation indicative of her own reflections and character. “Estos hijos!” said she to Molina—which means, “These children!” words full of meaning on a mother’s lips—words full of terrible significance in the mouth of a queen who, like Anne of Austria, hid many curious secrets in her soul.
“Yes,” said Molina, “children, children! for whom every mother becomes a sacrifice.”
“Yes,” replied the queen; “a mother sacrifices everything, certainly.” She did not finish her phrase; for she fancied, when she raised her eyes towards the full-length portrait of the pale Louis XIII., that light once more flashed from her husband’s dull eyes, and his nostrils grew livid with wrath. The portrait seemed animated by a living expression—speak it did not, but it seemed to threaten. A profound silence succeeded the queen’s last remark. La Molina began to turn over ribbons and laces on a large work-table. Madame de Motteville, surprised at the look of mutual intelligence which had been exchanged between the confidant and her mistress, cast down
Comments (0)