Александр Дюма
Louise de la Valliere
Chapter XLVIII. M. de Mazarin’s Receipt
Fouquet would have uttered an exclamation of delight on seeing another friend arrive, if the cold air and averted aspect of Aramis had not restored all his reserve. “Are you going to join us at dessert?” he asked. “And yet you would be frightened, perhaps, at the noise which our wild friends here are making?”
“Monseigneur,” replied Aramis, respectfully, “I will begin by begging you to excuse me for having interrupted this merry meeting; and then, I will beg you to give me, as soon as your pleasure is attended to, a moment’s audience on matters of business.”
As the word “business” had aroused the attention of some of the epicureans present, Fouquet rose, saying: “Business first of all, Monsieur d’Herblay; we are too happy when matters of business arrive only at the end of a meal.”
As he said this, he took the hand of Madame de Belliere, who looked at him with a kind of uneasiness, and then led her to an adjoining salon, after having recommended her to the most reasonable of his guests. And then, taking Aramis by the arm, he led him towards his cabinet. As soon as Aramis was there, throwing aside the respectful air he had assumed, he threw himself into a chair, saying: “Guess whom I have seen this evening?”
“My dear chevalier, every time you begin in that manner, I am sure to hear you announce something disagreeable.”
“Well, and this time you will not be mistaken, either, my dear friend,” replied Aramis.
“Do not keep me in suspense,” added Fouquet, phlegmatically.
“Well, then, I have seen Madame de Chevreuse.”
“The old duchesse, do you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Her ghost, perhaps?”
“No, no; the old she-wolf herself.”
“Without teeth?”
“Possibly, but not without claws.”
“Well! what harm can she meditate against me? I am no miser with women who are not prudes. A quality always prized, even by the woman who no longer presumes to look for love.”
“Madame de Chevreuse knows very well that you are not avaricious, since she wishes to draw some money of you.”
“Indeed! under what pretext?”
“Oh! pretexts are never wanting with her. Let me tell you what it is: it seems that the duchesse has a good many letters of M. de Mazarin’s in her possession.”
“I am not surprised at that, for the prelate was gallant enough.”
“Yes, but these letters have nothing whatever to do with the prelate’s love affairs. They concern, it is said, financial matters rather.”
“And accordingly they are less interesting.”
“Do you not suspect what I mean?”
“Not at all.”
“Have you never heard speak of a prosecution being instituted for an embezzlement, or appropriation rather, of public funds?”
“Yes, a hundred, nay, a thousand times. Ever since I have been engaged in public matters I have hardly heard of anything else. It is precisely your own case, when, as a bishop, people reproach you for impiety; or, as a musketeer, for your cowardice; the very thing of which they are always accusing ministers of finance is the embezzlement of public funds.”
“Very good; but take a particular instance, for the duchesse asserts that M. de Mazarin alludes to certain particular instances.”
“What are they?”
“Something like a sum of thirteen millions of francs, of which it would be very difficult for you to define the precise nature of the employment.”
“Thirteen millions!” said the superintendent, stretching himself in his armchair, in order to enable him the more comfortably to look up towards the ceiling. “Thirteen millions – I am trying to remember out of all those I have been accused of having stolen.”
“Do not laugh, my dear monsieur, for it is very serious. It is positive that the duchesse has certain letters in her possession, and that these letters must be as she represents them, since she wished to sell them to me for five hundred thousand francs.”
“Oh! one can have a very tolerable calumny got up for such a sum as that,” replied Fouquet. “Ah! now I know what you mean,” and he began to laugh very heartily.
“So much the better,” said Aramis, a little reassured.
“I remember the story of those thirteen millions now. Yes, yes, I remember them quite well.”
“I am delighted to hear it; tell me about them.”
“Well, then, one day Signor Mazarin, Heaven rest his soul! made a profit of thirteen millions upon a concession of lands in the Valtelline; he canceled them in the registry of receipts, sent them to me, and then made me advance them to him for war expenses.”
“Very good; then there is no doubt of their proper destination.”
“No; the cardinal made me invest them in my own name, and gave me a receipt.”
“You have the receipt?”
“Of course,” said Fouquet, as he quietly rose from his chair, and went to his large ebony bureau inlaid with mother-of-pearl and gold.
“What I most admire in you,” said Aramis, with an air of great satisfaction, “is, your memory in the first place, then your self-possession, and, finally, the perfect order which prevails in your administration; you, of all men, too, who are by nature a poet.”
“Yes,” said Fouquet, “I am orderly out of a spirit of idleness, to save myself the trouble of looking after things, and so I know that Mazarin’s receipt is in the third drawer under the letter M; I open the drawer, and place my hand upon the very paper I need. In the night, without a light, I could find it.”
And with a confident hand he felt the bundle of papers which were piled up in the open drawer. “Nay, more than that,” he continued, “I remember the paper as if I saw it; it is thick, somewhat crumpled, with gilt edges; Mazarin had made a blot upon the figure of the date. Ah!” he said, “the paper knows we are talking about it, and that we want it very much, and so it hides itself out of the way.”
And as the superintendent looked into the drawer, Aramis rose from his seat.
“This is very singular,” said Fouquet.
“Your memory is treacherous, my dear monseigneur; look in another drawer.”
Fouquet took out the bundle of papers, and turned them over once more; he then grew very pale.
“Don’t confine your search to that drawer,” said Aramis; “look elsewhere.”
“Quite useless; I have never made a mistake; no one but myself arranges any papers of mine of this nature; no one but myself ever opens this drawer, of which, besides, no one, myself excepted, is aware of the secret.”
“What do you conclude, then?” said Aramis, agitated.
“That Mazarin’s receipt has been stolen from me; Madame de Chevreuse was right, chevalier; I have appropriated the public funds, I have robbed the state coffers of thirteen millions of money; I am a thief, Monsieur d’Herblay.”
“Nay, nay, do not get irritated – do not get excited.”
“And why not, chevalier? surely there is every reason for it. If legal proceedings are well arranged, and a judgment given in accordance with them, your friend the superintendent will soon follow Montfaucon, his colleague Enguerrand de Marigny, and his predecessor, Semblancay.”
“Oh!” said Aramis, smiling, “not so fast as that.”
“And why not? why not so fast? What do you suppose Madame de Chevreuse has done with those letters – for you refused them, I suppose?”
“Yes; at once. I suppose that she went and sold them to M. Colbert.”
“Well?”
“I said I supposed so; I might have said I was sure of it, for I had her followed, and, when she left me, she returned to her own house, went out by a back door, and proceeded straight to the intendant’s house in the Rue Croix des Petits-Champs.”
“Legal proceedings will be instituted, then, scandal and dishonor will follow; and all will fall upon me like a thunderbolt, blindly, pitilessly.”
Aramis approached Fouquet, who sat trembling in his chair, close to the open drawers; he placed his hand on his shoulder, and in an affectionate tone of voice, said: “Do not forget that the position of M. Fouquet can in no way be compared to that of Semblancay or of Marigny.”
“And why not, in Heaven’s name?”
“Because the proceedings against those ministers were determined, completed, and the sentence carried out, whilst in your case the same thing cannot take place.”
“Another blow, why not? A peculator is, under any circumstances, a criminal.”
“Criminals who know how to find a safe asylum are never in danger.”
“What! make my escape? Fly?”
“No, I do not mean that; you forget that all such proceedings originate in the parliament, that they are instituted by the procureur-general, and that you are the procureur-general. You see that, unless you wish to condemn yourself – ”
“Oh!” cried Fouquet, suddenly, dashing his fist upon the table.
“Well! what? what is the matter?”
“I am procureur-general no longer.”
Aramis, at this reply, became as livid as death; he pressed his hands together convulsively, and with a wild, haggard look, which almost annihilated Fouquet, he said, laying a stress on every distinct syllable, “You are procureur-general no longer, do you say?”
“No.”
“Since when?”
“Since the last four or five hours.”
“Take care,” interrupted Aramis, coldly; “I do not think you are in the full possession of your senses, my friend; collect yourself.”
“I tell you,” returned Fouquet, “that a little while ago, some one came to me, brought by my friends, to offer me fourteen hundred thousand francs for the appointment, and that I sold it.”
Aramis looked as though he had been struck by lightning; the intelligent and mocking expression of his countenance assumed an aspect of such profound gloom and terror, that it had more effect upon the superintendent than all the exclamations and speeches in the world. “You had need of money, then?” he said, at last.
“Yes; to discharge a debt of honor.” And in a few words, he gave Aramis an account of Madame de Belliere’s generosity, and the manner in which he had thought it but right to discharge that act of generosity.
“Yes,” said Aramis, “that is, indeed, a fine trait. What has it cost?”
“Exactly the fourteen hundred thousand francs – the price of my appointment.”
“Which you received in that manner, without reflection. Oh, imprudent man!”
“I have not yet received the amount, but I shall to-morrow.”
“It is not yet completed, then?”
“It must be carried out, though; for I have given the goldsmith, for twelve o’clock to-morrow, an order upon my treasury, into which the purchaser’s money will be paid at six or seven o’clock.”
“Heaven be praised!” cried Aramis, clapping his hands together, “nothing is yet completed, since you have not yet been paid.”
“But the goldsmith?”
“You shall receive the fourteen hundred thousand francs from me, at a quarter before twelve.”
“Stay a moment; it is at six o’clock, this very morning, that I am to sign.”
“Oh! I will answer that you do not sign.”
“I have given my word, chevalier.”
“If you have given it, you will take it back again, that is all.”
“Can I believe what I hear?” cried Fouquet, in a most expressive tone. “Fouquet recall his word, after it has once been pledged!”
Aramis replied to the almost stern look of the minister by a look full of anger. “Monsieur,” he said, “I believe I have deserved to be called a man of honor? As a soldier, I have risked my life five hundred times; as a priest I have rendered still greater services, both to the state and to my friends. The value of a word, once passed, is estimated according to the worth of the man who gives it. So long as it is in his own keeping, it is of the purest, finest gold; when his wish to keep it has passed away, it is a two-edged sword. With that word, therefore, he defends himself as with an honorable weapon, considering that, when he disregards his word, he endangers his life and incurs an amount of risk far greater than that which his adversary is likely to derive of profit. In such a case, monsieur, he appeals to Heaven and to justice.”
Fouquet bent down his head, as he replied, “I am a poor, self-determined man, a true Breton born; my mind admires and fears yours. I do not say that I keep my word from a proper feeling only; I keep it, if you like, from custom, practice, pride, or what you will; but, at all events, the ordinary run of men are simple enough to admire this custom of mine; it is my sole good quality – leave me such honor as it confers.”
“And so you are determined to sign the sale of the very appointment which can alone defend you against all your enemies.”
“Yes, I shall sign.”
“You will deliver yourself up, then, bound hand and foot, from a false notion of honor, which the most scrupulous casuists would disdain?”
“I shall sign,” repeated Fouquet.
Aramis sighed deeply, and looked all round him with the impatient gesture of a man who would gladly dash something to pieces, as a relief to his feelings. “We have still one means left,” he said; “and I trust you will not refuse me to make use of that.”
“Certainly not, if it be loyal and honorable; as everything is, in fact, which you propose.”
“I know nothing more loyal than the renunciation of your purchaser. Is he a friend of yours?”
“Certainly: but – ”
“‘But!’ – if you allow me to manage the affair, I do not despair.”
“Oh! you shall be absolutely master to do what you please.”
“Whom are you in treaty with? What manner of man is it?”
“I am not aware whether you know the parliament.”
“Most of its members. One of the presidents, perhaps?”
“No; only a counselor, of the name of Vanel.”
Aramis became perfectly purple. “Vanel!” he cried, rising abruptly from his seat; “Vanel! the husband of Marguerite Vanel?”
“Exactly.”
“Of your former mistress?”
“Yes, my dear fellow; she is anxious to be the wife of the procureur-general. I certainly owed poor Vanel that slight concession, and I am a gainer by it; since I, at the same time, can confer a pleasure on his wife.”
Aramis walked straight up to Fouquet, and took hold of his hand. “Do you know,” he said, very calmly, “the name of Madame Vanel’s new lover?”
“Ah! she has a new lover, then? I was not aware of it; no, I have no idea what his name is.”
“His name is M. Jean-Baptiste Colbert; he is intendant of the finances: he lives in the Rue Croix des Petits-Champs, where Madame de Chevreuse has been this evening to take him Mazarin’s letters, which she wishes to sell.”
“Gracious Heaven!” murmured Fouquet, passing his hand across his forehead, from which the perspiration was starting.
“You now begin to understand, do you not?”
“That I am utterly lost! – yes.”
“Do you now think it worth while to be so scrupulous with regard to keeping your word?”
“Yes,” said Fouquet.
“These obstinate people always contrive matters in such a way, that one cannot but admire them all the while,” murmured Aramis.
Fouquet held out his hand to him, and, at the very moment, a richly ornamented tortoise-shell clock, supported by golden figures, which was standing on a console table opposite to the fireplace, struck six. The sound of a door being opened in the vestibule was heard, and Gourville came to the door of the cabinet to inquire if Fouquet would received M. Vanel. Fouquet turned his eyes from the gaze of Aramis, and then desired that M. Vanel should be shown in.
Chapter XLIX. Monsieur Colbert’s Rough Draft
Vanel, who entered at this stage of the conversation, was nothing less for Aramis and Fouquet than the full stop which completes a phrase. But, for Vanel, Aramis’s presence in Fouquet’s cabinet had quite another signification; and, therefore, at his first step into the room, he paused as he looked at the delicate yet firm features of the bishop of Vannes, and his look of astonishment soon became one of scrutinizing attention. As for Fouquet, a perfect politician, that is to say, complete master of himself, he had already, by the energy of his own resolute will, contrived to remove from his face all traces of the emotion which Aramis’s revelation had occasioned. He was no longer, therefore, a man overwhelmed by misfortune and reduced to resort to expedients; he held his head proudly erect, and indicated by a gesture that Vanel could enter. He was now the first minister of the state, and in his own palace. Aramis knew the superintendent well; the delicacy of the feelings of his heart and the exalted nature of his mind no longer surprised him. He confined himself, then, for the moment – intending to resume later an active part in the conversation – to the performance of the difficult part of a man who looks on and listens, in order to learn and understand. Vanel was visibly overcome, and advanced into the middle of the cabinet, bowing to everything and everybody. “I am here,” he said.
“You are punctual, Monsieur Vanel,” returned Fouquet.
“In matters of business, monseigneur,” replied Vanel, “I look upon exactitude as a virtue.”
“No doubt, monsieur.”
“I beg your pardon,” interrupted Aramis, indicating Vanel with his finger, but addressing himself to Fouquet; “this is the gentleman, I believe, who has come about the purchase of your appointment?”
“Yes, I am,” replied Vanel, astonished at the extremely haughty tone in which Aramis had put the question; “but in what way am I to address you, who do me the honor – ”
“Call me monseigneur,” replied Aramis, dryly. Vanel bowed.
“Come, gentlemen, a truce to these ceremonies; let us proceed to the matter itself.”
“Monseigneur sees,” said Vanel, “that I am waiting your pleasure.”
“On the contrary, I am waiting,” replied Fouquet.
“What for, may I be permitted to ask, monseigneur?”
“I thought that you had perhaps something to say.”
“Oh,” said Vanel to himself, “he has reflected on the matter and I am lost.” But resuming his courage, he continued, “No, monseigneur, nothing, absolutely nothing more than what I said to you yesterday, and which I am again ready to repeat to you now.”
“Come, now, tell me frankly, Monsieur Vanel, is not the affair rather a burdensome one for you?”
“Certainly, monseigneur; fourteen hundred thousand francs is an important sum.”
“So important, indeed,” said Fouquet, “that I have reflected – ”
“You have been reflecting, do you say, monseigneur?” exclaimed Vanel, anxiously.
“Yes; that you might not yet be in a position to purchase.”
“Oh, monseigneur!”
“Do not make yourself uneasy on that score, Monsieur Vanel; I shall not blame you for a failure in your word, which evidently may arise from inability on your part.”
“Oh, yes, monseigneur, you would blame me, and you would be right in doing so,” said Vanel; “for a man must either be very imprudent, or a fool, to undertake engagements which he cannot keep; and I, at least, have always regarded a thing agreed on as a thing actually carried out.”
Fouquet colored, while Aramis uttered a “Hum!” of impatience.
“You would be wrong to exaggerate such notions as those, monsieur,” said the superintendent; “for a man’s mind is variable, and full of these very excusable caprices, which are, however, sometimes estimable enough; and a man may have wished for something yesterday of which he repents to-day.”
Vanel felt a cold sweat trickle down his face. “Monseigneur!” he muttered.
Aramis, who was delighted to find the superintendent carry on the debate with such clearness and precision, stood leaning his arm upon the marble top of a console table and began to play with a small gold knife, with a malachite handle. Fouquet did not hasten to reply; but after a moment’s pause, “Come, my dear Monsieur Vanel,” he said, “I will explain to you how I am situated.” Vanel began to tremble.
“Yesterday I wished to sell – ”
“Monseigneur did more than wish to sell, he actually sold.”
“Well, well, that may be so; but to-day I ask you the favor to restore me my word which I pledged you.”
“I received your word as a satisfactory assurance that it would be kept.”
“I know that, and that is the reason why I now entreat you; do you understand me? I entreat you to restore it to me.”
Fouquet suddenly paused. The words “I entreat you,” the effect of which he did not immediately perceive, seemed almost to choke him as he uttered it. Aramis, still playing with his knife, fixed a look upon Vanel which seemed as if he wished to penetrate the recesses of his heart. Vanel simply bowed, as he said, “I am overcome, monseigneur, at the honor you do me to consult me upon a matter of business which is already completed; but – ”
“Nay, do not say but, dear Monsieur Vanel.”
“Alas! monseigneur, you see,” he said, as he opened a large pocket-book, “I have brought the money with me, – the whole sum, I mean. And here, monseigneur, is the contract of sale which I have just effected of a property belonging to my wife. The order is authentic in every particular, the necessary signatures have been attached to it, and it is made payable at sight; it is ready money, in fact, and, in one word, the whole affair is complete.”
“My dear Monsieur Vanel, there is not a matter of business in this world, however important it may be, which cannot be postponed in order to oblige a man, who, by that means, might and would be made a devoted friend.”
“Certainly,” said Vanel, awkwardly.
“And much more justly acquired would that friend become, Monsieur Vanel, since the value of the service he had received would have been so considerable. Well, what do you say? what do you decide?”
Vanel preserved a perfect silence. In the meantime, Aramis had continued his close observation of the man. Vanel’s narrow face, his deeply sunken eyes, his arched eyebrows, had revealed to the bishop of Vannes the type of an avaricious and ambitious character. Aramis’s method was to oppose one passion by another. He saw that M. Fouquet was defeated – morally subdued – and so he came to his rescue with fresh weapons in his hands. “Excuse me, monseigneur,” he said; “you forgot to show M. Vanel that his own interests are diametrically opposed to this renunciation of the sale.”
Vanel looked at the bishop with astonishment; he had hardly expected to find an auxiliary in him. Fouquet also paused to listen to the bishop.
“Do you not see,” continued Aramis, “that M. Vanel, in order to purchase your appointment, has been obliged to sell a property belonging to his wife; well, that is no slight matter; for one cannot displace, as he has done, fourteen or fifteen hundred thousand francs without some considerable loss, and very serious inconvenience.”
“Perfectly true,” said Vanel, whose secret Aramis had, with keen-sighted gaze, wrung from the bottom of his heart.
“Inconveniences such as these are matters of great expense and calculation, and whenever a man has money matters to deal with, the expenses are generally the very first thing thought of.”
“Yes, yes,” said Fouquet, who began to understand Aramis’s meaning.
Vanel remained perfectly silent; he, too, had understood him. Aramis observed his coldness of manner and his silence. “Very good,” he said to himself, “you are waiting, I see, until you know the amount; but do not fear, I shall send you such a flight of crowns that you cannot but capitulate on the spot.”
“We must offer M. Vanel a hundred thousand crowns at once,” said Fouquet, carried away by his generous feelings.
The sum was a good one. A prince, even, would have been satisfied with such a bonus. A hundred thousand crowns at that period was the dowry of a king’s daughter. Vanel, however, did not move.
“He is a perfect rascal!” thought the bishop, “well, we must offer the five hundred thousand francs at once,” and he made a sign to Fouquet accordingly.
“You seem to have spent more than that, dear Monsieur Vanel,” said the superintendent. “The price of ready money is enormous. You must have made a great sacrifice in selling your wife’s property. Well, what can I have been thinking of? I ought to have offered to sign you an order for five hundred thousand francs; and even in that case I shall feel that I am greatly indebted to you.”
There was not a gleam of delight or desire on Vanel’s face, which remained perfectly impassible; not a muscle of it changed in the slightest degree. Aramis cast a look almost of despair at Fouquet, and then, going straight up to Vanel and taking hold of him by the coat, in a familiar manner, he said, “Monsieur Vanel, it is neither the inconvenience, nor the displacement of your money, nor the sale of your wife’s property even, that you are thinking of at this moment; it is something more important still. I can well understand it; so pay particular attention to what I am going to say.”
“Yes, monseigneur,” Vanel replied, beginning to tremble in every limb, as the prelate’s eyes seemed almost ready to devour him.
“I offer you, therefore, in the superintendent’s name, not three hundred thousand livres, nor five hundred thousand, but a million. A million – do you understand me?” he added, as he shook him nervously.
“A million!” repeated Vanel, as pale as death.
“A million; in other words, at the present rate of interest, an income of seventy thousand francs.”
“Come, monsieur,” said Fouquet, “you can hardly refuse that. Answer – do you accept?”
“Impossible,” murmured Vanel.
Aramis bit his lips, and something like a cloud seemed to pass over his face. The thunder behind this cloud could easily be imagined. He still kept his hold on Vanel. “You have purchased the appointment for fifteen hundred thousand francs, I think. Well, you will receive these fifteen hundred thousand francs back again; by paying M. Fouquet a visit, and shaking hands with him on the bargain, you will have become a gainer of a million and a half. You get honor and profit at the same time, Monsieur Vanel.”
“I cannot do it,” said Vanel, hoarsely.
“Very well,” replied Aramis, who had grasped Vanel so tightly by the coat that, when he let go his hold, Vanel staggered back a few paces, “very well; one can now see clearly enough your object in coming here.”
“Yes,” said Fouquet, “one can easily see that.”
“But – ” said Vanel, attempting to stand erect before the weakness of these two men of honor.
“Does the fellow presume to speak?” said Aramis, with the tone of an emperor.
“Fellow!” repeated Vanel.
“The scoundrel, I meant to say,” added Aramis, who had now resumed his usual self-possession. “Come, monsieur, produce your deed of sale, – you have it about you, I suppose, in one of your pockets, already prepared, as an assassin holds his pistol or his dagger concealed under his cloak.”
Vanel began to mutter something.
“Enough!” cried Fouquet. “Where is this deed?”
Vanel tremblingly searched in his pockets, and as he drew out his pocket-book, a paper fell out of it, while Vanel offered the other to Fouquet. Aramis pounced upon the paper which had fallen out, as soon as he recognized the handwriting. “I beg your pardon,” said Vanel, “that is a rough draft of the deed.”
“I see that very clearly,” retorted Aramis, with a smile more cutting than a lash of a whip; “and what I admire most is, that this draft is in M. Colbert’s handwriting. Look, monseigneur, look.”
And he handed the draft to Fouquet, who recognized the truth of the fact; for, covered with erasures, with inserted words, the margins filled with additions, this deed – a living proof of Colbert’s plot – had just revealed everything to its unhappy victim. “Well!” murmured Fouquet.
Vanel, completely humiliated, seemed as if he were looking for some hole wherein to hide himself.
“Well!” said Aramis, “if your name were not Fouquet, and if your enemy’s name were not Colbert – if you had not this mean thief before you, I should say to you, ‘Repudiate it;’ such a proof as this absolves you from your word; but these fellows would think you were afraid; they would fear you less than they do; therefore sign the deed at once.” And he held out a pen towards him.
Fouquet pressed Aramis’s hand; but, instead of the deed which Vanel handed to him, he took the rough draft of it.
“No, not that paper,” said Aramis, hastily; “this is the one. The other is too precious a document for you to part with.”
“No, no!” replied Fouquet; “I will sign under M. Colbert’s own handwriting even; and I write, ‘The handwriting is approved of.’” He then signed, and said, “Here it is, Monsieur Vanel.” And the latter seized the paper, dashed down the money, and was about to make his escape.
“One moment,” said Aramis. “Are you quite sure the exact amount is there? It ought to be counted over, Monsieur Vanel; particularly since M. Colbert makes presents of money to ladies, I see. Ah, that worthy M. Colbert is not so generous as M. Fouquet.” And Aramis, spelling every word, every letter of the order to pay, distilled his wrath and his contempt, drop by drop, upon the miserable wretch, who had to submit to this torture for a quarter of an hour. He was then dismissed, not in words, but by a gesture, as one dismisses or discharges a beggar or a menial.
As soon as Vanel had gone, the minister and the prelate, their eyes fixed on each other, remained silent for a few moments.
“Well,” said Aramis, the first to break the silence; “to what can that man be compared, who, at the very moment he is on the point of entering into a conflict with an enemy armed from head to foot, panting for his life, presents himself for the contest utterly defenseless, throws down his arms, and smiles and kisses his hands to his adversary in the most gracious manner? Good faith, M. Fouquet, is a weapon which scoundrels frequently make use of against men of honor, and it answers their purpose. Men of honor, ought, in their turn, also, to make use of dishonest means against such scoundrels. You would soon see how strong they would become, without ceasing to be men of honor.”
“What they did would be termed the acts of a scoundrel,” replied Fouquet.
“Far from that; it would be merely coquetting or playing with the truth. At all events, since you have finished with this Vanel; since you have deprived yourself of the happiness of confounding him by repudiating your word; and since you have given up, for the purpose of being used against yourself, the only weapon which can ruin you – ”
“My dear friend,” said Fouquet, mournfully, “you are like the teacher of philosophy whom La Fontaine was telling us about the other day; he saw a child drowning, and began to read him a lecture divided into three heads.”
Aramis smiled as he said, “Philosophy – yes; teacher – yes; a drowning child – yes; but a child can be saved – you shall see. But first of all let us talk about business. Did you not some time ago,” he continued, as Fouquet looked at him with a bewildered air, “speak to me about an idea you had of giving a fete at Vaux?”
