“Good-day, M. Vanel,” said the latter, rousing himself from his meditation.
“Good-day, Monseigneur,” said Vanel, naturally.
“You should say ‘Monsieur,’ and not ‘Monseigneur,'” replied Colbert, gently.
“We give the title of ‘Monseigneur’ to ministers,” returned Vanel, with extreme self-possession, “and you are a minister.”
“Not yet.”
“You are so in point of fact, and I call you ‘Monseigneur’ accordingly; besides, you are my seigneur, and that is sufficient. If you dislike my calling you ‘Monseigneur’ before others, allow me, at least, to call you so in private.”
Colbert raised his head to the height of the lamps, and read, or tried to read, upon Vanel’s face how much actual sincerity entered into this protestation of devotion. But the counsellor knew perfectly well how to sustain the weight of his look, even were it armed with the full authority of the title he had conferred. Colbert sighed. He had read nothing in Vanel’s face; Vanel might be sincere. Colbert recollected that this man, inferior to himself, was superior to him in having an unfaithful wife. At the moment he was pitying this man’s lot, Vanel coolly drew from his pocket a perfumed letter, sealed with Spanish wax, and held it towards Colbert, saying, “A letter from my wife, Monseigneur.”
Colbert coughed, took, opened, and read the letter, and then put it carefully away in his pocket; while Vanel, unconcerned, turned over the leaves of the papers he had brought with him.
“Vanel,” Colbert said suddenly to his protege, “you are a hard-working man?”
“Yes, Monseigneur.”
“Would twelve hours of labor frighten you?”
“I work fifteen hours every day.”
“Impossible! A counsellor need not work more than three hours a day in the parliament.”
“Oh! I am working up some returns for a friend of mine in the department of accounts; and as I still have time left on my hands, I am studying Hebrew.”
“Your reputation stands high in the parliament, Vanel.”
“I believe so, Monseigneur.”
“You must not grow rusty in your post of counsellor.”
“What must I do to avoid it?”
“Purchase a high place. Small ambitions are the most difficult to satisfy.”
“Small purses are the most difficult to fill, Monseigneur.”
“What post have you in view?” said Colbert.
“I see none,- not one.”
“There is one, certainly; but one need be the King himself to be able to buy it without inconvenience; and the King will not be inclined, I suppose, to purchase the post of procureur-general.”
At these words Vanel fixed his dull and humble look upon Colbert, who could hardly tell whether Vanel had comprehended him or not. “Why do you speak to me, Monseigneur,” said Vanel, “of the post of procureur-general to the parliament? I know no other post than the one M. Fouquet fills.”
“Exactly so, my dear counsellor.”
“You are not over-fastidious, Monseigneur, but before the post can be bought, it must be offered for sale.”
“I believe, M. Vanel, that it will be for sale before long.”
“For sale? What! M. Fouquet’s post of procureur-general?”
“So it is said.”
“The post which renders him inviolable, for sale! Oh, oh!” said Vanel, beginning to laugh.
“Would you be afraid, then, of the post?” said Colbert, gravely.
“Afraid! no; but-”
“Nor desirous of obtaining it?”
“You are laughing at me, Monseigneur,” replied Vanel; “is it likely that a counsellor of the parliament would not be desirous of becoming procureur-general?”
“Well, M. Vanel, since I tell you that the post will be shortly for sale-”
“I cannot help repeating, Monseigneur, that it is impossible; a man never throws away the buckler behind which he maintains his honor, his fortune, and his life.”
“There are certain men mad enough, Vanel, to fancy themselves out of the reach of all mischances.”
“Yes, Monseigneur; but such men never commit their mad acts for the advantage of the poor Vanels of the world.”
“Why not?”
“For the very reason that those Vanels are poor.”
“It is true that M. Fouquet’s post might cost a good round sum. What would you bid for it, M. Vanel?”
“Everything I am worth.”
“Which means-”
“Three or four hundred thousand livres.”
“And the post is worth-”
“A million and a half, at the very lowest. I know persons who have offered seventeen hundred thousand livres, without being able to persuade M. Fouquet to sell. Besides, supposing it were to happen that M. Fouquet wished to sell,- which I do not believe, in spite of what I have been told-“