“And to your health, Monseigneur, ‘whatever may happen,'” said d’Artagnan.
He bowed, with these words of evil omen, to all the company, who rose as soon as they heard the sound of his spurs and boots at the bottom of the stairs.
“I for a moment thought it was I and not my money he wanted,” said Fouquet, endeavoring to laugh.
“You!” cried his friends; “and what for, in the name of Heaven?”
“Oh, do not deceive yourselves, my dear brothers in Epicurus!” said the superintendent. “I will not make a comparison between the most humble sinner on the earth and the God we adore; but remember he gave one day to his friends a repast which is called the Last Supper, and which was only a farewell dinner, like that which we are making at this moment.”
A painful cry of protestation arose from all parts of the table. “Shut the doors,” said Fouquet, and the servants disappeared. “My friends,” continued Fouquet, lowering his voice, “what was I formerly; what am I now? Consult among yourselves, and reply. A man like me sinks when he does not continue to rise. What shall we say, then, when he really sinks? I have no more money, no more credit; I have no longer anything but powerful enemies and powerless friends.”
“Quick!” cried Pelisson, rising. “Since you explain yourself with that frankness, it is our duty to be frank likewise. Yes, you are ruined; yes, you are hastening to your ruin. Stop! And in the first place, what money have we left?”
“Seven hundred thousand livres,” said the intendant.
“Bread,” murmured Madame Fouquet.
“Relays,” said Pelisson,- “relays, and fly!”
“Whither?”
“To Switzerland; to Savoy; but fly!”
“If Monseigneur flies,” said Madame de Belliere, “it will be said that he was guilty, and was afraid.”
“More than that, it will be said that I have carried away twenty millions with me.”
“We will draw up memoirs to justify you,” said La Fontaine. “Fly!”
“I will remain,” said Fouquet; “and besides, does not everything serve me?”
“You have Belle-Isle,” cried the Abbe Fouquet.
“And I am of course going thither when going to Nantes,” replied the superintendent. “Patience, then!”
“Before arriving at Nantes, what a distance!” said Madame Fouquet.
“Yes, I know that well,” replied Fouquet; “but what is to be done about it? The King summons me to the States; I know well it is for the purpose of ruining me, but to refuse to go would show uneasiness.”
“Well, I have discovered the means of reconciling everything,” cried Pelisson. “You are going to set out for Nantes.”
Fouquet looked at him with an air of surprise.
“But with friends,- in your own carriage as far as Orleans; in your barge as far as Nantes; always ready to defend yourself if you are attacked, to escape if you are threatened. In fact, you will carry your money, to be provided against all chances; and while flying you will only have obeyed the King; then, reaching the sea when you like, you will embark for Belle-Isle, and from Belle-Isle you will shoot out whenever it may please you, like the eagle, which rushes into space when it has been driven from its eyry.”
A general assent followed Pelisson’s words. “Yes, do so,” said Madame Fouquet to her husband.
“Do so,” said Madame de Belliere.
“Do it! do it!” cried all his friends.
“I will do so,” replied Fouquet.
“This very evening?”
“In an hour?”
“Immediately.”
“With seven hundred thousand livres you can lay the foundation of another fortune,” said the Abbe Fouquet. “What is there to prevent our arming corsairs at Belle-Isle?”
“And if necessary, we will go and discover a new world,” added La Fontaine, intoxicated with projects and enthusiasm.
A knock at the door interrupted this concert of joy and hope. “A courier from the King,” said the master of the ceremonies.
A profound silence immediately ensued, as if the message brought by this courier was a reply to all the projects given birth to an instant before. Every one waited to see what the master would do. His brow was streaming with perspiration, and he was really suffering from his fever at that instant. He passed into his cabinet to receive the King’s message. There prevailed, as we have said, such a silence in the chambers and throughout the attendance, that from the dining-room could be heard the voice of Fouquet saying, “That is well, Monsieur.” This voice was, however, broken by fatigue, trembling with emotion. An instant after, Fouquet called Gourville, who crossed the gallery amid the universal expectation. At length he himself reappeared among his guests, but it was no longer the same pale, spiritless countenance they had beheld when he left them; from pale he had become livid, and from spiritless, annihilated. A living spectre, he advanced with his arms stretched out, his mouth parched,- like a shade that comes to salute friends of former days. On seeing him thus, every one cried out, and every one rushed towards Fouquet. The latter, looking at Pelisson, leaned upon his wife and pressed the icy hand of the Marquise de Belliere. “Well!” said he, in a voice that had nothing human in it.