D’Artagnan buried his head in his hands, tore his mustache in sheer vexation, and added, “For what reason is M. Fouquet disgraced? For three reasons: the first, because M. 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 M. Colbert and loves Mademoiselle de la Valliere. Oh, he is a lost man! But shall I put my foot on his neck,- I, a man, 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 M. Fouquet and arresting him off-hand and shutting him up, I will try to 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 Fouquet, who having taken leave of the ladies was preparing 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 salons. Surrounded by his friends, who were complimenting him and receiving his flattering remarks in return, the superintendent 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 was bowed beneath the weight of the new debts which he had incurred for the purpose of giving the greatest possible honor to this fete.
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 the lightning or the thunder: every one recognizes them; but their appearance never fails to arouse surprise and astonishment, and whenever it occurs the impression is always left that the last visitation was the loudest or brightest and most violent. “What! M. 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 M. d’Artagnan.”
“Thank you.”
“Have you come to criticise the fete?
“You have an ingenious mind.”
“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. “Are you going to bed already?” he said to the superintendent.
“Yes: have you anything to say to me?”
“Nothing, Monsieur; nothing at all. You sleep in this room, then?”