“But I have already told you, M. Fouquet,” replied d’Artagnan, moved to the depths of his soul, “that you exaggerate matters a great deal too much. The King likes you.”
“No, no,” said Fouquet, shaking his head.
“M. de Colbert hates you.”
“M. de Colbert! What does that matter to me?”
“He will ruin you.”
“Oh! I defy him to do that, for I am ruined already.”
At this singular confession of the superintendent, d’Artagnan cast his glance all round the room; and although he did not open his lips, Fouquet understood him so thoroughly that he added:
“What can be done with these magnificent things when one is no longer magnificent? Do you know what good the greater part of the wealth and the possessions which we rich enjoy, confer upon us?- merely to disgust us, by their very splendor even, with everything which does not equal this splendor. Vaux, you will say, and the wonders of Vaux! What then? What boot these wonders? If I am ruined, how shall I fill with water the urns which my Naiads bear in their arms, or force the air into the lungs of my Tritons? To be rich enough, M. d’Artagnan, a man must be too rich.”
D’Artagnan shook his head.
“Oh, I know very well what you think,” replied Fouquet, quickly. “If Vaux were yours, you would sell it, and would purchase an estate in the country,- an estate which should have woods, orchards, and fields,- an estate which should support its master. With forty millions you would do well-”
“Ten millions,” interrupted d’Artagnan.
“Not a million, my dear captain! No one in France is rich enough to give two millions for Vaux, and to continue to maintain it as I have done; no one could do it,- no one would know how.”
“Well,” said d’Artagnan, “in any case, a million is not misery.”
“It is not far from it, my dear monsieur. But you do not understand me. No; I will not sell my residence at Vaux,- I will give it to you, if you like”; and Fouquet accompanied these words with a movement of the shoulders to which it would be impossible to do justice.
“Give it to the King; you will make a better bargain.”
“The King does not require me to give it to him,” said Fouquet. “He will take it away from me very readily if it pleases him; and that is the reason why I should prefer to see it perish. Do you know, M. d’Artagnan, that if the King were not under my roof, I would take this candle, go straight to the dome, set fire to a couple of huge chests of fusees and fireworks which are in reserve there, and reduce my palace to ashes.”
“Bah!” said the musketeer, negligently. “At all events, you would not be able to burn the gardens; and that is the best part of the establishment.”
“And yet,” resumed Fouquet, thoughtfully, “what was I saying? Great heavens! burn Vaux,- destroy my palace! But Vaux is not mine. This wealth, these wonderful creations, are, it is true, the property, so far as sense of enjoyment goes, of the man who has paid for them; but so far as duration is concerned, they belong to those who created them. Vaux belongs to Lebrun, to Lenotre, to Pellisson, to Levau, to La Fontaine, to Moliere; Vaux belongs to posterity, in fact. You see, M. d’Artagnan, that my very house ceases to be my own.”
“That is good,” said d’Artagnan; “I like that idea, and I recognize M. Fouquet himself in it. That idea, indeed, makes me forget that poor fellow Broussel altogether; and I recall no longer the whining complaints of that old Frondeur. If you are ruined, Monsieur, look at the affair manfully; for you too, mordioux! belong to posterity, and have no right to lessen yourself in any way. Stay a moment! Look at me,- I who seem to exercise in a degree a kind of superiority over you because I arrest you. Fate, which distributes their different parts to the comedians of this world, accorded to me a less agreeable and less advantageous part to fill than yours has been. I am one of those who think that the parts which kings and powerful nobles are called upon to act are of infinitely more worth than those of beggars or lackeys. It is better on the stage,- on the stage, I mean, of another theatre than that of this world,- it is better to wear a fine coat and to talk fine language than to walk the boards shod with a pair of old shoes, or to get one’s backbone caressed by sticks well laid on. In one word, you have been a prodigal with money, have ordered and been obeyed, have been steeped to the lips in enjoyment; while I have dragged my tether after me, have been commanded and have obeyed, and have drudged my life away. Well, although I may seem of such trifling importance beside you, Monseigneur, I do declare to you that the recollection of what I have done serves me as a spur, and prevents me from bowing my old head too soon. I shall remain until the very end a good trooper; and when my turn comes I shall fall perfectly straight, all in a heap, still alive, after having selected my place beforehand. Do as I do, M. Fouquet,- you will not find yourself the worse for it; that happens only once in a lifetime to men like yourself, and the chief thing is to do it well when the chance presents itself. There is a Latin proverb- the words have escaped me, but I remember the sense of it very well, for I have thought it over more than once- which says, ‘The end crowns the work!'”