Baisemeaux stamped his foot on the ground like a man in a state of despair, but he did not utter a word; whereupon Fouquet seized a pen and ink, and wrote,-
“Order for M. le Prevot des Marchands to assemble the municipal guard, and to march upon the Bastille for the King’s service.”
Baisemeaux shrugged his shoulders. Fouquet wrote:
“Order for M. le Duc de Bouillon and M. le Prince de Conde to assume the command of the Swiss and of the Guards, and to march upon the Bastille for the King’s service.”
Baisemeaux reflected. Fouquet still wrote:-
“Order for every soldier, citizen, or gentleman to seize and apprehend, wherever he may be found, the Chevalier d’Herblay, Eveque de Vannes, and his accomplices, who are- first, M. de Baisemeaux, governor of the Bastille, suspected of the crimes of high treason and rebellion-
“Stop, Monseigneur!” cried Baisemeaux. “I understand absolutely nothing of the whole matter; but so many misfortunes, even were it madness itself that had set them at work, might happen here in a couple of hours that the King, by whom I shall be judged, will see whether I have been wrong in withdrawing the countersign before so many imminent catastrophes. Come with me to the keep, Monseigneur; you shall see Marchiali.”
Fouquet darted out of the room, followed by Baisemeaux wiping the perspiration from his face. “What a terrible morning!” he said; “what a disgrace!”
“Walk faster!” replied Fouquet.
Baisemeaux made a sign to the jailer to precede them. He was afraid of his companion,- which the latter could not fail to perceive.
“A truce to this child’s-play!” said Fouquet, roughly. “Let the man remain here; take the keys yourself, and show me the way. Not a single person, do you understand, must hear what is going to take place here.”
“Ah!” said Baisemeaux, undecided.
“Again,” cried Fouquet. “Ah! say ‘No’ at once, and I will leave the Bastille, and will myself carry my own despatches.”
Baisemeaux bowed his head, took the keys, and unaccompanied except by the minister, ascended the staircase. As they advanced up the spiral staircase, certain smothered murmurs became distinct cries and fearful imprecations. “What is that?” asked Fouquet.
“That is your Marchiali,” said the governor; “that is the way madmen howl.” And he accompanied that reply with a glance more indicative of injurious allusions, as far as Fouquet was concerned, than of politeness.
The latter trembled; he had just recognized, in one cry more terrible than any that had preceded it, the King’s voice. He paused on the staircase, trying to snatch the bunch of keys from Baisemeaux, who thought this new madman was going to dash out his brains with one of them.
“Give me the keys at once!” cried Fouquet, tearing them from his hand. “Which is the key of the door I am to open?”
“That one.”
A fearful cry, followed by a violent blow against the door, made the whole staircase resound with the echo. “Leave this place!” said Fouquet to Baisemeaux, in a threatening voice.
“I ask nothing better,” murmured the latter. “There will be a couple of madmen face to face; and the one will kill the other, I am sure.”
“Go!” repeated Fouquet. “If you place your foot on this staircase before I call you, remember that you shall take the place of the meanest prisoner in the Bastille.”
“This job will kill me, I am sure!” muttered Baisemeaux, as he withdrew with tottering steps.
The prisoner’s cries became more and more terrible. When Fouquet had satisfied himself that Baisemeaux had reached the bottom of the staircase, he inserted the key in the first lock. It was then that he heard the hoarse, choking voice of the King crying out in a frenzy of rage, “Help, help! I am the King!” The key of the second door was not the same as the first, and Fouquet was obliged to look for it on the bunch. The King, meanwhile, furious and almost mad with rage and passion, shouted at the top of his voice, “It was M. Fouquet who brought me here! help me against M. Fouquet! I am the King! help the King against M. Fouquet!”
These cries tore the minister’s heart with mingled emotions. They were followed by frightful blows levelled against the door with a part of the broken chair with which the King had armed himself. Fouquet at last succeeded in finding the key. The King was almost exhausted; he no longer articulated, he roared: “Death to Fouquet! Death to the traitor Fouquet!” The door flew open.