“I should be surprised if that were the case,” replied Fouquet.
“Why?”
“Because their chief,- the very soul of the enterprise,- having been unmasked by me, the whole plan seems to me to have miscarried.”
“You have unmasked this false Prince also?”
“No, I have not seen him.”
“Whom have you seen, then?”
“The leader of the enterprise is not that unhappy young man; the latter is merely an instrument, destined through his whole life to wretchedness, I plainly perceive.”
“Most certainly.”
“It is M. l’Abbe d’Herblay, Bishop of Vannes.”
“Your friend?”
“He was my friend, Sire,” replied Fouquet, nobly.
“An unfortunate circumstance for you,” said the King, in a less generous tone of voice.
“Such friendship, Sire, had nothing dishonorable in it so long as I was ignorant of the crime.”
“You should have foreseen it.”
“If I am guilty, I place myself in your Majesty’s hands.”
“Ah, M. Fouquet, it was not that I meant,” returned the King, sorry to have shown the bitterness of his thought in such a manner. “Well; I assure you that notwithstanding the mask with which the villain covered his face, I had something like a vague suspicion that it might be he. But with this chief of the enterprise there was a man of prodigious strength; the one who menaced me with a force almost herculean, what is he?”
“It must be his friend the Baron du Vallon, formerly one of the Musketeers.”
“The friend of d’Artagnan; the friend of the Comte de la Fere? Ah!” exclaimed the King, as he paused at the name of the latter, “we must not forget that connection between the conspirators and M. de Bragelonne.”
“Sire, Sire, do not go too far! M. de la Fere is the most honorable man in France. Be satisfied with those whom I deliver up to you.”
“With those whom you deliver up to me, you say? Very good, for you will deliver up those who are guilty to me.”
“What does your Majesty understand by that?” inquired Fouquet.
“I understand,” replied the King, “that we shall soon arrive at Vaux with a large body of troops, that we will lay violent hands upon that nest of vipers, and that not a soul shall escape.”
“Your Majesty will put these men to death?” cried Fouquet.
“To the very meanest of them.”
“Oh, Sire!”
“Let us understand each other, M. Fouquet,” said the King, haughtily. “We no longer live in times when assassination was the only, the last resource of kings. No, Heaven be praised! I have parliaments who judge in my name, and I have scaffolds on which my supreme will is executed.”
Fouquet turned pale. “I will take the liberty of observing to your Majesty that any proceedings instituted respecting these matters would bring down the greatest scandal upon the dignity of the throne. The august name of Anne of Austria must never be allowed to pass the lips of the people accompanied by a smile.”
“Justice must be done, however, Monsieur.”
“Good, Sire; but the royal blood cannot be shed on a scaffold.”
“The royal blood! you believe that?” cried the King, with fury in his voice, stamping on the ground. “This double birth is an invention; and in that invention particularly do I see M. d’Herblay’s crime. That is the crime I wish to punish, rather than their violence or their insult.”
“And punish it with death, Sire?”
“With death! yes, Monsieur.”
“Sire,” said the superintendent, with firmness, as he raised his head proudly, “your Majesty will take the life, if you please, of your brother Philippe of France; that concerns you alone, and you will doubtless consult the Queen-Mother upon the subject. Whatever she may order will be ordered well. I do not wish to mix myself up in it, not even for the honor of your crown; but I have a favor to ask of you, and I beg to submit to you.”
“Speak,” said the King, in no little degree agitated by his minister’s last words. “What do you require?”
“The pardon of M. d’Herblay and of M. du Vallon.”
“My assassins?”
“Two rebels, Sire; that is all.”
“Oh! I understand, then, you ask me to forgive your friends.”