The two Princes, both pale as death,- for we renounce the hope of being able to describe the fearful state of Philippe,- both trembling, and clinching their hands convulsively, measured each other with their looks, and darted their eyes, like poniards, into each other. Mute, panting, bending forward, they appeared as if about to spring upon an enemy. The unheard-of resemblance of countenance, gesture, shape, height, even of costume,- produced by chance, for Louis XIV had been to the Louvre and put on a violet-colored suit,- the perfect likeness of the two Princes completed the consternation of Anne of Austria. And yet she did not at once guess the truth. There are misfortunes in life that no one will accept; people would rather believe in the supernatural and the impossible. Louis had not reckoned upon these obstacles. He expected that he had only to appear and be acknowledged. A living sun, he could not endure the suspicion of parity with any one. He did not admit that every torch should not become darkness at the instant he shone out with his conquering ray. At the aspect of Philippe, then, he was perhaps more terrified than any one round him, and his silence, his immobility, were this time a concentration and a calm which precede violent explosions of passion.
But Fouquet! who could paint his emotion and stupor in presence of this living portrait of his master! Fouquet thought Aramis was right,- that this new-comer was a King as pure in his race as the other, and that for having repudiated all participation in this coup d’etat, so skilfully got up by the General of the Jesuits, he must be a mad enthusiast unworthy of ever again dipping his hands in a political work. And then it was the blood of Louis XIII which Fouquet was sacrificing to the blood of Louis XIII; it was to a selfish ambition he was sacrificing a noble ambition; it was to the right of keeping he sacrificed the right of having! The whole extent of his fault was revealed to him by the simple sight of the pretender. All that passed in the mind of Fouquet was lost upon the persons present. He had five minutes to concentrate his meditations upon this point of the case of conscience; five minutes,- that is to say, five ages,- during which the two Kings and their family scarcely found time to breathe after so terrible a shock.
D’Artagnan, leaning against the wall in front of Fouquet, with his hand to his brow, asked himself the cause of such a wonderful prodigy. He could not have said at once why he doubted, but he knew assuredly that he had reason to doubt, and that in this meeting of the two Louis XIV’s lay all the mystery which during late days had rendered the conduct of Aramis so suspicious to the musketeer. These ideas were, however, enveloped in thick veils. The actors in this assembly seemed to swim in the vapors of a confused waking.
Suddenly Louis XIV, more impatient and more accustomed to command, ran to one of the shutters, which he opened, tearing the curtains in his eagerness. A flood of living light entered the chamber, and made Philippe draw back to the alcove. Louis seized upon this movement with eagerness, and addressing himself to the Queen, “My mother,” said he, “do you not acknowledge your son, since every one here has forgotten his King?” Anne of Austria started, and raised her arms towards Heaven, without being able to articulate a single word.
“My mother,” said Philippe, with a calm voice, “do you not acknowledge your son?” And this time, in his turn, Louis drew back.
As to Anne of Austria, struck in both head and heart with remorse, she was no longer able to stand. No one aiding her, for all were petrified, she sank back in her fauteuil, breathing a weak, trembling sigh. Louis could not endure this spectacle and this affront. He bounded towards d’Artagnan, upon whom the vertigo was beginning to gain, and who staggered as he caught at the door for support. “A moi, mousquestaire!” said he. “Look us in the face and say which is the paler, he or I!”