present to monsieur the governor of the conciergerie! Peste!
monseigneur, he might have his head cut off; but he would,
before dying, have had such happiness as no man had enjoyed
before him.”
“And I add,” said Fouquet, “that the concierge of the Palais
would not have his head cut off, for he would receive of me
my horses to effect his escape, and five hundred thousand
livres wherewith to live comfortably in England: I add, that
this lady, my friend, would give him nothing but the horses
and the money. Let us go and seek her, Pellisson.”
The superintendent reached forth his hand towards the gold
and silken cord placed in the interior of his carriage, but
Pellisson stopped him. “Monseigneur,” said he, “you are
going to lose as much time in seeking this lady as Columbus
took to discover the new world. Now, we have but two hours
in which we can possibly succeed; the concierge once gone to
bed, how shall we get at him without making a disturbance?
When daylight dawns, how can we conceal our proceedings? Go,
go yourself, monseigneur, and do not seek either woman or
angel to-night.”
“But, my dear Pellisson, here we are before her door.”
“What! before the angel’s door?”
“Why, yes!”
“This is the hotel of Madame de Belliere!”
“Hush!”
“Ah! Good Lord!” exclaimed Pellisson.
“What have you to say against her?”
“Nothing, alas! and it is that which causes my despair.
Nothing, absolutely nothing. Why can I not, on the contrary,
say ill enough of her to prevent your going to her?”
But Fouquet had already given orders to stop, and the
carriage was motionless. “Prevent me!” cried Fouquet; “why,
no power on earth should prevent my going to pay my
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compliments to Madame de Plessis-Belliere, besides, who
knows that we shall not stand in need of her!”
“No, monseigneur no!”
“But I do not wish you to wait for me, Pellisson,” replied
Fouquet, sincerely courteous.
“The more reason I should, monseigneur; knowing that you are
keeping me waiting, you will, perhaps, stay a shorter time.
Take care! You see there is a carriage in the courtyard: she
has some one with her.” Fouquet leant towards the steps of
the carriage. “One word more,” cried Pellisson; “do not go
to this lady till you have been to the concierge, for
Heaven’s sake!”
“Eh! five minutes, Pellisson,” replied Fouquet, alighting at
the steps of the hotel, leaving Pellisson in the carriage,
in a very ill-humor. Fouquet ran upstairs, told his name to
the footman, which excited an eagerness and a respect that
showed the habit the mistress of the house had of honoring
that name in her family. “Monsieur le surintendant,” cried
the marquise, advancing, very pale, to meet him; “what an
honor! what an unexpected pleasure!” said she. Then, in a
low voice, “Take care!” added the marquise, “Marguerite
Vanel is here!”
“Madame,” replied Fouquet, rather agitated, “I came on
business. One single word, and quickly, if you please!” And
he entered the salon. Madame Vanel had risen, paler, more
livid, than Envy herself. Fouquet in vain addressed her,
with the most agreeable, most pacific salutation; she only
replied by a terrible glance darted at the marquise and
Fouquet. This keen glance of a jealous woman is a stiletto
which pierces every cuirass; Marguerite Vanel plunged it
straight into the hearts of the two confidants. She made a
courtesy to her friend, a more profound one to Fouquet, and
took leave, under pretense of having a number of visits to
make, without the marquise trying to prevent her, or
Fouquet, a prey to anxiety, thinking further about her. She
was scarcely out of the room, and Fouquet left alone with
the marquise, before he threw himself on his knees, without
saying a word. “I expected you,” said the marquise, with a
tender sigh.
“Oh! no,” cried he, “or you would have sent away that
woman.”
“She has been here little more than half an hour, and I had
no expectation she would come this evening.”
“You love me just a little, then, marquise?”
“That is not the question now; it is of your danger; how are