them off. Four lackeys had tried in vain, pulling at them as
they would have pulled capstans; and yet all this did not
awaken him. They had hacked off his boots in fragments, and
his legs had fallen back upon the bed. They then cut off the
rest of his clothes, carried him to a bath, in which they
let him soak a considerable time. They then put on him clean
linen, and placed him in a well-warmed bed — the whole with
efforts and pains which might have roused a dead man, but
which did not make Porthos open an eye, or interrupt for a
second the formidable diapason of his snoring. Aramis wished
on his part, with his nervous nature, armed with
extraordinary courage, to outbrave fatigue, and employ
himself with Gourville and Pellisson, but he fainted in the
chair in which he had persisted sitting. He was carried into
the adjoining room, where the repose of bed soon soothed his
failing brain.
CHAPTER 75
In which Monsieur Fouquet acts
In the meantime Fouquet was hastening to the Louvre, at the
best speed of his English horses. The king was at work with
Colbert. All at once the king became thoughtful. The two
sentences of death he had signed on mounting his throne
sometimes recurred to his memory; they were two black spots
which he saw with his eyes open; two spots of blood which he
saw when his eyes were closed. “Monsieur,” said he, rather
sharply, to the intendant; “it sometimes seems to me that
those two men you made me condemn were not very great
culprits.”
“Sire, they were picked out from the herd of the farmers of
the financiers, which wanted decimating.”
“Picked out by whom?”
“By necessity, sire,” replied Colbert, coldly.
“Necessity! — a great word,” murmured the young king.
“A great goddess, sire.”
“They were devoted friends of the superintendent, were they
not?”
“Yes, sire; friends who would have given up their lives for
Monsieur Fouquet.”
“They have given them, monsieur,” said the king.
“That is true; — but uselessly, by good luck, — which was
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not their intention.”
“How much money had these men fraudulently obtained?”
“Ten millions, perhaps; of which six have been confiscated.”
“And is that money in my coffers?” said the king with a
certain air of repugnance.
“It is there, sire; but this confiscation, whilst
threatening M. Fouquet, has not touched him.”
“You conclude, then, M. Colbert —- ”
“That if M. Fouquet has raised against your majesty a troop
of factious rioters to extricate his friends from
punishment, he will raise an army when he has in turn to
extricate himself from punishment.”
The king darted at his confidant one of those looks which
resemble the livid fire of a flash of lightning, one of
those looks which illuminate the darkness of the basest
consciences. “I am astonished,” said he, “that, thinking
such things of M. Fouquet, you did not come to give me your
counsels thereupon.”
“Counsels upon what, sire?”
“Tell me, in the first place, clearly and precisely, what
you think, M. Colbert.”
“Upon what subject, sire?”
“Upon the conduct of M. Fouquet.”
“I think, sire, that M. Fouquet, not satisfied with
attracting all the money to himself, as M. Mazarin did, and
by that means depriving your majesty of one part of your
power, still wishes to attract to himself all the friends of
easy life and pleasure — of what idlers call poetry, and
politicians, corruption. I, think that, by holding the
subjects of your majesty in pay, he trespasses upon the
royal prerogative, and cannot, if this continues so, be long
in placing your majesty among the weak and the obscure.”
“How would you qualify all these projects, M. Colbert?”
“The projects of M. Fouquet, sire?”
“Yes.”
“They are called crimes of lese majeste.”
“And what is done to criminals guilty of lese majeste?”
“They are arrested, tried, and punished.”
“You are quite sure that M. Fouquet has conceived the idea
of the crime you impute to him?”
“I can say more, sire, there is even a commencement of the
execution of it.”
“Well, then, I return to that which I was saying, M.