In opposition to the sad and terrible destiny of the king imprisoned in the Bastille, and tearing, in sheer despair, the bolts and bars of his dungeon, the rhetoric of the chroniclers of old would not fail to present, as a complete antithesis, the picture of Philippe lying asleep beneath the royal canopy. We do not pretend to say that such rhetoric is always bad, and always scatters, in places it should not, the flowers with which it embellishes and enlivens history. But we shall, on the present occasion, carefully avoid polishing the antithesis in question, but shall proceed to draw another picture as carefully as possible, to serve as a companion to the one we have drawn in the last chapter. The young prince descended from Aramis' room, in the same way the king had descended from the apartment dedicated to Morpheus. The dome gradually and slowly sank down under Aramis' pressure, and Philippe stood beside the royal-bed, which had ascended again after having deposited its prisoner in the secret depths of the subterranean passage. Alone, in the presence of all the luxury which surrounded him; alone, in the presence of his power; alone, with the part he was about to be forced to act, Philippe for the first time felt his heart, and mind, and soul expand beneath the influence of a thousand varied emotions, which are the vital throbs of a king's heart. But he could not help changing color when he looked upon the empty bed, still tumbled by his brother's body. This mute accomplice had returned, after having completed the work it had been destined to perform; it returned with the traces of the crime; it spoke to the guilty author of that crime, with the frank and unreserved language which an accomplice never fears using toward his companion in guilt; for it spoke the truth. Philippebent over the bed, and perceived a pocket-handkerchief lying on it, which was still damp from the cold sweat which had poured from Louis XIV.'s face. This sweat-bestained handkerchief terrified Philippe, as the blood of Abel had terrified Cain.
"I am now face to face with my destiny," said Philippe, with his eyes on fire, and his face lividly white. "Is it likely to be more terrifying than my captivity has been sad and gloomy? When I am compelled to follow out, at every moment, the sovereign power and authority I have usurped, shall I never cease to listen to the scruples of my heart? Yes! the king has lain on this bed: it is, indeed, his head that has left its impression on this pillow; his bitter tears which have stained this handkerchief; and yet, I hesitate to throw myself on the bed, or to press in my hand the handkerchief which is embroidered with my brother's arms. Away with this weakness; let me imitate M. d'Herblay, who asserts that a man's action should be always one degree above his thought; let me imitate M. d'Herblay, whose thoughts are of and for himself alone, who regards himself as a man of honor, so long as he injures or betrays his enemies only. I, I alone, should have occupied this bed, if Louis XIV. had not, owing to my mother's criminal abandonment of me, stood in my way; and this handkerchief, embroidered with the arms of France, would, in right and justice, belong to me alone, if, as M. d'Herblay observes, I had been left in my place in the royal cradle. Philippe, son of France, take your place on that bed; Philippe, sole king of France, resume the blazonry which is yours! Philippe, sole heir presumptive to Louis XIII., your father, show yourself without pity or mercy for the usurper who, at this moment, has not even to suffer the agony of the remorse of all that you have had to submit to."
With these words, Philippe, notwithstanding an instinctive repugnance of feeling, and in spite of the shudder of terror which mastered his will, threw himself on the royal bed, and forced his muscles to press the still warm place whereLouis XIV. had lain, while he buried his burning face in the handkerchief still moistened by his brother's tears. With his head thrown back and buried in the soft down of his pillow, Philippe perceived above him the crown of France, suspended, as we have stated, by angels with outspread golden wings.
A man may be ambitious of lying in a lion's den, but can hardly hope to sleep there quietly. Philippe listened attentively to every sound; his heart panted and throbbed at the very suspicion of approaching terror and misfortune; but confident in his own strength, which was confirmed by the force of an overpowering resolute determination, he waited until some decisive circumstance should permit him to judge for himself. He hoped that some imminent danger would be revealed for him, like those phosphoric lights of the tempest which show the sailors the altitude of the waves against which they have to struggle. But nothing approached. Silence, the mortal enemy of restless hearts, the mortal enemy of ambitious minds, shrouded in the thickness of its gloom during the remainder of the night the future king of France, who lay there sheltered beneath his stolen crown. Toward the morning a shadow, rather than a body, glided into the royal chamber; Philippe expected his approach, and neither expressed nor exhibited any surprise.
"Well, M. d'Herblay?" he said.
"Well, sire, all is done."
"How?"
"Exactly as we expected."
"Did he resist?"
"Terribly! tears and entreaties."
"And then?"
"A perfect stupor."
"But, at last?"
"Oh! at last, a complete victory, and absolute silence."
"Did the governor of the Bastille suspect anything?"
"Nothing."
"The resemblance, however—"
"That was the cause of the success."
"But the prisoner cannot fail to explain himself. Think well of that. I have myself been able to do that, on a former occasion."
"I have already provided for everything. In a few days, sooner if necessary, we will take the captive out of his prison, and will send him out of the country, to a place of exile so remote—"
"People can return from their exile, Monsieur d'Herblay."
"To a place of exile so distant, I was going to say, that human strength and the duration of human life would not be enough for his return."
And once more a cold look of intelligence passed between Aramis and the young king.
"And M. de Valon?" asked Philippe, in order to change the conversation.
"He will be presented to you to-day, and confidentially will congratulate you on the danger which that conspirator has made you run."
"What is to be done with him?"
"With M. de Valon?"
"Yes; confer a dukedom on him, I suppose."
"A dukedom," replied Aramis, smiling in a significant manner.
"Why do you laugh, Monsieur d'Herblay?"
"I laugh at the extreme caution of your idea."
"Cautious, why so?"
"Your majesty is doubtless afraid that that poor Porthos may probably become a troublesome witness, and you wish to get rid of him."
"What! in making him a duke?"
"Certainly; you would assuredly kill him, for he would die from joy, and the secret would die with him."
"Good heavens!"
"Yes," said Aramis phlegmatically; "I should lose a very good friend."
At this moment, and in the middle of this idle conversation, under the light tone of which the two conspirators concealed their joy and pride at their mutual success, Aramis heard something which made him prick up his ears.
"What is that?" said Philippe.
"The dawn, sire."
"Well?"
The king enteredThe king entered into the cell without pronouncing asingle word: he was pale and haggard.—Page370.
"Well, before you retired to bed last night, you probably decided to do something this morning at the break of day."
"Yes; I told my captain of the musketeers," replied the young man hurriedly, "that I should expect him."
"If you told him that, he will certainly be here, for he is a most punctual man."
"I hear a step in the vestibule."
"It must be he."
"Come, let us begin the attack," said the young king resolutely.
"Be cautious, for Heaven's sake; to begin the attack, and with D'Artagnan, would be madness. D'Artagnan knows nothing, he has seen nothing; he is a hundred miles from suspecting our mystery in the slightest degree; but if he comes into this room the first this morning, he will be sure to detect something which has taken place, and which he would think his business to occupy himself about. Before we allow D'Artagnan to penetrate into this room, we must air the room thoroughly, or introduce so many people into it, that the keenest scent in the whole kingdom may be deceived by the traces of twenty different persons."
"But how can I send him away, since I have given him a rendezvous?" observed the prince, impatient to measure swords with so redoubtable an antagonist.
"I will take care of that," replied the bishop, "and in order to begin, I am going to strike a blow which will completely stupefy our man."
"He too is striking a blow, for I hear him at the door," added the prince hurriedly.
And, in fact, a knock at the door was heard at that moment. Aramis was not mistaken; for it was indeed D'Artagnan who adopted that mode of announcing himself.
We have seen how he passed the night in philosophizing with M. Fouquet, but the musketeer was very wearied even of feigning to fall asleep, and as soon as the dawn illumined with its pale blue light the sumptuous cornices of the surintendant's room, D'Artagnan rose from his armchair, arranged his sword, brushed his coat and hat with his sleeve like a private soldier getting ready for inspection.
"Are you going out?" said Fouquet.
"Yes, monseigneur. And you?"
"No; I shall remain."
"You give me your word?"
"Certainly."
"Very good. Besides, my only reason for going out, is to try and get that reply—you know what I mean?"
"That sentence, you mean—"
"Stay, I have something of the old Roman in me. This morning, when I got up, I remarked that my sword had not caught in one of theaiguillettes, and that my shoulder-belt had slipped quite off. That is an infallible sign."
"Of prosperity?"
"Yes; be sure of it; for every time that that confounded belt of mine sticks fast to my back, it always signified a punishment from M. de Treville, or a refusal of money by M. de Mazarin. Every time my sword hung fast to my shoulder-belt, it always predicted some disagreeable commission or another for me to execute, and I have had showers of them all my life through. Every time, too, my sword danced about in its sheath, a duel, fortunate in its result, was sure to follow; whenever it dangled about the calves of my legs, it was a slight wound; every time it fell completely out of the scabbard I was booked, and made up my mind that I should have to remain on the field of battle, with two or three months under the surgeon's care into the bargain."
"I never knew your sword kept you so well informed," said Fouquet, with a faint smile, which showed how he was struggling against his own weaknesses. "Is your sword bewitched, or under the influence of some charm?"
"Why, you must know that my sword may almost be regarded as part of my own body. I have heard that certain men seem to have warnings given them by feeling something the matter with their legs, or by a throbbing of their temples. With me, it is my sword that warns me. Well, it told me of nothing this morning. But, stay a moment—look here, it has just fallen, of its own accord, into the last hole of the belt. Do you know what that is a warning of?"
"No."
"Well, that tells me of an arrest that will have to be made this very day."
"Well," said the surintendant, more astonished than annoyed by this frankness, "if there is nothing disagreeable predicted to you by your sword, I am to conclude that it is not disagreeable for you to arrest me."
"You! arrest you!"
"Of course. The warning—"
"Does not concern you, since you have been arrested ever since yesterday. It is not you I shall have to arrest, be assured of that. That is the reason why I am delighted, and also the reason why I said that my day will be a happy one."
And with these words, pronounced with the most affectionate graciousness of manner, the captain took leave of Fouquet in order to wait upon the king. He was on the point of leaving the room, when Fouquet said to him, "One last mark of your kindness."
"What is it, monseigneur?"
"M. d'Herblay; let me see Monsieur d'Herblay."
"I am going to try and get him to come to you."
D'Artagnan did not think himself so good a prophet. It was written that the day would pass away and realize all the predictions that had been made in the morning. He had accordingly knocked, as we have seen, at the king's door. The door opened. The captain thought that it was the king who had just opened it himself: and this supposition was not altogether inadmissible, considering the state of agitation in which he had left Louis XIV. the previous evening; but instead of his royal master, whom he was on the point of saluting with the greatest respect, he perceived the long, calm features of Aramis. So extreme was his surprise, that he could hardly refrain from uttering a loud exclamation. "Aramis!" he said.
"Good-morning, dear D'Artagnan," replied the prelate, coldly.
"You here!" stammered out the musketeer.
"His majesty desires you to report that he is still sleeping, after having been greatly fatigued during the whole night."
"Ah!" said D'Artagnan, who could not understand how the bishop of Vannes, who had been so indifferent a favorite the previous evening, had become in half a dozen hours the largest mushroom of fortune which had ever sprung up in a sovereign's bedroom. In fact, to transmit the orders of the king even to the mere threshold of that monarch's room, to serve as an intermediary of Louis XIV., so as to be able to give a single order in his name at a couple of paces from him, he must be greater than Richelieu had ever been to Louis XIII. D'Artagnan's expressive eye, his half-opened lips, his curling mustache, said as much indeed in the plainest language to the chief favorite, who remained calm and perfectly unmoved.
"Moreover," continued the bishop, "you will be good enough, Monsieur le Capitaine des Mousquetaires, to allow those only to pass into the king's room this morning who have special permission. His majesty does not wish to be disturbed just yet."
"But," objected D'Artagnan, almost on the point of refusing to obey this order, and particularly of giving unrestrained passage to the suspicions which the king's silence had aroused—"but, Monsieur l'Eveque, his majesty gave me a rendezvous for this morning."
"Later, later," said the king's voice, from the bottom of the alcove; a voice which made a cold shudder pass through the musketeer's veins. He bowed, amazed, confused, and stupefied by the smile with which Aramis seemed to overwhelm him, as soon as those words had been pronounced.
"And then," continued the bishop, "as an answer to what you were coming to ask the king, my dear D'Artagnan, here is an order of his majesty, which you will be good enough to attend to forthwith, for it concerns M. Fouquet."
D'Artagnan took the order which was held out to him. "To be set at liberty!" he murmured. "Ah!" and he uttered a second "ah!" still more full of intelligence than the former; for this order explained Aramis' presence with the king, and that Aramis, in order to have obtained Fouquet's pardon, must have made considerable progress in the royal favor, and that this favor explained, in its tenor, the hardly conceivable assurance with which M. d'Herblay issued the orders in the king's name. For D'Artagnan it was quite sufficient to have understood something in order to understand everything. He bowed and withdrew a couple of steps, as if he were about to leave.
"I am going with you," said the bishop.
"Whereto?"
"To M. Fouquet; I wish to be a witness of his delight."
"Ah! Aramis, how you puzzled me just now!" said D'Artagnan again.
"But you understand now, I suppose?"
"Of course, I understand," he said, aloud; but then he added in a low tone to himself, almost hissing the words through his teeth, "No, no, I do not understand yet. But it is all the same, for here is the order for it." And then he added, "I will lead the way, monseigneur," and he conducted Aramis to Fouquet's apartments.
Fouquet was waiting with anxiety; he had already sent away many of his servants and his friends, who, anticipating the usual hour of his ordinary receptions, had called at his door to inquire after him. Preserving the utmost silence respecting the danger which hung suspended over his head, he only asked them, as he did every one indeed who came to the door, where Aramis was. When he saw D'Artagnan return, and when he perceived the bishop of Vannes behind him, he could hardly restrain his delight; it was fully equal to his previous uneasiness. The mere sight of Aramis was a complete compensation to the surintendant for the unhappiness he had undergone in being arrested. The prelate was silent and grave; D'Artagnan completely bewildered by such an accumulation of events.
"Well, captain; so you have brought M. d'Herblay to me?"
"And something better still, monseigneur."
"What is that?"
"Liberty."
"I am free!"
"Yes; by the king's order."
Fouquet resumed his usual serenity, that he might interrogate Aramis with his look.
"Oh! yes, you can thank M. l'Eveque de Vannes," pursued D'Artagnan, "for it is indeed to him that you owe the change that has taken place in the king."
"Oh!" said Fouquet, more humiliated at the service than grateful at its success.
"But you," continued D'Artagnan, addressing Aramis—"you, who have become M. Fouquet's protector and patron, can you not do something for me?"
"Anything you like, my friend," replied the bishop, in a calm voice.
"One thing only, then, and I shall be perfectly satisfied. How have you managed to become the favorite of the king, you who have never spoken to him more than twice in your life?"
"From a friend such as you are," said Aramis, "I cannot conceal anything."
"Ah! very good, tell me, then."
"Very well. You think that I have seen the king only twice, while the fact is I have seen him more than a hundred times; only we have kept it very secret, that is all." And without trying to remove the color which at this revelation made D'Artagnan's face flush scarlet. Aramis turned toward M. Fouquet, who was as much surprised as the musketeer. "Monseigneur," he resumed, "the king desires me to inform you that he is more than ever your friend, and that your beautiful fete, so generously offered by you on his behalf, has touched him to the very heart."
And thereupon he saluted M. Fouquet with so much reverence of manner, that the latter, incapable of understanding a man whose diplomacy was of so prodigious a character, remained incapable of uttering a single syllable, and equally incapable of thought or movement. D'Artagnan fancied he perceived that these two men had something to say to each other, and he was about to yield to that feeling of instinctive politeness which in such a case hurries a man toward the door, when he feels his presence is an inconvenience for others; but his eager curiosity, spurred on by so many mysteries, counseled him to remain.
Aramis thereupon turned toward him and said, in a quiet tone, "You will not forget, my friend, the king's order respecting those whom he intends to receive this morning on rising." These words were clear enough, and the musketeer understood them; he therefore bowed to Fouquet, and then to Aramis—to the latter with a slight admixture of ironical respect, and disappeared.
No sooner had he left than Fouquet, whose impatience had hardly been able to wait for that moment, darted toward the door to close it, and then returning to the bishop, he said, "My dear D'Herblay, I think it now high time you should explain to me what has passed, for, in plain and honest truth, I do not understand anything."
"We will explain all that to you," said Aramis, sitting down, and making Fouquet sit down also. "Where shall I begin?"
"With this first of all. Why does the king set me at liberty?"
"You ought rather to ask me what was his reason for having you arrested."
"Since my arrest I have had time to think over it, and my idea is that it arises out of some slight feeling of jealousy. My fete put M. Colbert out of temper, and M. Colbert discovered some cause of complaint against me; Belle-Isle, for instance."
"No; there is no question at all just now of Belle-Isle."
"What is it, then?"
"Do you remember those receipts forthirteen millions which M. de Mazarin contrived to get stolen from you?"
"Yes, of course."
"Well, you are already pronounced to be a public robber."
"Good heavens!"
"Oh! that is not all. Do you also remember that letter you wrote to La Valliere?"
"Alas! yes."
"And that proclaims you a traitor and a suborner."
"Why should he have pardoned me, then?"
"We have not yet arrived at that part of our argument. I wish you to be quite convinced of the fact itself. Observe this well; the king knows you to be guilty of an appropriation of public funds. Oh! of courseIknow that you have done nothing of the kind; but at all events the king has not seen the receipts, and he cannot do otherwise than believe you criminal."
"I beg your pardon, I do not see—"
"You will see presently, though. The king, moreover, having read your love-letter to La Valliere, and the offers you there made her, cannot retain any doubt of your intentions with regard to that young lady; you will admit that, I suppose?"
"Certainly; but conclude."
"In a few words. The king is, therefore, a powerful, implacable, and eternal enemy for you."
"Agreed. But am I, then, so powerful that he has not dared to sacrifice me, notwithstanding his hatred, with all the means which my weakness, or my misfortunes, may have given him as a hold upon me?"
"It is clear, beyond all doubt," pursued Aramis, coldly, "that the king has quarreled irreconcilably with you."
"But, since he absolves me—"
"Do you believe it likely?" asked the bishop, with a searching look.
"Without believing in his sincerity of heart, I believe in the truth of the fact."
Aramis slightly shrugged his shoulders.
"But why, then, should Louis XIV. have commissioned you to tell me what you have just stated?"
"The king charged me with nothing for you."
"With nothing!" said the surintendant, stupefied. "But that order, then—"
"Oh! yes. You are quite right. There is an order, certainly;" and these words were pronounced by Aramis in so strange a tone that Fouquet could not resist starting.
"You are concealing something from me, I see. What is it?"
Aramis softly rubbed his white fingers over his chin, but said nothing.
"Does the king exile me?"
"Do not act as if you were playing at the game children play at when they have to try and guess where a thing has been hidden, and are informed by a bell being rung, when they are approaching near to it, or going away from it."
"Speak, then."
"Guess."
"You alarm me."
"Bah! that is because you have not guessed, then."
"What did the king say to you? In the name of our friendship, do not deceive me."
"The king has not said a word to me."
"You are killing me with impatience, D'Herblay. Am I still surintendant?"
"As long as you like."
"But what extraordinary empire have you so suddenly acquired over his majesty's mind?"
"Ah! that is it."
"You make him do as you like."
"I believe so."
"It is hardly credible."
"So any one would say."
"D'Herblay, by our alliance, by our friendship, by everything you hold the dearest in the world, speak openly, I implore you. By what means have you succeeded in overcoming Louis XIV.'s prejudices, for he did not like you, I know?"
"The king will like menow," said Aramis, laying a stress upon the last word.
"You have something particular, then, between you?"
"Yes."
"A secret, perhaps?"
"Yes, a secret."
"A secret of such a nature as to change his majesty's interests?"
"You are, indeed, a man of superior intelligence, monseigneur, and have made a very accurate guess. I have, in fact, discovered a secret of a nature to change the interests of the king of France."
"Ah!" said Fouquet, with the reserve of a man who does not wish to ask any questions.
"And you shall judge of it yourself," pursued Aramis; "and you shall tell me if I am mistaken with regard to the importance of this secret."
"I am listening, since you are good enough to unbosom yourself to me; only do not forget that I have asked you nothing which may be indiscreet in you to communicate."
Aramis seemed for a moment as if he were collecting himself.
"Do not speak!" said Fouquet; "there is still time enough."
"Do you remember," said the bishop, casting down his eyes, "the birth of Louis XIV.?"
"As it were yesterday."
"Have you ever heard anything particular respecting his birth?"
"Nothing; except that the king was not really the son of Louis XIII."
"That does not matter to us, or the kingdom either; he is the son of his father, says the French law, whose father is recognized by the law."
"True; but it is a grave matter when the quality of races is called into question."
"A merely secondary question, after all. So that, in fact, you have never learned or heard anything particular?"
"Nothing."
"That is where my secret begins. The queen, you must know, instead of being delivered of one son, was delivered of two children."
Fouquet looked up suddenly as he replied, "And the second is dead?"
"You will see. These twins seemed likely to be regarded as the pride of their mother, and the hope of France; but the weak nature of the king, his superstitiousfeelings, made him apprehend a series of conflicts between two children whose rights were equal; so he put out of the way—he suppressed—one of the twins."
"Suppressed, do you say?"
"Be patient. Both the children grew up; the one on the throne, whose minister you are—the other, who is my friend, in gloom and isolation."
"Good heavens! What are you saying, Monsieur d'Herblay? And what is this poor prince doing?"
"Ask me, rather, what he has done?"
"Yes, yes."
"He was brought up in the country, and then thrown into a fortress which goes by the name of the Bastille."
"Is it possible?" cried the surintendant, clasping his hands.
"The one was the most fortunate of men; the other the most unhappy and most miserable of all living beings."
"Does his mother not know this?"
"Anne of Austria knows it all."
"And the king?"
"Knows absolutely nothing."
"So much the better!" said Fouquet.
This remark seemed to make a great impression on Aramis; he looked at Fouquet with the most anxious expression of countenance.
"I beg your pardon; I interrupted you," said Fouquet.
"I was saying," resumed Aramis, "that this poor prince was the unhappiest of human beings, when Heaven, whose thoughts are over all his creatures, undertook to come to his assistance."
"Oh! in what way? tell me."
"You will see. The reigning king—I say the reigning king—you can guess very well why?"
"No. Why?"
"Because both of them, being legitimately entitled from their birth, ought both to have been kings. Is not that your opinion?"
"It is, certainly."
"Unreservedly so?"
"Most unreservedly; twins are one person in two bodies."
"I am pleased that a legist of your learning and authority should have pronounced such an opinion. It is agreed, then, that both of them possessed the same rights, is it not?"
"Incontestably so! but, gracious heavens, what an extraordinary circumstance."
"We are not at the end of it yet.—Patience."
"Oh! I shall find 'patience' enough."
"Heaven wished to raise up for that oppressed child an avenger, or a supporter, or vindicator, if you prefer it. It happened that the reigning king, the usurper—(you are quite of my opinion, I believe, that it is an act of usurpation quietly to enjoy, and selfishly to assume the right over, an inheritance to which a man has only the right of one half?)—"
"Yes, usurpation is the word."
"In that case, I continue. It was Heaven's will that the usurper should possess, in the person of his first minister, a man of great talent, of large and generous nature."
"Well, well," said Fouquet, "I understand; you have relied upon me to repair the wrong which has been done to this unhappy brother of Louis XIV. You have thought well; I will help you. I thank you, D'Herblay, I thank you."
"Oh, no, it is not that at all; you have not allowed me to finish," said Aramis, perfectly unmoved.
"I will not say another word, then."
"M. Fouquet, I was observing, the minister of the reigning sovereign was suddenly taken into the greatest aversion and menaced with the ruin of his fortune, with loss of liberty, with loss of life even, by intrigue and personal hatred, to which the king gave too readily an attentive ear. But Heaven permits (still, however, out of consideration for the unhappy prince who had been sacrificed) that M. Fouquet should in his turn have a devoted friend who knew this state secret, and felt that he possessed strength and courage enough to divulge this secret, after having had the strength to carry it locked up in his own heart for twenty years."
"Do not go on any farther," said Fouquet, full of generous feelings, "I understand you, and can guess everything now. You went to see the king when the intelligence of my arrest reached you; you implored him, he refused to listen to you; then you threatened him with that secret, threatened to reveal it, and Louis XIV., alarmed at the risk of its betrayal, granted to the terror of your indiscretion what he refused to your generous intercession. I understand, I understand; you have the king in your power; I understand."
"You understand nothing as yet," replied Aramis, "and again you have interrupted me. And then, too, allow me to observe that you pay no attention to logical reasoning, and seem to forget what you ought most to remember."
"What do you mean?"
"You know upon what I laid the greatest stress at the beginning of our conversation?"
"Yes, his majesty's hate, invincible hate for me; yes, but what feeling of hate could resist the threat, of such a revelation?"
"Such a revelation, do you say? that is the very point where your logic fails you. What! do you suppose that if I had made such a revelation to the king I should have been alive now?"
"It is not ten minutes ago since you were with the king?"
"That may be. He might not have had the time to get me killed outright, but he would have had the time to get me gagged and thrown into a dungeon. Come, come, show a little consistency in your reasoning, mordieu!"
And by the mere use of this word, which was so thoroughly his old musketeer's expression, forgotten by one who never seemed to forget anything, Fouquet could not but understand to what a pitch of exaltation the calm, impenetrable bishop of Vannes had wrought himself. He shuddered at it.
"And then," replied the latter, after having mastered his feelings, "should I be the man I really am, should I be the true friend you regard me as, if I were to expose you, you whom the king hates already bitterly enough, to a feeling still more than ever to be dreaded in that young man? To have robbed him, is nothing; to have addressed the woman he loves, is not much; but to hold in your keeping both his crown and his honor, why, he would rather pluck out your heart with his own hands."
"You have not allowed him to penetrate your secret, then?"
"I would sooner, far sooner, have swallowed at one draught all the poisons that Mithridates drank in twenty years, in order to try and avoid death, than have betrayed my secret to the king."
"What have you done, then?"
"Ah! now we are coming to the point, monseigneur. I think I shall not fail to excite a little interest in you. You are listening, I hope?"
"How can you ask me if I am listening? Go on."
Aramis walked softly all round the room, satisfied himself that they were alone, and that all was silent, and then returned and placed himself close to the armchair in which Fouquet was seated, awaiting with the deepest anxiety the revelations he had to make.
"I forgot to tell you," resumed Aramis, addressing himself to Fouquet, who listened to him with the most absorbed attention—"I forgot to mention a most remarkable circumstance respecting these twins, namely, that God had formed them so startlingly, so miraculously, like each other, that it would be utterly impossible to distinguish the one from the other. Their own mother would not be able to distinguish them."
"Is it possible?" exclaimed Fouquet.
"The same noble character in their features, the same carriage, the same stature, the same voice."
"But their thoughts? degree of intelligence; their knowledge of human life?"
"There is inequality there, I admit, monseigneur. Yes; for the prisoner of the Bastille is, most incontestable, superior in every way to his brother; and if, from his prison, this unhappy victim were to pass to the throne, France would not, from the earliest period of its history, perhaps, have had a master more powerful by his genius and true nobleness of character."
Fouquet buried his face in his hands, as if he were overwhelmed by the weight of this immense secret. Aramis approached him.
"There is a further inequality," he said, continuing his work of temptation, "an inequality which concerns yourself, monseigneur, between the twins, both sons of Louis XIII., namely, the last comer does not know M. Colbert."
Fouquet raised his head immediately—his features were pale and distorted. The bolt had hit its mark—not his heart, but his mind and comprehension.
"I understand you," he said to Aramis; "you are proposing a conspiracy to me?"
"Something like it."
"One of those attempts, which, as you said at the beginning of this conversation, alters the fate of empires?"
"And of the surintendant too; yes, monseigneur."
"In a word, you propose that I should agree to the substitution of the son of Louis XIII., who is now a prisoner in the Bastille, for the son of Louis XIII., who is now at this moment asleep in the Chamber of Morpheus?"
Aramis smiled with the sinister expression of the sinister thought which was passing through his brain. "Exactly," he said.
"Have you thought," Fouquet then continued, becoming animated with that strength of talent which in a few seconds originates and matures the conception of a plan, and with that largeness of view which foresees all its consequences, and embraces all its results at a glance—"have you thought that we must assemble the nobility, the clergy, and the third estate of the realm; that we shall have to depose the reigning sovereign, to disturb by so frightful a scandal the tomb of their dead father, to sacrifice the life, the honor of a woman, Anne of Austria, the life and peace of mind and heart of another woman, Maria Theresa; and suppose that all were done, if we were to succeed in doing it—"
"I do not understand you," continued Aramis coldly. "There is not a singleword of the slightest use in what you have just said."
"What!" said the surintendant, surprised, "a man like you refuse to view the practical bearings of the case. Do you confine yourself to the childish delight of a political illusion, and neglect the chances of its being carried into execution; in other words, the reality itself, is it possible?"
"My friend," said Aramis, emphasizing the word with a kind of disdainful familiarity, "what does Heaven do in order to substitute one king for another?"
"Heaven!" exclaimed Fouquet—"Heaven gives directions to its agent, who seizes upon the doomed victim, hurries him away, and seats the triumphant rival on the empty throne. But you forget that this agent is called death. Oh! Monsieur d'Herblay, in Heaven's name, tell me, if you have had the idea—"
"There is no question of that, monseigneur; you are going beyond the object in view. Who spoke of Louis XIV.'s death? who spoke of adopting the example which Heaven sets in following out the strict execution of its decrees? No, I wish you to understand that Heaven effects its purposes without confusion or disturbance, without exciting comment or remark, without difficulty or exertion; and that men inspired by Heaven—succeed like Heaven itself in all their undertakings, in all they attempt, in all they do."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, myfriend," returned Aramis, with the same intonation on the word friend that he had applied to it the first time—"I mean that if there has been any confusion, scandal, and even effort in the substitution of the prisoner for the king, I defy you to prove it."
"What!" cried Fouquet, whiter than the handkerchief with which he wiped his temples, "what do you say?"
"Go to the king's apartment," continued Aramis, tranquilly, "and you who know the mystery, I defy even you to perceive that the prisoner of the Bastille is lying in his brother's bed."
"But the king?" stammered Fouquet, seized with horror at the intelligence.
"What king?" said Aramis, in his gentlest tone; "the one who hates you, or the one who likes you?"
"The king—of yesterday?"
"The king of yesterday! be quite easy on that score; he has gone to take the place in the Bastille which his victim has occupied for such a long time past."
"Great God! And who took him there?"
"I!"
"You?"
"Yes; and in the simplest way. I carried him away last night; and while he was descending into gloom, the other was ascending into light. I do not think there has been any disturbance created in any way. A flash of lightning without thunder never awakens any one."
Fouquet uttered a thick, smothered cry, as if he had been struck by some invisible blow, and clasping his head between his clenched hands, he murmured: "You did that?"
"Cleverly enough, too; what do you think of it?"
"You dethroned the king? imprisoned him, too?"
"Yes, that has been done."
"And such an action has been committed here at Vaux?"
"Yes, here, at Vaux, in the Chamber of Morpheus. It would almost seem that it had been built in anticipation of such an act."
"And at what time did it occur?"
"Last night, between twelve and one o'clock."
Fouquet made a movement, as if he were on the point of springing upon Aramis; he restrained himself. "At Vaux; under my roof!" he said, in a half-strangled voice.
"I believe so! for it is still your house, and is likely to continue so, since M. Colbert cannot rob you of it now."
"It was under my roof, then, monsieur, that you committed this crime?"
"This crime!" said Aramis, stupefied.
"This abominable crime!" pursued Fouquet, becoming more and more excited; "this crime more execrable than an assassination! this crime which dishonors my name forever, and entails upon me the horror of posterity."
"You are not in your senses, monsieur," replied Aramis, in an irresolute tone of voice; "you are speaking too loudly; take care!"
"I will call out so loudly, that the whole world shall hear me."
"Monsieur Fouquet, take care!"
Fouquet turned round toward the prelate, whom he looked at full in the face. "You have dishonored me," he said, "in committing so foul an act of treason, so heinous a crime upon my guest, upon one who was peacefully reposing beneath my roof. Oh! woe, woe, is me!"
"Woe to the man, rather, who beneath your roof meditated the ruin of your fortune, your life. Do you forget that?"
"He was my guest, my sovereign."
Aramis rose, his eyes literally bloodshot, his mouth trembling convulsively.
"Have I a man out of his senses to deal with?" he said.
"You have an honorable man to deal with."
"You are mad."
"A man who will prevent you consummating your crime."
"You are mad, I say."
"A man who would sooner, oh! far sooner die; who would kill you even, rather than allow you to complete his dishonor."
And Fouquet snatched up his sword, which D'Artagnan had placed at the head of his bed, and clenched it resolutely in his hand. Aramis frowned, and thrust his hand into his breast, as if in search of a weapon. This movement did not escape Fouquet, who, full of nobleness and pride in his magnanimity, threw his sword to a distance from him, and approached Aramis so close as to touch his shoulder with his disarmed hand. "Monsieur," he said, "I would sooner die here on the spot than survive this terrible disgrace; and if you have any pity left for me I entreat you to take my life."
Aramis remained silent and motionless.
"You do not reply?" said Fouquet.
Aramis raised his head gently, and a glimmer of hope might be seen once more to animate his eyes. "Reflect, monseigneur," he said, "upon everything we have to expect. As the matter now stands, the king is still alive, and his imprisonment saves your life."
"Yes," replied Fouquet, "you may have been acting on my behalf, but I will not, do not, accept your services. But, first of all, I do not wish your ruin. You will leave this house."
Aramis stifled the exclamation which almost escaped his broken heart.
"I am hospitable toward all who are dwellers beneath my roof," continued Fouquet, with an air of inexpressible majesty; "you will not be more fatally lost than he whose ruin you have consummated."
"You will be so," said Aramis, in a hoarse, prophetic voice, "you will be so, believe me."
"I accept the augury, Monsieur d'Herblay; but nothing shall prevent me, nothing shall stop me. You will leave Vaux—you must leave France; I give you four hours to place yourself out of the king's reach."
"Four hours?" said Aramis, scornfully and incredulously.
"Upon the word of Fouquet, no one shall follow you before the expiration of that time. You will therefore have four hours' advance of those whom the king may wish to dispatch after you."
"Four hours!" repeated Aramis, in a thick smothered voice.
"It is more than you will need to get on board a vessel and flee to Belle-Isle, which I give you as a place of refuge."
"Ah!" murmured Aramis.
"Belle-Isle is as much mine for you as Vaux is mine for the king. Go, D'Herblay, go! as long as I live, not a hair of your head shall be injured."
"Thank you," said Aramis, with a cold irony of manner.
"Go at once, then, and give me your hand, before we both hasten away; you to save your life, I to save my honor."
Aramis withdrew from his breast the hand he had concealed there; it was stained with his blood. He had dug his nails into his flesh, as if in punishmentfor having nursed so many projects, more vain, insensate, and fleeting than the life of man himself. Fouquet was horror-stricken, and then his heart smote him with pity. He threw open his arms as if to embrace him.
"I had no arms," murmured Aramis, as wild and terrible in his wrath as the shade of Dido. And then, without touching Fouquet's hand, he turned his head aside, and stepped back a pace or two. His last word was an imprecation, his last gesture a curse, which his bloodstained hand seemed to invoke, as it sprinkled on Fouquet's face a few drops of blood which flowed from his breast. And both of them darted out of the room by the secret staircase which led down to the inner courtyard. Fouquet ordered his best horses, while Aramis paused at the foot of the staircase which led to Porthos' apartment. He reflected profoundly and for some time, while Fouquet's carriage left the stone-paved courtyard at full gallop.
"Shall I go alone," said Aramis to himself, "or warn the prince? Oh! fury! Warn the prince, and then—do what? Take him with me? To carry this accusing witness about with me everywhere? War, too, would follow—civil war, implacable in its nature! And without any resource save myself—it is impossible! What could he do without me? Oh! without me he would be utterly destroyed. Yet who knows—let destiny be fulfilled—condemned he was, let him remain so then! Good or evil spirit—gloomy and scornful power, whom men call the Genius of man, thou art a power more restlessly uncertain, more baselessly useless, than the wild wind in the mountains; Chance thou term'st thyself, but thou art nothing; thou inflamest everything with thy breath, crumblest mountains at thy approach, and suddenly art thyself destroyed at the presence of the Cross of dead wood, behind which stands another Power invisible like thyself—whom thou deniest, perhaps, but whose avenging hand is on thee, and hurls thee in the dust dishonored and unnamed! Lost! I am lost! What can be done? Flee to Belle-Isle? Yes, and leave Porthos behind me, to talk and relate the whole affair to every one! Porthos, too, who will have to suffer for what he has done. I will not let poor Porthos suffer. He seems like one of the members of my own frame; and his grief or misfortune would be mine as well. Porthos shall leave with me, and shall follow my destiny. It must be so."
And Aramis, apprehensive of meeting any one to whom his hurried movements might appear suspicious ascended the staircase without being perceived. Porthos, so recently returned from Paris, was already in a profound sleep; his huge body forgot its fatigue, as his mind forgot its thoughts. Aramis entered, light as a shadow, and placed his nervous grasp on the giant's shoulder. "Come, Porthos," he cried, "come."
Porthos obeyed, rose from his bed, opened his eyes, even before his intelligence seemed to be aroused.
"We are going off," said Aramis.
"Ah!" returned Porthos.
"We shall go mounted, and faster than we have ever gone in our lives."
"Ah!" repeated Porthos.
"Dress yourself, my friend."
And he helped the giant to dress himself and thrust his gold and diamonds into his pocket. While he was thus engaged, a slight noise attracted his attention, and on looking up, he saw D'Artagnan watching them through the half-opened door. Aramis started.
"What the devil are you doing there in such an agitated manner?" said the musketeer.
"Hush!" said Porthos. "We are going off on a mission of great importance," added the bishop.
"You are very fortunate," said the musketeer.
"Oh, dear me!" said Porthos, "I feel so wearied; I would far sooner have been fast asleep. But the service of the king...."
"Have you seen M. Fouquet?" said Aramis to D'Artagnan.
"Yes; this very minute, in a carriage."
"What did he say to you?"
"'Adieu;' nothing more."
"Was that all?"
"What else do you think he could say? Am I worth anything now since you have all got into such high favor?"
"Listen," said Aramis, embracing the musketeer; "your good times are returning again. You will have no occasion to be jealous of any one."
"Ah! bah!"
"I predict that something will happen to you to-day which will increase your importance more than ever."
"Really?"
"You know that I know all the news?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Come, Porthos, are you ready? Let us go."
"I am quite ready, Aramis."
"Let us embrace D'Artagnan first."
"Most certainly."
"But the horses?"
"Oh! there is no want of them here. Will you have mine?"
"No; Porthos has his own stud. So adieu! adieu!"
The two fugitives mounted their horses beneath the captain of the musketeer's eyes, who held Porthos' stirrup for him, and gazed after them until they were out of sight.
"On any other occasion," thought the Gascon, "I should say that those gentlemen are making their escape; but in these days politics seem so changed that that is what is termed going on a mission. I have no objection; let me attend to my own affairs, that is quite enough;" and he philosophically entered his apartments.
Fouquet tore along as fast as his horses could drag him. On the way he trembled with horror at the idea of what had just been revealed to him.
"What must have been," he thought,"the youth of those extraordinary men, who, even as age is stealing fast upon them, still are able to conceive such plans and can carry them out without flinching?"
At one moment he could not resist the idea that all that Aramis had just been recounting to him was nothing more than a dream, and whether the fable itself was not the snare; so that when Fouquet arrived at the Bastille, he might possibly find an order of arrest, which would send him to join the dethroned king. Strongly impressed with this idea, he gave certain sealed orders on his route, while fresh horses were being harnessed to his carriage. These orders were addressed to M. d'Artagnan, and to certain others whose fidelity to the king was far above suspicion.
"In this way," said Fouquet to himself, "prisoner or not, I shall have performed the duty which I owe to my honor. The orders will not reach them until after my return, if I should return free, and consequently they will not have been unsealed. I shall take them back again. If I am delayed, it will be because some misfortune will have befallen me; and in that case assistance will be sent for me as well as for the king."
Prepared in this manner, the surintendant arrived at the Bastille; he had traveled at the rate of five leagues and a half the hour. Every circumstance of delay which Aramis had escaped in his visit to the Bastille befell Fouquet. It was useless his giving his name, equally useless his being recognized; he could not succeed in obtaining an entrance. By dint of entreaties, threats, commands, he succeeded in inducing a sentinel to speak to one of the subalterns, who went and told the major. As for the governor, they did not even dare to disturb him. Fouquet sat in his carriage, at the outer gate of the fortress, chafing with rage and impatience, awaiting the return of the officers, who at last reappeared with a sufficiently sulky air.
"Well," said Fouquet, impatiently, "what did the major say?"
"Well, monsieur," replied the soldier, "the major laughed in my face. He told me that M. Fouquet was at Vaux, and that even were he at Paris, M. Fouquet would not get up at so early an hour as the present."
"Mordieu! You are a perfect set of fools," cried the minister, darting out of the carriage; and before the subaltern had had time to shut the gate Fouquet sprang through it, and ran forward in spite of the soldier, who cried out for assistance. Fouquet gained ground, regardless of the cries of the man, who, however, having at last come up with Fouquet, called out to the sentinel of the second gate, "Look out, look out, sentinel!" The man crossed his pike before the minister; but the latter, robust and active, and hurried away, too, by his passion, wrested the pike from the soldier and struck him a violent blow on the shoulder with it. The subaltern, who approached too closely, received his part of the blows as well. Both of them uttered loud and furious cries, at the sound of which the whole of the first body of the advanced guard poured out of the guard-house. Among them there was one, however, who recognized the surintendant, and who called out, "Monseigneur, ah! monseigneur. Stop, stop, you fellows!" And he effectually checked the soldiers, who were on the point of revenging their companions. Fouquet desired them to open the gate; but they refused to do so without the countersign; he desired them to inform the governor of his presence; but the latter had already heard the disturbance at the gate. He ran forward, followed by his major, and accompanied by a picket of twenty men, persuaded that an attack was being made on the Bastille. Baisemeaux also recognized Fouquet immediately, and dropped his sword, which he had held brandishing about in his hand.
"Ah! monseigneur," he stammered, "how can I excuse—"
"Monsieur," said the surintendant, flushed with anger, and heated by his exertions, "I congratulate you. Your watch and ward are admirably kept."
Baisemeaux turned pale, thinking that this remark was said ironically, and portended a furious burst of anger. But Fouquet had recovered his breath, and, beckoning the sentinel and the subaltern, who were rubbing their shoulders, toward him, he said, "There are twenty pistoles for the sentinel, and fifty for the officer. Pray receive my compliments, gentlemen. I will not fail to speak to his majesty about you. And now, M. Baisemeaux, a word with you."
And he followed the governor to his official residence, accompanied by a murmur of general satisfaction. Baisemeaux was already trembling with shame and uneasiness. Aramis' early visit, from that moment, seemed to possess consequences which a functionary such as he (Baisemeaux) was, was perfectly justified in apprehending. It was quite another thing, however, when Fouquet, in a sharp tone of voice, and with an imperious look, said, "You have seen M. d'Herblay this morning?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"And are you not horrified at the crime of which you have made yourself an accomplice?"
"Well," thought Baisemeaux, "good so far;" and then he added aloud, "But what crime, monseigneur, do you allude to?"
"That for which you can be quartered alive, monsieur—do not forget that! But this is not a time to show anger. Conduct me immediately to the prisoner."
"To what prisoner?" said Baisemeaux, tremblingly.
"You pretend to be ignorant? Very good—it is the best thing for you perhaps, to do; for if, in fact, you were to admit your participation in it, it would be all over with you. I wish, therefore, to seem to believe in your assumption of ignorance."
"I entreat you, monseigneur—"
"That will do. Lead me to the prisoner."
"To Marchiali?"
"Who is Marchiali?"
"The prisoner who was brought back this morning by M. d'Herblay."
"He is called Marchiali," said the surintendant, his conviction somewhat shaken by Baisemeaux's cool manner.
"Yes, monseigneur; that is the name under which he was inscribed here."
Fouquet looked steadily at Baisemeaux, as if he would read his very heart; and perceived, with that clear-sightedness which men possess who are accustomed to the exercise of power, that the man was speaking with the most perfect sincerity. Besides, in observing his face for a few moments, he could not believe that Aramis would have chosen such a confidant.
"It is the prisoner," said the surintendant to him, "whom M. d'Herblay carried away the day before yesterday?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"And whom he brought back this morning?" added Fouquet, quickly; for he understood immediately the mechanism of Aramis' plan.
"Precisely, monseigneur."
"And his name is Marchiali, you say?"
"Yes, Marchiali. If monseigneur has come here to remove him, so much the better, for I was going to write about him."
"What has he done, then?"
"Ever since this morning he has annoyed me extremely. He has had such terrible fits of passion as almost to make me believe that he would bring the Bastille itself down about our ears."
"I will soon relieve you of his presence," said Fouquet.
"Ah! so much the better."
"Conduct me to his prison."
"Will monseigneur give me the order?"
"What order?"
"An order from the king."
"Wait until I sign you one."
"That will not be sufficient, monseigneur. I must have an order from the king."
Fouquet assumed an irritated expression. "As you are so scrupulous," he said, "with regard to allowing prisoners to leave, show me the order by which this one was set at liberty." Baisemeaux showed him the order to release Seldon.
"Very good," said Fouquet; "but Seldon is not Marchiali."
"But Marchiali is not at liberty, monseigneur he is here."
"But you said that M. d'Herblay carried him away and brought him back again."
"I did not say so."
"So surely did you say it, that I almost seem to hear it now."
"It was a slip of my tongue, then, monseigneur."
"Take care, M. de Baisemeaux, take care."
"I have nothing to fear, monseigneur; I am acting according to strict regulation."
"Do you dare to say so?"
"I would say so in the presence of an apostle himself. M. d'Herblay brought me an order to set Seldon at liberty; and Seldon is free."
"I tell you that Marchiali has left the Bastille."
"You must prove that, monseigneur."
"Let me see him."
"You, monseigneur, who govern this kingdom, know very well that no one can see any of the prisoners without an express order from the king."
"M. d'Herblay has entered, however."
"That is to be proved, monseigneur."
"M. de Baisemeaux, once more I warn you to pay particular attention to what you are saying."
"All the documents are there, monseigneur."
"M. d'Herblay is overthrown."
"Overthrown?—M. d'Herblay! Impossible!"
"You see that he has undoubtedly influenced you."
"No, monseigneur; what does, in fact, influence me, is the king's service. I am doing my duty. Give me an order from him, and you shall enter."
"Stay, M. le Gouverneur, I give you my word that if you allow me to see the prisoner, I will give you an order from the king at once."
"Give it me now, monseigneur."
"And that, if you refuse me, I will have you and all your officers arrested on the spot."
"Before you commit such an act of violence, monseigneur, you will reflect," said Baisemeaux, who had turned very pale, "that we will only obey an order signed by the king; and that it will be just as easy for you to obtain one to see Marchiali as to obtain one to do me so much injury; me, too, who am perfectly innocent."
"True, true!" cried Fouquet, furiously; "perfectly true. M. de Baisemeaux," he added, in a sonorous voice, drawing the unhappy governor toward him, "do you know why I am so anxious to speak to the prisoner?"
"No, monseigneur; and allow me to observe that you are terrifying me out of my senses; I am trembling all over, and feel as if I were going to faint."
"You will stand a better chance of fainting outright, M. Baisemeaux, when I return here at the head of ten thousand men and thirty pieces of cannon."
"Good heavens, monseigneur, you are losing your senses."
"When I have roused the whole population of Paris against you and your cursed towers, and have battered open the gates of this place, and hanged you up to the bars of that tower in the corner there."
"Monseigneur! monseigneur! for pity's sake."
"I give you ten minutes to make up your mind," added Fouquet, in a calm voice. "I will sit down here in this armchair and wait for you; if, in ten minutes' time, you still persist, I leave this place, and you may think me as mad as you like; but you will see!"
Baisemeaux stamped his foot on the ground like a man in a state of despair, but he did not reply a single syllable: 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 the Duc de Bouillon and M. le Prince de Conde to assume the command of the Swiss guards, of the king's 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, le Chevalier d'Herblay, Eveque de Vannes, and his accomplices, who are: 1st, M. de Baisemeaux, governor of the Bastille, suspected of the crimes of high treason and rebellion—"
"Stop, monseigneur!" cried Baisemeaux; "I do not understand a single thing 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 as he wiped 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," he said, 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 dispatches."
Baisemeaux bowed his head, took the keys, and unaccompanied, except by the minister, ascended the staircase. The higher they advanced up the spiral staircase, certain smothered murmurs became distinct cries and fearful imprecations. "What is that?" asked Fouquet.