 Chapter fifty-four of the D'Artagnan Romance is volume three part one by Alexandre Dumas translated by William Robson. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. The Houses of Monsieur Fouquet Whilst D'Artagnan was returning to Planchet's house, his head aching and bewildered with all that had happened to him, there was passing a scene of quite a different character and which, nevertheless, is not foreign to the conversation our musketeer had just had with the king. Only this scene took place out of Paris, in the house possessed by the superintendent Fouquet in the village of Saint-Monde. The minister had just arrived at this country house, followed by his principal clerk who carried an enormous portfolio full of papers to be examined, and others waiting for signature. As it might be about five o'clock in the afternoon, the masters had dined, supper was being prepared for twenty subaltern guests. The superintendent did not stop. On a lighting from his carriage he, at the same bound, sprang through the doorway, traversed the apartments and gained his cabinet, where he declared he would shut himself up to work, commanding that he should not be disturbed for anything but an order from the king. As soon as this order was given, Fouquet shut himself up, and two footmen were placed as sentinels at his door. Then Fouquet pushed a bolt which displaced a panel that walled up the entrance, and prevented everything that passed in this apartment from being either seen or heard. But, against all probability, it was only for the sake of shutting himself up that Fouquet shut himself up thus. For he went straight to a bureau, seated himself at it, opened the portfolio, and began to make a choice amongst the enormous mass of papers it contained. It was not more than ten minutes after he had entered, and taken all the precautions we have described, when the repeated noise of several slight equal knocks struck his ear, and appeared to fix his utmost attention. Fouquet raised his head, turned his ear, and listened. The strokes continued. Then the worker arose with a slight movement of impatience, and walked straight up to a glass behind which the blows were struck by a hand, or by some invisible mechanism. It was a large glass let into a panel. Three other glasses, exactly similar to it, completed the symmetry of the apartment. Nothing distinguished that one from the others. Without doubt, these reiterated knocks were a signal. For, at the moment Fouquet approached the glass, listening, the same voice was renewed, and in the same measure. Oh! murmured the intendant with surprise. Who is Yonder? I did not expect anybody today. And without doubt, to respond to that signal, he pulled out a gilded nail near the glass, and shook it thrice. Then, returning to his place, and seating himself again, Muffois, let them wait! said he. And plunging again into the ocean of papers unrolled before him, he appeared to think of nothing now but work. In fact, with incredible rapidity and marvelous lucidity, Fouquet deciphered the largest papers in most complicated writings, correcting them, annotating them with a pen moved as if by a fever, and the work melting under his hands, signatures, figures, references, became multiplied as if ten clerks. That is to say, a hundred fingers and ten brains had performed the duties instead of the five fingers and single brain of this man. From time to time, only, Fouquet, absorbed by his work, raised his head to cast a furtive glance upon a clock placed before him. The reason of this was, Fouquet set himself a task, and when this task was once set, in one hour's work he, by himself, did what another would not have accomplished in a day. Always certain, consequently provided, he was not disturbed of arriving at the close in the time his devouring activity had fixed. But, in the midst of his ardent labour, the soft strokes upon the little bell placed behind the glass sounded again hasty and consequently more urgent. The lady appears to be impatient, said Fouquet. A calm! That must be the comtesse. But no, the comtesse has gone to Rambouillet for three days. The Presidente then? Oh, no, the Presidente would not assume such grand heirs. She would ring very humbly. Then she would wait my good pleasure. The greatest certainty is that I do not know who it can be, but that I know who it cannot be. And since it is not you, Marquis, since it cannot be you, deuce, take the rest. And he went on with his work in spite of the reiterated appeals of the bell. At the end of a quarter of an hour, however, impatience prevailed over Fouquet in his turn. He might be said to consume, rather than to complete the rest of his work. He thrust his papers into his portfolio, and giving a glance at the mirror whilst the taps continued faster than ever. Said he, Whence comes all this racket? What has happened? And who can the Ariadne be who expects me so impatiently? Let us see. He then applied the tip of his finger to the nail parallel to the one he had drawn. Immediately the glass moved like a folding door and discovered a secret closet, rather deep in which the superintendent disappeared as if going into a vast box. When there he touched another spring which opened, not a board, but a block of the wall, and he went out by that opening leaving the door to shut of itself. Then Fouquet descended about a score of steps which sank, winding underground, and came to a long subterranean passage, lighted by imperceptible loopholes. The walls of this vaults were covered with slabs or tiles, and the floor with carpeting. This passage was under the street itself, which separated Fouquet's house from the park of Vincennes. At the end of the passage ascended a winding staircase parallel with that by which Fouquet had entered. He mounted these other stairs, entered by means of a spring placed in a closet similar to that in his cabinet, and from this closet, an untenanted chamber furnished with the utmost elegance. As soon as he entered, he examined carefully whether the glass closed without leaving any trace, and doubtless satisfied with this observation, he opened by means of a small gold key, the triple fastenings of a door in front of him. This time the door opened upon a handsome cabinet sumptuously furnished, in which was seated upon cushions a lady of surpassing beauty, who at the sound of the lock sprang towards Fouquet. Ah, good heavens! cried the latter, starting back with astonishment. Madame Lemaquise de Belliere, you here? Yes. murmured Lemaquise. Yes, it is I, monsieur. Marquise, dear Marquise, added Fouquet ready to prostrate himself. Ah, my God! how did you come here? and I to keep you waiting. A long time, monsieur. Yes, a very long time. I am happy in thinking this waiting has appeared long to you, Marquise. Oh, an eternity, monsieur! Oh, I rang more than twenty times. Did you not hear me? Marquise, you are pale. You tremble. Did you not hear, then, that you were summoned? Oh, yes, I heard plainly enough, madame, but I could not come. After your rigours and your refusals, how could I dream it was you? If I could have had any suspicions of the happiness that awaited me, believe me, madame, I would have quitted everything to fall at your feet, as I do at this moment. Are we quite alone, monsieur? asked the Marquise, looking round the room. Oh, yes, madame, I can assure you of that. Really? said the Marquise in a melancholy tone. You sigh, said Fouquet. What mysteries! What precautions! said the Marquise with a slight bitterness of expression. And how evident it is that you fear the least suspicion of your amours to escape. Would you prefer their being made public? Oh, no. You act like a delicate man, said the Marquise, smiling. Come, dear Marquise, punish me not with reproaches. I implore you. Reproaches? Have I a right to make you any? No. Unfortunately, no. But tell me, you who during a year I have loved without return or hope? You are mistaken. Without hope it is true, but not without return. What? For me of my love? There is but one proof, and that proof I still want. I am here to bring it, monsieur. Fouquet wished to clasp her in his arms, but she disengaged herself with a gesture. You persist in deceiving yourself, monsieur, and never will accept of me the only thing I am willing to give you. Devotion. Ah, then, you do not love me. Devotion is but a virtue. Love is a passion. Listen to me. I implore you. I should not have come hither without a serious motive. You are well assured of that. Are you not? The motive is of very little consequence, so that you are but here, so that I see you, so that I speak to you. You are right. The principal thing is that I am here without anyone having seen me, and that I can speak to you. Fouquet sank on his knees before her. Speak, speak, madame! said he. I listened to you. The marquis looked at Fouquet on his knees at her feet, and there was in the looks of the woman a strange mixture of love and melancholy. Oh! at length murmured she. Would that I were she who has the right of seeing you every minute, of speaking to you every instant? Would that I were she who might watch over you? She who would have no need of mysterious springs, to summon in cause to appear like a sylph the man she loves, to look at him for an hour and then see him disappear in the darkness of a mystery, still more strange it is going out than it is coming in. Oh! that would be to live a happy woman. Do you happen marquis? said Fouquet, smiling, to be speaking of my wife. Yes, certainly, of her I spoke. Well, you need not envy her lot, marquis, of all the woman with whom I have any relations. Madame Fouquet is the one I see the least of, and who has the least intercourse with me. At least, monsieur, she is not reduced to place, as I have done, her hand upon the ornament of a glass to call you to her. At least you do not reply to her by the mysterious alarming sound of a bell, the spring of which comes from I don't know where. At least you have not forbidden her to endeavor to discover the secret of these communications under pain of breaking off forever your connections with her as you have forbidden all who come here before me and all who will come after me. Dear marquis, how unjust you are, and how little do you know what you are doing and thus exclaiming against mystery. It is with mystery alone we can love without trouble. It is with love without trouble alone that we can be happy. But let us return to ourselves, to that devotion of which you were speaking, or rather let me labor under a pleasing delusion and believe that this devotion is love. Just now, repeated the marquis, passing over her eyes a hand that might have been a model for the graceful contours of antiquity, just now I was prepared to speak. My ideas were clear and bold. Now I am quite confused, quite troubled. I fear I bring you bad news. If it is to the bad news I owe your presence, marquis, welcome be even that bad news, or rather, marquis, since you allow that I am not quite indifferent to you, let me hear nothing of the bad news, but speak of yourself. No. No. On the contrary, demanded of me, require me to tell it to you instantly, and not to allow myself to be turned aside by any feeling whatever. Fouquet, my friend, it is of immense importance. You astonish me, marquis. I will even say you almost frighten me. You so serious, so collected. You know the world we live in so well. Is it then important? Oh, very important. In the first place, how did you come here? You shall know that presently, but first to something of more consequence. Speak, marquis. Speak. I implore you, have pity on my impatience. Do you know that Colbert is made intendant of the finances? Colbert, little Colbert. Yes, Colbert, little Colbert. Mazurine's factotum. The same. Well, what do you see so terrific in that, dear marquis? Little Colbert is intentant. That is astonishing, I confess, but is not terrific. Do you think the king has given, without a pressing motive, such a place to one you call a little quister? In the first place, it is positively true that the king has given it to him. It is so said. Aye, but who says so? Everybody. Everybody. That's nobody. Mention someone likely to be well-informed who says so. Madame Vanell. Now you begin to frighten me in earnest, said Fouquet, laughing. If anyone is well-informed, or ought to be well-informed, it is the person you name. Do not speak ill of poor Marguerite, Mr. Fouquet, for she still loves you. But, indeed, that is scarcely credible. I thought little Colbert, as you said just now, had passed over that love and left the impression upon it of a spot of ink or a stain of grease. Fouquet, Fouquet, is this the way you always treat the poor creatures you desert? Why, you surely are not going to undertake the defence of Madame Vanell. Yes, I will undertake it, for I repeat, she loves you still, and the proof is she saves you. But your interposition, Marquis, that is very cunning on her part, no angel could be more agreeable to me, or could lead me more certainly to salvation. But let me ask you, do you know Marguerite? She was my convent friend. And you say that she has informed you that Mr. Colbert was named intendant? Yes, she did. Well, enlighten me, Marquis. Granted, Mr. Colbert is intendant, so be it. In what can an intendant? That is to say, my subordinate, my clerk, give me umbridge or injure me, even if he is Mr. Colbert. You do not reflect, Bishir, apparently, replied the Marquis. Upon what? This, that Mr. Colbert hates you. Hates me, cried Fouquet. Good heavens, Marquis, whence do you come? Where can you live, hates me? Why, all the world hates me, he, of course, as others do. He, more than others. More than others? Let him. He is ambitious. Who is not, Marquis? Yes, but with him ambition has no bounds. I am quite aware of that, since he made it to a point to succeed me with Madame Fanelle. And obtained his end. Look at that. Do you mean to say, as the presumption to hope, to pass from intendant to superintendent? Have you not yourself already had the same fear? Oh, said Fouquet, to succeed with Madame Fanelle is one thing. To succeed me with the king is another. France is not to be purchased so easily as the wife of a matriot, a copte. Eh, monsieur, everything is to be bought, if not by gold, by intrigue. Nobody knows the contrary better than you, Madame, you to whom I have offered millions. Instead of millions, Fouquet, you should have offered me a true, only end boundless love. I might have accepted that. So you see, still, everything is to be bought, if not in one way, by another. So Colbert, in your opinion, is an a fair way of bargaining for my place of superintendent. Make yourself easy on that head, my dear Marquis. He is not yet rich enough to purchase it. But if he should rob you of it? Ah, that is another thing. Unfortunately, before he can reach me, that is to say, the body of the place, he must destroy, must make a breach in the advanced works, and I am devilishly well fortified, Marquis. What you call your advanced works are your creatures. Are they not your friends? Exactly so. And is Monsieur Daimérys one of your creatures? Yes, he is. Is Monsieur Liadot one of your friends? Certainly. Monsieur Daimérys? Monsieur Daimérys? Ah, they may do what they like with him, but... But? But they must not touch the others. Well, if you are anxious they should not touch Monsieur Daimérys and Liadot, it is time to look about you. Who threatens them? Will you listen to me now? Attentively, Marquis. Without interrupting me? Speak. Well, this morning Marguerite sent for me. And what did she want with you? I dare not see Monsieur Fouquet myself, said she. Bah! Why should she think I would reproach her, poor woman? She vastly deceives herself. See him yourself, said she, and tell him to beware of Monsieur Colbert. What? She warned me to beware of her lover. I have told you she still loves you. Go on, Marquis. Monsieur Colbert, she added, came to me two hours ago to inform me he was appointed intendant. I have already told you, Marquis, that Monsieur Colbert would only be the more in my power for that. Yes, but that is not all. Marguerite is intimate, as you know, with Madame Daimérys and Madame Liadot. I know it. Well, Monsieur Colbert put many questions to her, relative to the fortunes of those two gentlemen, and as to the devotion they had for you. Oh! As to those two, I can answer for them. They must be killed before they will cease to be mine. Then, as Madame Vanell was obliged to quit Monsieur Colbert for an instant to receive a visitor, and as Monsieur Colbert is industrious, scarcely was the new intendant left alone, before he took a pencil from his pocket, and as there was paper on the table began to make notes. Notes concerning Daiméry and Liadot? Exactly. I should like to know what those notes were about. And that is just what I have brought to you. Madame Vanell has taken Colbert's notes and sent them to me. No, but by a chance which resembles a miracle, she has a duplicate of those notes. How could she get that? Listen, I told you that Colbert found paper on the table? Yes. That he took a pencil from his pocket? Yes. And wrote upon that paper? Yes. Well, this pencil was a lead pencil, consequently hard, so it marked in black upon the first sheet, and in white upon the second. Go on. Colbert, when tearing off the first sheet, took no notice of the second. Well? Well, on the second was to be read what had been written on the first. Madame Vanell read it and sent for me. Yes. Yes. Then, when she was assured I was your devoted friend, she gave me the paper and told me the secret of this house. And the paper? Said Fouquet in some degree of agitation. Here it is, monsieur. Read it. Said the Marquis. Fouquet read, Names of the Farmers of Revenue, to be condemned by the Chamber of Justice. Demerri, friend of M.F. Liadot, friend of M.S. Devaneen, in Diff. Demerri and Liadot. Cried Fouquet, reading the paper eagerly again. Friends of M.F. Pointed the Marquis with her finger. But what is the meaning of these words, to be condemned by the Chamber of Justice? Dame, said the Marquis. That is clear enough, I think. Besides, that is not all. Read on, read on. And Fouquet continued. The two first to death, the third to be dismissed, with M.S. Dortmalt and de la Vallette, who will only have their property confiscated. Great God, cried Fouquet, to death, to death, Liadot and Demerri. But even if the Chamber of Justice should condemn them to death, the King will never ratify their condemnation, and they cannot be executed without the King's signature. The King has made M.C. Colbert intendant. Oh, cried Fouquet, as if he caught a glimpse of the abyss that yawned beneath his feet. Impossible, impossible! But who passed a pencil over the marks made by Colbert? I did. I was afraid the first would be effaced. Oh, I will know all. You will know nothing, Monsieur. You despise your enemy too much for that. Pardon me, my dear Marquis. Excuse me, yes. M.C. Colbert is my enemy. I believe him to be so, yes. M.C. Colbert is a man to be dreaded, I admit. But I, I have time, and as you are here, as you have assured me of your devotion, as you have allowed me to hope for your love, as we are alone. I came here to save you, M.C. Colbert, and not to ruin myself, said the Marquis, rising. Therefore, beware. Marquis, in truth you terrify yourself too much at least. Unless this terror is but a pretext. He is very deep, very deep, this M.C. Colbert. Beware. Fouquet in his turn drew himself up, and I asked he. And you, you have only a noble heart. Beware, beware. So? I have done what was right, my friend, at the risk of my reputation. Adieu. Not adieu. Au revoir. Perhaps, said the Marquis, giving her hand to Fouquet to kiss, and walking toward the door with so firm a step, that he did not dare to bar her passage. As to Fouquet, he retook with his head hanging down in a thick cloud on his brow the path of the subterranean passage along which ran the metal wires that communicated from one house to the other, transmitting through two glasses the wishes and signals of hidden correspondence. End of Chapter 54 Recording by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia Chapter 55 of the D'Artagnan Romances, Volume 3, Part 1, by Alexandre Dumas, translated by William Robson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Abbey Fouquet Fouquet hastened back to his apartment by the subterranean passage, and immediately closed the mirror with the spring. He was scarcely in his closet when he heard someone knocking violently at the door, and a well-known voice crying, Open the door, Monsignor! I entreat you! Open the door! Fouquet quickly restored a little order to everything, that might have revealed either his absence or his agitation. He spread his papers over the desk, took up a pen and to gain time, said through the closed door, Who is there? What, Monsignor, do you not know me? replied the voice. Yes, yes, said Fouquet to himself. Yes, my friend, I know you well enough, and then allowed. Is it not Corville? Why, yes, Monsignor! Fouquet rose, cast a last look at one of his glasses, went to the door, pushed back the bolt, and Corville entered. Ah, Monsignor! Monsignor! cried he. What cruelty! In what? I have been a quarter of an hour imploring you to open the door, and you would not even answer me. Once for all, you know that I will not be disturbed when I am busy. Now, although I might make you an exception, Corville, I insist upon my orders being respected by others. Monsignor, at this moment, orders, doors, bolts, locks, and walls, I could have broken, forced, and overthrown. Ha, ha, it relates to some great event, then, asked Fouquet. Oh, I assure you it does, Monsignor, replied Corville. And what is this event? Said Fouquet, a little troubled by the evident agitation of his most intimate confidant. There is a secret chamber of justice instituted, Monsignor. I know there is, but do the members meet, Corville? They not only meet, but they have passed a sentence, Monsignor. A sentence? said the superintendent with a shutter and pallory could not conceal. A sentence? and on whom? Two of your best friends. Leador et demeri, you do you mean, but what sort of a sentence? Sentence of death. Past? Oh, you must be mistaken, Corville, that is impossible. Here is a copy of the sentence which the king is to sign today, if he has not already signed it. Fouquet seized the paper eagerly, read it, and returned it to Corville. The king will never sign that, said he. Corville shook his head. Monsignor, Monsieur Colbert is a bold counsellor. Do not be too confident. Monsieur Colbert again, cried Fouquet. How is it that that name rises upon all occasions that torment my ears during the last two or three days? Thou make so trifling a subject of too much importance, Corville. Let Monsieur Colbert appear. I will face him. Let him raise his head. I will crush him. But you understand, there must be an outline upon which my look may fall. There must be a surface upon which my feet may be placed. Patience, Monsignor, for you do not know what Colbert is. Study him quickly. It is with this dark financier as it is with meteors, which the eye never sees completely before their disastrous invasion, and when we feel them we are dead. Oh, Corville, this is going too far, replied Fouquet, smiling. Allow me, my friend, not to be so easily frightened. Monsieur Colbert, a meteor. Corbleux, we confront the meteor. Let us see acts and not words. What has he done? He has ordered two gibbets of the executioner of Paris. Answered Corville, Fouquet raised his head and a flash gleamed from his eyes. Are you sure of what you say? cried he. Here is the proof, Monsignor! And Corville held out to the superintendent a note communicated by a certain secretary of the Hotel de Ville, who was one of Fouquet's creatures. Yes, that is true. murmured the minister. The scaffold may be prepared, but the king is not signed. Corville, the king will not sign. I shall know soon, said Corville. How? If the king is signed, the gibbets will be sent this evening to the Hotel de Ville in order to be caught up and ready by tomorrow morning. Oh, no, no! cried the superintendent once again. You are all deceived, and deceive me in my turn. Liadot came to see me only the day before yesterday. Only three days ago I received a present of some Syracuse wine from Poir de Meris. What does that prove? replied Corville. Except that the Chamber of Justice has been secretly assembled, has deliberated in the absence of the accused, and that the whole proceeding was complete when they were arrested. What? are they then arrested? No doubt they are. But where, when, and how have they been arrested? Liadot yesterday at daybreak. De Meris, the day before yesterday in the evening, as he was returning from the house of his mistress, their disappearance has disturbed nobody, but at length, Monsieur Colbert all at once raised the mask and caused the affair to be published. It is being cried by sound of trumpet at this moment in Paris, and in truth, Monsignor, there is scarcely anybody but yourself ignorant of the event. Fouquet began to walk about his chamber with an uneasiness that became more and more serious. What do you decide upon, Monsignor? said Corville. If it really were, as you say, I would go to the King, cried Fouquet. But, as I go to the Louvre, I will pass by the Hotel de Ville, which I'll see if the sentence is signed. Incredulity! Thou art the pest of all great minds. Said Corville, shrugging his shoulders. Corville. Yes, continued he. And, incredulity! Thou ruinest as contagion destroys the most robust health. That is to say, in an instant. Let us go! cried Fouquet. Desire the door to be opened, Corville. Be cautious! said the latter. The abbey Fouquet is there. Ah, my brother! replied Fouquet in a tone of annoyance. He is there, is he? He knows all the ill news then, and is rejoiced to bring it to me as usual. The devil! If my brother is there, my affairs are bad, Corville. Why did you not tell me that sooner? I should have been the more readily convinced. Monsignor! Columny hates him! said Corville, laughing. If he has come, it is not with a bad intention. What? Do you excuse him? cried Fouquet. A fellow without a heart, without ideas, a devourer of wealth. He knows you are rich, and would ruin me. No, but he would like to have your purse. That is all. Enough! Enough! A hundred thousand crowns per month during two years! Corble! It is I that pay Corville, and I know my figures. Corville laughed in a silent, sly manner. Yes, yes, you mean to say it is the king pays, said the superintendent. Ah, Corville, that is a vile joke! This is not the place. Monsignor, do not be angry. Well then, send away the abbey, Fouquet. I have not a sue. Corville made a step towards the door. He has been a month without seeing me, continued Fouquet. Why could he not be two months? Because he repents of living in bad company, said Corville, and prefers you to all his bandits. Thanks for the preference. You make a strange advocate, Corville. Today the advocate of the abbey, Fouquet. Eh, but everything in every man has a good side. Their useful side, Monsignor. The bandits whom the abbey keeps in pay and drink have their useful side, have they? Prove it, if you please. Let the circumstance arise, Monsignor, and you will be very glad to have these bandits under your hand. You advise me, then, to be reconciled to the abbey? said Fouquet ironically. I advise you, Monsignor, not to quarrel with a hundred or a hundred and twenty loose fellows, who by putting their rapiers end to end, would form a cordon of steel capable of surrounding three thousand men. Fouquet darted a searching glance at Corville and passing before him. That is all very well. Let Mr. Abbey Fouquet be introduced. Said he to the footman. You are right, Corville. Two minutes after the abbey Fouquet appeared in the doorway, with profound reverences, he was a man from forty to forty-five years of age, half-churchman, half-soldier, eh, espadasan, grafted upon an abbey. Upon seeing that he had not a sword by his side, you might be sure he had pistols. Fouquet saluted him more as an elder brother than a minister. What can I do to serve you, Mr. Abbey? said he. Oh-ho! How coldly you speak to me, brother! I speak like a man who is in a hurry, Mr. The abbey looked maliciously at Corville and anxiously at Fouquet and said, I have three hundred pistolas to pay to Mr. Debregi this evening, a play debt, a sacred debt. What next? said Fouquet bravely, for he comprehended that the abbey Fouquet would not have disturbed him for such a want. A thousand to my butcher, who will supply no more meat. Next. Twelve hundred to my tailor, continued the abbey. The fellow has made me take back seven suits of my peoples, which compromises my liveries, and my mistress talks of replacing me by a farmer of the revenue, which would be a humiliation for the church. What else? said Fouquet. You will please to remark, said the abbey humbly, that I have asked nothing for myself. That is delicate, Mr., replied Fouquet. So as you see, I wait. And I ask nothing. Oh, no. It is not for want of need, though I assure you. The minister reflected a minute. Twelve hundred pistolas to the tailor. That seems a great deal for clothes. Said he. I maintain a hundred men, said the abbey proudly. That is a charge, I believe. Why a hundred men? said Fouquet. Are you a Richelieu or a Mazarin to require a hundred men as a guard? What use do you make of these men? Speak. And do you ask me that? cried the abbey Fouquet. Ah, how can you put such a question? Why, I maintain a hundred men. Ah! Why, yes, I do put that question to you. What have you to do with a hundred men? Answer. In great. Continued the abbey more and more affected. Explain yourself. Why, Mr., the superintendent, I only want one valet de chambre for my part, and even if I were alone, I could help myself very well. But you, you who have so many enemies, a hundred men are not enough for me to defend you with. A hundred men. You ought to have ten thousand. I maintain, then, that these men in order that in public places and assemblies no voice may be raised against you. And without them, monsieur, you would be loaded with imprecations. You would be torn to pieces. You would not last a week. No, not a week. Do you understand? Ah, I did not know you were my champion to such an extent, monsieur, abbey. You doubt it? Cried the abbey. Listen, then, to what happened no longer than yesterday, in the rue de la Huchette, a man was cheapening a fowl. Well, how could that injure me, abbey? This way, the fowl was not fat. The purchaser refused to give eighteen sous for it, saying that he could not afford eighteen sous for the skin of a fowl from which monsieur Fouquet had sucked all the fat. Go on. The joke caused a deal of laughter. Continued the abbey, laughter at your expense, death to the devils, and the canyons were delighted. The joker added, Give me a fowl fed by monsieur Colbert, if you like, and I will pay all you ask. And immediately there was a clapping of hands, a frightful scandal. You understand? A scandal, which forces a brother to hide his face. Fouquet coloured, and you veiled it, said the superintendent. No, for it so happened I had one of my men in the crowd, a new recruit from the provinces, one, monsieur Menevi, whom I like very much. He made his way through the press, saying to the joker, Milbaub, monsieur the false joker, here's a thrust for Colbert. And one for Fouquet, replied the joker, upon which they drew in front of the cook's shop, with a hedge of the curious round them, and five hundred as curious at the windows. Well, said Fouquet, well, monsieur my Meneville, spitted the joker to the great astonishment of the spectators and said to the cook, take this goose, my friend, it is fatter than your fowl, that is the way, monsieur. Ended the abbey triumphantly. In which I spent my revenues, I maintained the honour of the family, monsieur. Fouquet hung his head. And I have a hundred as good as he. Continued the abbey. Very well, said Fouquet, give the account to Gore-V and remain here this evening. Shall we have supper? Yes, there will be supper. But the chest is closed. Gore-V will open it for you. Leave us, monsieur Abbey, leave us. Then we are friends, said the abbey with a bow. Oh, yes, friends, come, Gore-V. Are you going out? You will not stay to supper, then? I shall be back in an hour, rest easy, Abbey. Then aside to Gore-V, let them put to my English horses, said he, and direct the coachman to stop at the Hotel de Vie de Paris. End of Chapter Fifty-Five, Recording by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia. Chapter Fifty-Six of the D'Artagnan Romances, Volume Three, Part One, by Alexander Dumas, translated by William Robson. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Monsieur de la Fontaine's Wine Carriages were already bringing the guests of Fouquet to Saint-Monde. Already the whole house was getting warm with the preparations for supper when the superintendent launched his fleet horses upon the road to Paris, and going by the quays in order to meet fewer people on the way, soon reached the Hotel de Vie. It wanted a quarter to eight. Fouquet alighted at the corner of the Rue de Longpont, and on foot directed his course toward the Place de Grave, accompanied by Gore-V. At the turning of the place they saw a man dressed in black and violet, of dignified mean, who was preparing to get into a hired carriage and told the coachman to stop at Vincennes. He had before him a large hamper filled with bottles, which he had just purchased at the Cap-Array with the sign of Limage de Notre-Dame. Eh, but that is Vitelle, my maitre d'Hôtel, said Fouquet de Gore-V. Yes, M. Signeur, replied the latter. What can he have been doing at the sign of Limage de Notre-Dame? Buying wine, no doubt? What? My wine for me at a cabaret? said Fouquet. My cellar then must be in a miserable condition. And he advanced toward the maitre d'Hôtel who was arranging his bottles in the carriage with the most minute care. Hola, Vitelle! said he in the voice of a master. Take care, M. Signeur, said Gore-V. You will be recognized. Very well. Of what consequence? Vitelle! The man dressed in black and violet turned around. He had a good and mild countenance without expression, a mathematician minus the pride. A certain fire sparkled in the eyes of this personage, a rather sly smile played round his lips, but the observer might soon have remarked that this fire and this smile applied to nothing, enlightened nothing. Vitelle laughed like an absent man, and amused himself like a child. At the sound of his master's voice he turned around exclaiming, M. Signeur! Yes, it is I. What the devil are you doing here, Vitelle? Wine? You are buying wine at a cabaret in the Place de Grave. But, M. Signeur! said Vitelle quietly, after having darted a hostile glance at Gore-V. Why am I interfered with here? Is my cellar kept in bad order? No, Jeffty's Vitelle! No, but... But what? replied Vitelle. Gore-V touched Fouquet's elbow. Don't be angry, Vitelle. I thought my cellar. Your cellar sufficiently well-stocked for us to be able to dispense with recourse to the cellar of Limage de Notre-Dame. Eh, M. Signeur! said Vitelle, shrinking from M. Signeur to M. Signeur with a degree of disdain. Your cellar is so well-stocked that when certain of your guests dine with you they have nothing to drink. Fouquet, in great surprise, looked at Gore-V. What do you mean by that? I mean that your butler had not wine for all taste, M. Signeur, and that M. de La Fontaine, M. Pellissant, and M. Conrad do not drink when they come to the house. These gentlemen do not like strong wine. What is to be done then? Well, and therefore... Well, then I have found Thierry-Vine de Joigny, which they like. I know they come once a week to drink at the Image de Notre-Dame. That is the reason I am making this provision. Fouquet had no more to say. He was convinced. Vitelle on his part had much more to say, without doubt, and it was plain he was getting warm. It is just as if you would reproach me, M. Signeur, for going to the Rue Planche-Milbray, to fetch myself the cider M. M. Loure drinks when he comes to dine at your house. Loure drinks cider at my house? cried Fouquet, laughing. Certainly he does, M. Signeur, and that is the reason why he dines there with pleasure. Vitelle cried Fouquet, pressing the hand of his maître d'hôtel. You are a fine man. I thank you, Vitelle, for having understood that at my house, M. de La Fontaine, M. Conrot, and M. Loure are as great as Dukes and Piers, as great as Princess, greater than myself. Vitelle, you are a good servant, and I double your salary. Vitelle did not even thank his master. He merely shrugged his shoulders a little, murmuring his superb sentiment. To be thanked for having done one's duty is humiliating. He is right! said Gourvy, as he drew Fouquet's attention by a gesture to another point. He showed him a low-built tumbrel, drawn by two horses, upon which rocked two strong gibbits, bound together back to back by chains. Whilst an archer seated upon the cross-beams suffered as well as he could, with his head cast down the comments of a hundred vagabonds who guessed the destination of the gibbits, and were escorting them to the hotel de Ville. Fouquet started. It is decided, you see, said Gourvy. But it is not done, replied Fouquet. Oh! do not flatter yourself, M. Seigneur, if they have thus lulled your friendship and suspicions. If things have gone so far, you will be able to undo nothing. But I have not given my sanction. Monsieur de Lyon has ratified for you. I will go to the Louvre. Oh! no, you will not. Would you advise such baseness? cried Fouquet. Would you advise me to abandon my friends? Would you advise me, whilst able to fight, to throw the arms I hold in my hand to the ground? I do not advise you to do anything of the kind, M. Seigneur. Are you in a position to quit the post of superintendent at this moment? No. Well, if the king wishes to displace you, he will displace me absent as well as present. Yes, but you will not have insulted him. Yes, but I shall have been base. Now I am not willing that my friends should die, and they shall not die. For that it is necessary you should go to the Louvre. Is it not? Gourvy, beware! Once at the Louvre you will be forced to defend your friends openly. That is to say, to make a profession of faith, or you will be forced to abandon them irrevocably. Never. Pardon me. The king will propose the alternative to you. Rigoriously, or else you will propose it to him yourself. That is true. That is the reason why conflict must be avoided. Let us return to St. Mond, M. Seigneur. Gourvy, I will not stir from this place, where the crime is to be carried out, where my disgrace is to be accomplished. I will not stir, I say, till I have found some means of combating my enemies. M. Seigneur, replied Gourvy, you would excite my pity if I did not know you for one of the great spirits of this world. You possess a hundred and fifty millions. You are equal to the king in position, and a hundred and fifty millions his superior in money. Monsieur Colbert has not even had the wit to have the will of Mazarin accepted. Now, when a man is the richest person in a kingdom, and will take the trouble to spend the money, if things are done he does not like. It is because he is a poor man. Let us return to St. Mond, I say. To consult with Pellissant. We will. So be it. Said Fouquet with angry eyes. Yes, to St. Mond. He got into his carriage again, and Gourvy with him. Upon their road at the end of the Farburg St. Antoine, they overtook the humble equipage of Votel, who was quietly conveying home his van de Wanie. The black horses going at a swift pace, alarmed as they passed. The timid hack of the maitre d'hôtel, who, putting his head out of the window, cried in a fright, Take care of my bottles! End of Chapter 56 Recording by John Van Stan Savannah, Georgia Chapter 57 of the D'Artagnan Romances Volume 3, Part 1 by Alexander Dumas, translated by William Robson, this leap of box recording is in the public domain. The Gallery of St. Mond Fifty persons were waiting for the superintendent. He did not even take the time to place himself in the hands of his valet de chambre for a minute, but from the Peron went straight into the premier salon. There his friends were assembled in full chat. The intendant was about to order supper to be served, but, above all, the Abbe Fouquet watched for the return of his brother and was endeavouring to do the honours of the house in his absence. Upon the arrival of the superintendent, a murmur of joy and affection was heard. Fouquet, full of affability, good humour, and munificence, was beloved by his poets, his artists, and his men of business. His brow, upon which his little court read as upon that of a god, all the movements of his soul and thence drew rules of conduct. His brow, upon which affairs of state never impressed a wrinkle, was this evening paler than usual, and more than one friendly eye remarked that pallor. Fouquet placed himself at the head of the table and presided gaily during supper. He recounted Vitelle's expedition to La Fontaine, related the history of Menoveil and the skinny fowl to Pellison, and in such a manner that all the table heard it. A tempest of laughter and jokes ensued, which was only checked by a serious and even sad gesture from Pellison. The abe Fouquet, not being able to comprehend why his brother should have led the conversation in that direction, listened with all his ears and sought in the countenance of Gourvy, or in that of his brother, an explanation which nothing afforded him. Pellison took up the matter. Did they mention Monsieur Colbert then? said he. Why not? replied Fouquet. If true as it is said to be, the king has made him his intendant. Scarcely had Fouquet uttered these words with a marked intention, the explosion broke forth among his guests. The miser, said one. The mean pitiful fellow, said another. The hypocrite, said a third. Pellison exchanged a meaning look with Fouquet. Monsieur, said he, in truth we are abusing a man whom no one knows. It is neither charitable nor reasonable, and here is Monsieur Le Sur intendant, who I am sure agrees with me. Entirely, replied Fouquet, let the fat vows of Monsieur Colbert alone. Our business today is with the face-on truths of Monsieur Vatel. The speech stopped the dark cloud which was beginning to throw its shade over the guests. Gourvy succeeded so well in animating the poets with Divin de Journay, the avay, intelligent as a man who stands in need of his host's money, so enliven the financiers and the men of the sort, that amidst the vapours of this joy and the noise of conversation, in quietudes disappeared completely. The will of Cardinal Mazarin was the text of the conversation, at the second course, and dessert. Then Fouquet ordered bowls of sweet meats and fountains of liquours to be carried into the salon adjoining the gallery. He led the way tither conducting by the hand a lady, the queen, by his preference of the evening. The musicians then supped, and the promenades in the gallery and the gardens commenced beneath a spring sky, mild and flower scented. Pellison then approached the superintendent and said, Something troubles Monsignor. Greatly, replied the minister, Ask Gourvy to tell you what it is. Pellison, on turning round, found Lafontaine treading upon his heels. He was obliged to listen to a Latin verse which the poet had composed upon Votel. Lafontaine had for an hour been scanning this verse in all corners, seeking someone to pour it out upon, advantageously. He thought he had caught Pellison, but the latter escaped him. He turned towards Sorrel, who had himself just composed a quatrain in honour of the supper, and the Evitrian. Lafontaine, in vain, endeavoured to gain attention to his verses. Sorrel wanted to obtain a hearing for his quatrain. He was obliged to retreat before Monsieur Lacanthe de Channost, whose arm Fouquet had just taken. Labeh Fouquet perceived that the poet absent-minded as usual was about to follow the two talkers, and he interposed. Lafontaine seized upon him and recited his verses. The Abbe, who was quite innocent of Latin, nodded his head in cadence and every roll which Lafontaine impressed upon his body, according to the undulations of the dactyls and spandes. While this was going on behind the confiture Bessin, Fouquet related the event of the day to his son-in-law, Monsieur de Channost. We will send the idol in useless to look at the fireworks, said Pellison de Gourvier, whilst we converse here. So be it, said Gourvier, addressing four words to Vatel. The latter then led toward the gardens, the major part of the bow, the ladies, and the chatterers, whilst the men walked in the gallery, lighted by three hundred wax lights in the sight of all. The admirers of fireworks all ran away toward the garden. Gourvier approached Fouquet and said, Monsieur, we are here. All? said Fouquet. Yes. Count. The superintendent counted. There were eight persons. Pellison and Gourvier walked arm in arm, as if conversing upon vague and frivolous subjects. Sorrel and two officers imitated them in an opposite direction. Le Abbe Fouquet walked alone. Fouquet, with Monsieur de Channost, walked as if entirely absorbed in the conversation of his son-in-law. Monsieures, said he, let no one of you raise his head as he walks, or appear to pay attention to me. Continue walking. We are alone. Listen to me. A perfect silence ensued, disturbed only by the distant cries of the joyous guests, from the groves whence they beheld the fireworks. It was a whimsical spectacle, of these men walking in groups as if each one was occupied about something, whilst lending attention really to only one amongst them, who himself seemed to be speaking only to his companion. Monsieures, said Fouquet, you have without doubt remarked the absence of two of my friends this evening, who were with us on Wednesday. For God's sake, Abbe, do not stop. It is not necessary to enable you to listen. Walk on, carrying your head in a natural way, and as you have an excellent sight, place yourself at the window, and if anyone returns toward the gallery, give us notice by coughing. The Abbe obeyed. I have not observed their absence, said Pellissant, who at this moment was turning his back to Fouquet and walking the other way. I do not see Monsieur Liadot, said Sorel, who pays me my pension. And I, said the Abbe at the window, do not see Monsieur Demergy, who owes me eleven hundred lever from our last game at Brella. Sorel, continued Fouquet, walking bent and gloomily, you will never receive your pension any more from Monsieur Liadot, and you, Abbe, will never be paid your eleven hundred lever by Monsieur Demergy, for both are doomed to die. To die, exclaimed the whole assembly arrested in spite of themselves in the comedy they were playing by that terrible word. Recover yourselves, messieurs, said Fouquet, for perhaps we are watched, I said, to die. To die, repeated Pellissant, what, the men I saw six days ago full of health, gaiety in the spirit of the future. What then is man, good God, that disease should thus bring him down all at once? It is not a disease, said Fouquet. Then there is a remedy, said Sorel. No remedy, messieurs Liadot and Demergy are on the eve of their last day. Of one of these gentlemen dying then, asked an officer. Ask of him who kills them, replied Fouquet. Who kills them? Are they being killed then? cried the terrified chorus. They do better still, they are hanging them. Mehmed Fouquet in a sinister voice, which sounded like a funeral knell in that rich gallery, splendid with pictures, flowers, velvet, and gold. Involuntarily everyone stopped. The abbey quitted his window, the first fusees of the fireworks began to mount above the trees. A prolonged cry from the gardens attracted the superintendent to enjoy the spectacle. He drew near to a window, and his friends placed themselves behind him attentive to his least wish. Messieurs, said he, Monsieur Colbert has caused to be arrested, tried, and will execute my two friends. What does it become me to do? Mardieu exclaimed the abbey, the first one to speak. Run, Monsieur Colbert, through the body. Monsignor, said Pellissant, you must speak to His Majesty. The king, my dear Pellissant, himself, signed the order for the execution. Well, said the comte de Chenost, the execution must not take place then. That is all. Impossible, said Corvie, unless we could corrupt the jailers. Or the governor, said Fouquet. This night the prisoners might be allowed to escape. Which of you will take the charge of the transaction? I, said the abbey, will carry the money. And I, said Pellissant, will be the bearer of the words. Words and money, said Fouquet, five hundred thousand lever to the governor of the conciergerie. That is sufficient, nevertheless it shall be a million if necessary. A million, cried the abbey. Why, for less than half I would have half parasacked. There must be no disorder, said Pellissant. The governor being gained, the two prisoners escape. Once clear of the fangs of the law, they will call together the enemies of Colbert and prove to the king that his young justice, like all other monstrosities, is not infallible. Go to Paris then, Pellissant, said Fouquet, and bring hither the two victims. Tomorrow we shall see. Gourville gave Pellissant the five hundred thousand lever. Take care, the wind does not carry you away, said the abbey. What a responsibility! Peste, let me help you a little. Silence, said Fouquet, somebody is coming. Ah, the fireworks are producing a magical effect. At this moment a shower of sparks fell, rustling among the branches of the neighbouring trees. Pellissant and Gourville went out together by the door of the gallery. Fouquet descended to the garden with the five last plotters. End of Chapter 57 Recording by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia Chapter 58 of the D'Artagnan Romances Volume 3 Part 1 by Alexander Dumas Translated by William Robson This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Epicureans As Fouquet was giving or appearing to give, all his attention to the brilliant illuminations, languishing music of the violins and hot boys, the sparkling sheaves of the artificial fires, which, inflaming the heavens with glowing reflections, marked behind the trees the dark profile of the Don John of Vincennes, as, we say, a superintendent was smiling on the ladies and the poets, the Fet was every wit as gay as usual, and Vitelle, whose restless, even jealous look earnestly consulted the aspect of Fouquet, did not appear dissatisfied with the welcome given to the ordering of the evening's entertainment. The fireworks over, the company dispersed about the gardens and beneath the marble porticoes with the delightful liberty which reveals in the master of the house so much forgetfulness of greatness, so much courteous hospitality, so much magnificent carelessness. The poets wandered about, arm in arm through the groves, some reclined upon beds of moss, to the great damage of velvet clothes and curled heads, into which little dried leaves and blades of grass insinuated themselves. The ladies in small numbers listened to the songs of the singers, and the verses of the poets, others listened to the prose spoken with much art, by men who were neither actors nor poets, but to whom youth and solitude gave an unaccustomed eloquence which appeared to them better than anything else in the world. Why? said Lafontaine, does not our master Epicurus descend into the garden? Epicurus never abandoned his pupils, and the master is wrong. Na sure, said Conrart, you yourself are in the wrong persisting in decorating yourself with the name of an Epicurian. Indeed, nothing here reminds me of the doctrine of the philosopher of Gargitta. Said Lafontaine, is it not written that Epicurus purchased a large garden and lived in it tranquilly with his friends? That is true. Well, has not Monsieur Fouquet purchased a large garden at St. Mond, and do we not live here very tranquilly with him and his friends? Yes, without doubt. Unfortunately it is neither the garden nor the friends which constitute the resemblance. Now, what likeness is there between the doctrine of Epicurus and that of Monsieur Fouquet? This pleasure gives happiness. Next. Well, I do not think we ought to consider ourselves unfortunate for my part at least. A good repast, Van de Faunier, which they would have the delicacy to go and fetch for me from my favourite cabaret, not one impertinence heard during a supper an hour long, in spite of the presence of ten millionaires and twenty poets. I stop you there. You mentioned Van de Faunier, a good repast. Do you persist in that? I persist, and deco as they say at Port Royal. Then please to recollect that the great Epicurus lived and made his pupils live upon bread, vegetables, and water. That is not certain, said La Fontaine, and you appear to me to be confounding Epicurus with Pythagoras, my dear Conrart. Remember likewise that the ancient philosopher was rather a bad friend of the gods and the magistrates. Oh, that is what I will not admit, replied La Fontaine. Epicurus was like Monsieur Fouquet. Do not compare him to Monsieur Le Surintendant, said Conrart in an agitated voice, or you would accredit the reports which are circulated concerning him and us. What reports? That we are bad Frenchmen, lukewarm with regard to the king, deaf to the law. I return then to my text, said La Fontaine. Listen, Conrart, this is the morality of a Epicurus whom, besides, I consider, if I must tell you so, as a myth. Antiquity is mostly mythical. Jupiter, if we give a little attention to it, is life. Alchities is strength. The words are there to bear me out. Zeus, that is zen, to live. Alchities, that is alche, vigor. Well, Epicurus, that is mild watchfulness. That is protection. Now, who watches better over the state, or who protects individuals better than Monsieur Fouquet does? You talk etymology and not morality. I say that we modern Epicurians are indifferent citizens. Oh! cried La Fontaine. If we become bad citizens, it is not through following the maxims of our master. Listen to one of his principal aphorisms. I will pray for good leaders. Well? Well, what does Monsieur Fouquet say to us every day? When shall we be governed? Does he say so? Come, Conrart, be frank. He says so. That is true. Well, that is a doctrine of Epicurus. Yes, but that is a little seditious. Observe. What? Seditious? To wish to be governed by good heads or leaders? Certainly. When those who govern are bad. Patience, I have a reply for all. Even for what I have just said to you? Listen, would you submit to those who govern ill? Oh! it is written, cacao, apolitioici. You grant me the text? Partir. I think so. Do you know you speak Greek as well, as Asop did, my dear La Fontaine? Is there any wickedness in that, my dear Conrart? God forbid I should say so. Then let us return to Monsieur Fouquet. What did he repeat to us all the day? Was it not this? What a queester is that Mazorine? What an ass! What a leech! We must, however, submit to the fellow. Now, Conrart, did he say so or did he not? I confess that he said it, and even perhaps too often. Like Epicurus, my friend, still like Epicurus I repeat, we are Epicurians, and that is very amusing. Yes, but I am afraid there will rise up by the side of us a sect like that of Epictetus. You know him well, the philosopher of Heropolis, he who called bread luxury, vegetables prodigality, and clear water drunkenness, he who, being beaten by his master, said to him grumbling a little is true, but without being angry, I will lay a wager you have broken my leg, and who won his wager. He was a goose that fellow Epictetus? Granted, but he might easily become the fashion by only changing his name into that of Colbert. Bah! replied Lafontaine, that is impossible. Never will you find Colbert in Epictetus. You are right. I shall find Coloubert there at the most. Ha! You are beaten, Conrart. You are reduced to play upon words. Monsieur Arnaud pretends that I have no logic. I have more than Monsieur Nicole. Yes, replied Conrart. You have logic, but you are a Jansenist. This peroration was hailed with a boisterous shout of laughter. By degrees the promenaders had been attracted by the exclamations of the two disputants around the arbor, under which they were arguing. The discussion had been religiously listened to, and Fouquet himself, scarcely able to suppress his laughter, had given an example of moderation. But, with the denouement of the scene, he threw off all restraint and laughed aloud. Everybody laughed as he did, and the two philosophers were saluted with unanimous felicitations. Lafontaine, however, was declared conqueror, on account of his profound erudition and his irrefragable logic. Conrart obtained the compensation due to an unsuccessful combatant. He was praised for the loyalty of his intentions and the purity of his conscience. At the moment when this jollity was manifesting itself by the most lively demonstrations, when the ladies were reproaching the two adversaries with not having admitted women into the system of Epicurean happiness, Gourvy was seen hastening from the other end of the garden, approaching Fouquet, and detaching him by his presence alone from the group, the superintendent preserved on his face the smile and character of carelessness, but scarcely was he out of sight when he threw off the mask. Well, said he eagerly, where is Pellison? What is he doing? Pellison has returned from Paris. As he brought back the prisoners. He has not even seen the concierge of the prison. What? Did he not tell him he came from me? He told him so, but the concierge sent him this reply. If anyone came to me from this churfouquet, he would have a letter from this churfouquet. Oh, cried the latter, if a letter is all he wants. It is uselessness, sir, said Pellison, showing himself at the corner of the little wood. Useless, go yourself and speak in your own name. You are right. I will go in as if to work. Let the horses remain harnessed, Pellison. Entertain my friends, Gourvy. One last word of advice, Monsignor. Reply the latter. Speak, Gourvy. Do not go to the concierge. Save at the last minute. It is brave, but it is not wise. Excuse me, Mr. Pellison. If I am not of the same opinion as you, but take my advice, Monsignor, send again a message to this concierge. He is a worthy man, but do not carry it to yourself. I will think of it, said Fouquet. Besides, we have all the night before us. Do not reckon too much on time, where the hours we have twice as many as they are, they would not be too much. Replied, Pellison, it is never a fault to arrive too soon. Adieu, said the superintendent. Come with me, Pellison, Gourvy. I commend my guests to your care. And he set off. The Epicureans did not perceive that the head of the school had left them. The violins continued playing all night long. End of Chapter Fifty-Eight, Recording by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia Chapter Fifty-Nine of the Dartanian Romances, Volume Three, Part One, by Alexander Dumas, translated by William Romsen. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. A quarter of an hour's delay. Fouquet, on leaving his house for the second time that day, felt himself less heavy and less disturbed than might have been expected. He turned toward Pellison, who was meditating in the corner of the carriage some good arguments against the violent proceedings of Colbert. My dear Pellison, said Fouquet, it is a great pity you are not a woman. I think on the contrary it is very fortunate, replied Pellison, for, Monsignor, I am excessively ugly. Pellison, Pellison, said the superintendent, laughing, you repeat too often that you are ugly, not to leave people to believe that it gives you much pain. In fact it does, Monsignor, much pain. There is no man more unfortunate than I. I was handsome. The smallpox rendered me hideous. I am deprived of a great means of attraction now. I am your principal clerk or something of that sort. I take great interest in your affairs, and if at this moment I were a pretty woman, I could render you an important service. What? I would go and find the concierge of the palais. I would seduce him, for he is a gallant man, extravagantly partial to women. Then I would get away our two prisoners. I hope to be able to do so myself, although I am not a pretty woman, replied Fouquet. Granted Monsignor, but you are compromising yourself very much. Oh! cried Fouquet, suddenly, with one of those secret transports which the generous blood of youth or the remembrance of some sweet emotion infuses into the heart. Oh! I know a woman who will enact the personage we stand in need of, with the Lieutenant Governor of the Conciergerie. And on my part I know fifty Monsignor, fifty trumpets, which will inform the universe of your generosity, of your devotion to your friends, and consequently will ruin you sooner or later in ruining themselves. I do not speak of such women, palaison. I speak of a noble and beautiful creature who joins the intelligence and wit of her sex, the valor and coolness of ours. I speak of a woman, handsome enough to make the walls of a prison bow down to salute her, discreet enough to let no one suspect by whom she has been sent. A treasure, said palaison. You would make a famous present to Mr. the Governor of the Conciergerie. Peste! Monsignor, 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, said Fouquet, let the Concierge of the palais would not have his head cut off, for he would receive of me my horses to affect his escape, and five hundred thousand lever wherewith to live comfortably in England. I admit that this lady, my friend, would give him nothing but the horses and the money. Let us go and seek her, palaison. The superintendent reached forth his hand toward the gold and silk and cord, placed in the interior of his carriage, but palaison stopped him. Monsignor, 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 has 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, Monsignor, and do not seek either woman or angel to night. But, my dear palaison, here we are before her door. What? Before the angel's door? Why, yes. This is the hotel of Madame de Belière? Hush. Ah, good lord. Exclaimed palaison, 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 compliments to Madame de Placisse Belière. Besides, who knows that we shall not stand in need of her? No, Monsignor, no. But I do not wish you to wait for me, palaison, replied Fouquet sincerely courteous. The more reason I should, Monsignor, 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 someone with her. Fouquet lent toward the steps of the carriage. One more word, cried palaison. Do not go to this lady till you have been to the concierge, for heaven's sake. Eh, five minutes, palaison. Replied Fouquet alighting at the steps of the hotel, leaving palaison in the carriage in a very ill humour, Fouquet ran upstairs, told his name to the footmen which excited an eagerness and a respect that showed the habit the mistress of the house had of honouring that name in her family. Monsieur le servant entente! cried the marquise, advancing, very pale to meet him. What an honour! What an unexpected pleasure! Said she, then, in a low voice. Take care! added the marquise. Marguerite Vanellis here. Madame, replied Fouquet, rather agitated, I came on business, one single word, if quickly, if you please. And he entered the salon. Madame Vanell 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. Miss Keen, glance of a jealous woman, is a stiletto which pierces every curasse. Marguerite Vanell 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 of the tender sigh. Oh, no! cried he, or you would have sent away that woman. She has been here a 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 your affairs going on? I am going this evening to get my friends out of the prisons of the Palais. How will you do that? By buying and bribing the governor. He is a friend of mine. Can I assist you, without injuring you? Oh, marquise! It would be a signal service. But how can you be employed without your being compromised? Now, never shall my life, my power, or even my liberty be purchased at the expense of a single tear from your eyes, or of one frown of pain upon your brow. Monsignor, no more such words. They bewilder me. I have been coppable in trying to serve you, without calculating the extent of what I was doing. I love you in reality, as a tender friend. And as a friend, I am grateful for your delicate attentions, but, alas, alas, you will never find a mistress in me. Marquise! cried Fouquet in a tone of despair. Why not? Because you are too much beloved, said the young woman, in a low voice. Because you are too much beloved by too many people, because the splendor of glory and fortune would wound my eyes, whilst the darkness of sorrow attracts them. Because in short I, who have repulsed you in your proud magnificence, I, who scarcely looked at you in your splendor, I came like a mad woman to throw myself as it were into your arms, when I saw a misfortune hovering over your head. Do you understand me now, Monsignor? Become happy again, that I may remain chaste in heart and in thought, your misfortune entails my ruin. Oh, madame! said Fouquet, with an emotion he had never before felt. Were I to fall to the lowest degree of human misery, and hear from your mouth that word which you now refuse me? That day, madame, you will be mistaken in your noble egotism. That day you will fancy you are consoling the most unfortunate of men, and you will have said, I love you, to the most illustrious, the most delighted, and the most triumphant of the happy beings of this world. He was still at her feet, kissing her hand when Pellison entered precipitately, crying an in very hill humor. Monsignor, madame, for heaven's sake, excuse me, Monsignor, you have been here half an hour. Oh, do not both look at me so reproachfully. Madame, pray, who is that lady who left your house soon after Monsignor came in? Madame Vanell, said Fouquet. Ha, crying Pellison, I was sure of that. Well, what then? Why, she got into her carriage looking deadly pale. What consequence is that to me? Yes, but what she said to her coachmen is of consequence to you. Kind heaven! cried the marquise. What was that? To the sure-called bears, said Pellison in a hoarse voice. Bandur, be gone, be gone, Monsignor! replied the marquise, pushing Fouquet out of the salon whilst Pellison dragged him by the hand. Am I then, indeed, said the superintendent, become a child to be frightened by a shadow? You are a giant! said the marquise, whom a viper is trying to bite in the heel. Pellison continued to drag Fouquet to the carriage. To the palais at full speed! cried Pellison to the coachmen. The horses set off like lightning. No obstacle relaxed their pace for an instant. Only at the arcade Saint John, as they were coming out upon the Place de Grave, a long file of horsemen barring the narrow passage stopped the carriage of the superintendent. There was no means of forcing this barrier. It was necessary to wait till the mounted archers of the watch, for it was they who stopped away, had passed with the heavy carriage they were escorting, and which ascended rapidly toward the Place Boroye. Fouquet and Pellison took no further account of this circumstance beyond deploring the minutes delay they had thus to submit to. They entered the habitation of the concierge du palais five minutes after. That officer was still walking about in the front court. At the name of Fouquet, whispered in his ear by Pellison, the governor eagerly approached the carriage and hat in hand was profuse in his attentions. What an honour for me, Monsignor! said he. One word, Mr. LeGouverneur, will you take the trouble to get into my carriage? The officer placed himself opposite Fouquet in the coach. Monsieur, said Fouquet, I have a service to ask of you. A service that will be compromising for you, Monsieur, but which will assure you forever my protection and my friendship. Were it to cast myself into the fire for you, Monsignor, I would do it. That is well, said Fouquet. What I require is much more simple. That being so, Monsignor, what is it? To conduct me to the chamber of Messieurs Liadot and Demmerie. Will Monsignor have the kindness to say for what purpose? I will tell you in their presence, Monsieur, at the same time that I will give you ample means of palliating this escape. Escape? Why, then Monsignor does not know? What? That Messieurs Liadot and Demmerie are no longer here. Since when? cried Fouquet in great agitation. About a quarter of an hour. Whither have they gone, then? To Vincennes, to the Donjon. Who took them from here? An order from the king. Oh, whoa, whoa! exclaimed Fouquet, striking his forehead. Whoa! And without saying a single word more to the governor, he threw himself back in his carriage, despairing his heart and death on his countenance. Well, said Pellissant with great anxiety, our friends are lost. Goldbear is conveying them to the Donjon. They cross our very path under the arcades, sage John. Pellissant struck as by a thunderbolt made no reply. With a single reproach, he would have killed his master. Where is Monsignor going? said the footman. Home to Paris. You, Pellissant, return to St. Bond, and bring the abbey Fouquet to me within an hour. Be gone! End of Chapter 59, Recording by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia Chapter 60 of the D'Artagnan Romances, Volume 3, Part 1 by Alexander Dumas, translated by William Robson. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Plan of battle The night was already far advanced when the abbey Fouquet joined his brother. Gourvy had accompanied him. These three men, Pell, with dread of future events, resembled less three powers of the day than three conspirators, united by one single thought of violence. Fouquet walked for a long time, with his eyes fixed upon the floor, striking his hands one against the other, at length, taking courage in the midst of a deep sigh. Abbey, said he, You were speaking to me only today of certain people you maintain. Yes, monsieur. Reply the abbey. Tell me precisely who are these people? The abbey hesitated. Come, no fear, I am not threatening, no romancing, for I am not joking. Since you demand the truth, Monsignor, here it is. I have a hundred and twenty friends or companions of pleasure who are sworn to me as the thief is to the gallows. And you think you can depend upon them? Entirely. And you will not compromise yourself? I will not even make my appearance. And are they men of resolution? They would burn Paris. If I promise them, they should not be burnt in turn. The thing I ask of you, Abbey, said Fouquet, wiping the sweat which fell from his brow, is to throw your hundred and twenty men upon the people I will point out to you, at a certain moment, given, is it possible? It will not be the first time such a thing has happened to them, Monsignor. That is well, but would these bandits attack an armed force? They are used to that. Then get your hundred and twenty men together, Abbey. Directly. But where? On the roads of Incheon, to-morrow, at two o'clock precisely. To carry off Liadot and Dimmery? There will be blows to be got. A number, no doubt. Are you afraid? Not for myself, but for you. Your men will know then what they have to do? They are too intelligent not to guess it. Now, a minister who gets up a riot against his king exposes himself. Of what importance is that to you, I pray? Besides, if I fall, you fall with me. It would then be more prudent, monsieur, not to stir in the affair and leave the king to take this little satisfaction. Think well of this, Abbey. Liadot and Dimmery at Incheon are a prelude of ruin for my house. I repeat it. I arrested. You will be imprisoned. I imprisoned. You will be exiled. Monsieur, I am at your orders. Have you any to give me? What I told you, I wish that to-morrow, the two financiers of whom they mean to make victims, whilst there remain so many criminals unpunished, shouldn't be snatched from the fury of my enemies. Take your measures accordingly. Is it possible? It is possible. Describe your plan. It is of rich simplicity. The ordinary guard at executions consists of twelve archers. There will be a hundred to-morrow. I reckon so. I even say more. There will be two hundred. Then your hundred and twenty men will not be enough. Pardon me. In every crowd composed of a hundred thousand spectators, there are ten thousand bandits or cut purses. Only they dare not take the initiative. Well, there will then be to-morrow on the plastic grave which I choose as my battlefield, ten thousand auxiliaries to my hundred and twenty men. The attack commenced by the latter. The others will finish it. That all appears feasible, but what will be done with regard to the prisoners upon the plastic grave? This. They must be thrust into some house. That will make a siege necessary to get them out again. And stop. Here is another idea. More sublime still. Certain houses have two issues. One upon the plaza, and the other into the rue de la mortellerie, or la vennerie, or la texturanderie. The prisoners entering by one door will go out at another. Yes, but fix upon something positive. I am seeking to do so. And I, cried Fouquet, I have found it. Listen to what has occurred to me at this moment. I am listening. Fouquet made a sign to Gourvy who appeared to understand. One of my friends lends me sometimes the keys of a house which he rents, rue de la mortellerie, the spacious gardens of which extend behind a certain house on the plastic grave. That is the place for us. Said the abbey. What house? A cabaret, pretty well frequented, whose sign represents the image of Notre-Dame. I know it. Said the abbey. This cabaret has windows opening upon the plaza, a place of exit into the court, which muster bought upon the gardens of my friend by a door of communication. Good. Said the abbey. Enter by the cabaret, take the prisoners in, defend the door while you are enabled them to fly by the garden and the Place Baudouillet. That is all plain. Monsieur, you would make an excellent general, like Monsieur le Prince. Have you understood me? Perfectly well. How much will it amount to to make your bandits all drunk with wine, and to satisfy them with gold? Oh, Monsieur, what an expression! Oh, Monsieur, if they heard you, some of them are very susceptible. I mean to say they must be brought no longer to know the heavens from the earth, for I shall tomorrow contend with the king, and when I fight I mean to conquer, please to understand. It shall be done, Monsieur. Give me your other ideas. That is your business. Then give me your purse. Gourvy, count a hundred thousand leavers for the abbey. Good. And spare nothing, did you not say? Nothing. That is well. Monsignor, objected Gourvy, if this should be known, we should lose our heads. Eh, Gourvy, replied Fouquet, purple with anger. You excite my pity. Speak for yourself, if you please. My head does not shake in that manner upon my shoulders. Now, abbey, is everything arranged? Everything. At two o'clock tomorrow. At twelve. Because it will be necessary to prepare our acceleraries in a secret manner. That is true. Do not spare the wine of the cabaretier. I will spare neither his wine nor his house. Replied the abbey with a sneering laugh. I have my plan, I tell you. Leave me to set it in operation, and you shall see. Where shall you be yourself? Everywhere. Nowhere. And how shall I receive information? By a courier whose whore shall be kept in the very garden of your friend. Apropos. The name of your friend. Fouquet looked again at Gourvy. The latter came to the sucker of his master, saying, Accompanying Mr. Labet for several reasons, only the house is easily to be known. The imaged in Notre Dame in the front, a garden. The only one in the quarter behind. Good. Good. I will go and give notice to my soldiers. Accompany him, Gourvy, said Fouquet, and count him down the money. One moment, abbey. One moment, Gourvy. What name will be given to this carrying off? A very natural one, monsieur. The riot. The riot on account of what? For, if ever the people of Paris are disposed to pay their court to the king. It is when he hangs financiers. I will manage that, said the abbey. Yes, but you may manage it badly, and people will guess. Not at all. Not at all. I have another idea. What is that? My men shall cry out, Colbert, vive Colbert, and shall throw themselves upon the prisoners as if they would tear them in pieces, and shall force them from the gibbets as too mild a punishment. Ah, that is an idea, said Gourvy. Peste, monsieur l'abbey, what an imagination you have. Monsieur, we are worthy of our family, replied the abbey proudly. Strange fellow, murmured Fouquet. Then he added, that is ingenious. Carry it out, but shed no blood. Gourvy and the abbey set off together, with their heads full of the meditated riot. The superintendent laid himself down upon some cushions, half valiant with respect to the sinister projects of the morrow, half dreaming of love. End of chapter sixty, recording by John Van Stan, Savannah, Georgia.