10
Monsieur Colbert’s Rough Draft
VANEL, WHO ENTERED AT this stage of the
conversation, was nothing less for Aramis and Fouquet than the full
stop which completes a phrase. But, for Vanel, Aramis’s presence in
Fouquet’s cabinet had quite another signification; and, therefore,
at his first step into the room, he paused as he looked at the
delicate yet firm features of the Bishop of Vannes, and his look of
astonishment soon became one of scrutinising attention. As for
Fouquet, a perfect politician, that is to say, complete master of
himself, he had already, by the energy of his own resolute will,
contrived to remove from his face all traces of the emotion which
Aramis’s revelation had occasioned. He was no longer, therefore, a
man overwhelmed by misfortune and reduced to resort to expedients;
he held his head proudly erect, and indicated by a gesture that
Vanel could enter. He was now the first minister of the State, and
in his own palace. Aramis knew the Surintendant well; the delicacy
of the feelings of his heart and the exalted nature of his mind
could not any longer surprise him. He confined himself, then, for
the moment—intending to resume later an active part in the
conversation—to the performance of the difficult part of a man who
looks on and listens, in order to learn and understand. Vanel was
visibly overcome, and advanced into the middle of the cabinet,
bowing to everything and everybody. “I am come,” he said.
“You are exact, Monsieur Vanel,” returned
Fouquet.
“In matters of business, monseigneur,” returned
Vanel, “I look upon exactitude as a virtue.”
“No doubt, monsieur.”
“I beg your pardon,” interrupted Aramis, indicating
Vanel with his finger, but addressing himself to Fouquet; “this is
the gentleman, I believe, who has come about the purchase of your
appointment?”
“Yes, I am!” replied Vanel, astonished at the
extremely haughty tone with which Aramis had put the question; “but
in what way am I to address you, who do me the honour—”
“Call me monseigneur,” replied Aramis dryly. Vanel
bowed.
“Come, gentlemen, a truce to these ceremonies; let
us proceed to the matter itself.”
“Monseigneur sees,” said Vanel, “that I am waiting
your pleasure.”
“On the contrary, I am waiting,” replied
Fouquet.
“What for, may I be permitted to ask,
monseigneur?”
“I thought that you had perhaps something to
say.”
“Oh,” said Vanel to himself, “he has reflected on
the matter, and I am lost.” But resuming his courage, he continued,
“No, monseigneur, nothing, absolutely nothing more than what I said
to you yesterday, and which I am again ready to repeat to you
now.”
“Come, now, tell me frankly, Monsieur Vanel, is not
the affair rather a burdensome one for you?”
“Certainly, monseigneur; fourteen hundred thousand
francs is an important sum.”
“So important, indeed,” said Fouquet, “that I have
reflected—”
“You have been reflecting, do you say,
monseigneur?” exclaimed Vanel anxiously.
“Yes; that you might not yet be in a position to
purchase.”
“Oh, monseigneur!”
“Do not make yourself uneasy on that score,
Monsieur Vanel; I shall not blame you for a failure in your word,
which evidently may arise from inability on your part.”
“Oh, yes, monseigneur, you would blame me, and you
would be right in doing so,” said Vanel; “for a man must either be
very imprudent, or a perfect fool, to undertake engagements which
he cannot keep; and I at least have always regarded a thing agreed
upon as a thing actually carried out.”
Fouquet coloured, while Aramis uttered a “Hum!” of
impatience.
“You would be wrong to exaggerate such notions as
those, monsieur,” said the Surintendant; “for a man’s mind is
variable, and full of these very excusable caprices, which are,
however, sometimes estimable enough; and a man may have wished for
something yesterday of which he repents to-day.”
Vanel felt a cold sweat trickle down his face.
“Monseigneur!” he muttered.
Aramis, who was delighted to find the Surintendant
carry on the debate with such clearness and precision, stood
leaning his arm upon the marble top of a console, and began to play
with a small gold knife, with a malachite handle. Fouquet did not
hurry himself to reply; but, after a moment’s pause, “Come, my dear
Monsieur Vanel,” he said, “I will explain to you how I am
situated.” Vanel began to tremble.
“Yesterday I wished to sell.”
“Monseigneur did more than wish to sell, for you
actually sold.”
“Well, well, that may be so; but to-day I ask you
the favour to restore me my word which I pledged you.”
“I received your word as a perfect assurance that
it would be kept.”
“I know that, and that is the reason why I now
entreat you; do you understand me? I entreat you to restore it to
me.”
Fouquet suddenly paused. The words “I entreat you,”
the effect of which he did not immediately perceive, seemed almost
to choke him as he uttered it. Aramis, still playing with his
knife, fixed a look upon Vanel which seemed as if he wished to
penetrate to the inmost recesses of his heart. Vanel simply bowed,
as he said, “I am overcome, monseigneur, at the honour you do me to
consult me upon a matter of business which is already completed;
but—”
“Nay, do not say but, dear Monsieur
Vanel.”
“Alas! monseigneur, you see,” he said, as he opened
a large pocket-book, “I have brought the money with me,—the whole
sum, I mean. And here, monseigneur, is the contract of sale which I
have just effected of a property belonging to my wife. The order is
authentic in every way, the necessary signatures have been attached
to it, and it is made payable at sight; it is ready money, in fact,
and, in one word, the whole affair is complete.”
“My dear Monsieur Vanel, there is not a matter of
business in the world, however important it may be, which cannot be
postponed in order to oblige a man who, by that means, might and
would be made a devoted friend.”
“Certainly,” said Vanel awkwardly.
“And much more justly acquired would that friend
become, Monsieur Vanel, since the value of the service he had
received would have been so considerable. Well, what do you say?
what do you decide?”
Vanel preserved a perfect silence. In the meantime,
Aramis had continued his close observation of the man. Vanel’s
narrow face, his deeply-sunk orbits, his arched eyebrows, had
revealed to the Bishop of Vannes the type of an avaricious and
ambitious character. Aramis’s method was to oppose one passion by
another. He saw that Fouquet was defeated—morally subdued—and so he
came to his rescue with fresh weapons in his hands: “Excuse me,
monseigneur,” he said; “you forget to show M. Vanel that his own
interests are diametrically opposed to this renunciation of the
sale.”
Vanel looked at the Bishop with astonishment; he
had hardly expected to find an auxiliary in him. Fouquet also
paused to listen to the Bishop.
“Do you not see,” continued Aramis, “that M. Vanel,
in order to purchase your appointment, has been obliged to sell a
property which belongs to his wife; well, that is no slight matter;
for one cannot displace, as he has done, fourteen or fifteen
hundred thousand francs, without some considerable loss, and very
serious inconvenience.”
“Perfectly true,” said Vanel, whose secret Aramis
had, with his keen-sighted gaze, wrung from the bottom of his
heart.
“Inconveniences such as those are matters of great
expense and calculation, and whenever a man has money matters to
deal with, the expenses are generally the very first thing thought
of.”
“Yes, yes,” said Fouquet, who began to understand
Aramis’s meaning.
Vanel remained perfectly silent; he, too, had
understood him. Aramis observed his coldness of manner and his
silence. “Very good,” be said to himself, “you are waiting, I see,
until you know the amount; but do not fear, I shall send you such a
flight of crowns that you cannot but capitulate on the spot.”
“We must offer M. Vanel a hundred thousand crowns
at once,” said Fouquet, carried away by his generous
feelings.
The sum was a good one. A prince, even, would have
been satisfied with such a bonus. A hundred thousand crowns at that
period was the dowry of a king’s daughter. Vanel, however, did not
move.
“He is a perfect rascal,” thought the Bishop;
“well, we must offer the five hundred thousand francs at once,” and
he made a sign to Fouquet accordingly.
“You seem to have spent more than that, dear
Monsieur Vanel,” said the Surintendant. “The price of money is
enormous. You must have made a great sacrifice in selling your
wife’s property. Well, what can I have been thinking of? I ought to
have offered to sign you an order for five hundred thousand francs;
and even in that case I shall feel that I am greatly indebted to
you.”
There was not a gleam of delight or desire on
Vanel’s face, which remained perfectly impassible, not a muscle of
it changed in the slightest degree. Aramis cast a look almost of
despair at Fouquet, and then, going straight up to Vanel and taking
hold of him by the coat, in a familiar manner, he said, “Monsieur
Vanel, it is neither the inconvenience, nor the displacement of
your money nor the sale of your wife’s property even, that you are
thinking of at this moment; it is something more important still. I
can well understand it; so pay particular attention to what I am
going to say.”
“Yes, monseigneur,” Vanel replied, beginning to
tremble in every limb, as the prelate’s eyes seem almost ready to
devour him.
“I offer you, therefore, in the Surintendant’s
name, not three hundred thousand livres, nor five hundred thousand,
but a million. A million,—do you understand me?” he added, as he
shook him nervously.
“A million?” repeated Vanel, as pale as death. “A
million; in other words, at the present rate of interest, an income
of seventy thousand francs.”
“Come, monsieur,” said Fouquet, “you can hardly
refuse that. Answer,—do you accept?”
“Impossible,” murmured Vanel.
Aramis bit his lips, and something like a white
cloud seemed to pass over his face. The thunder behind this cloud
could easily be imagined. He still kept his hold on Vanel. “You
have purchased the appointment for fifteen hundred thousand francs,
I think? Well, you will receive these fifteen hundred thousand
francs back again; by paying M. Fouquet a visit and shaking hands
with him on the bargain, you will have become the gainer of a
million and a half. You get honour and profit at the same time,
Monsieur Vanel.”
“I cannot do it,” said Vanel hoarsely. “Very well,”
replied Aramis, who had grasped Vanel so tightly by the coat, that
when he let go his hold, Vanel staggered back a few paces; “very
well; one can now see clearly enough your object in coming
here.”
“Yes,” said Fouquet, “one can easily see
that.”
“But—” said Vanel, attempting to stand erect before
the weakness of these two men of honour.
“Does the fellow presume to speak!” said Aramis,
with the tone of an emperor.
“Fellow!” repeated Vanel.
“The wretch, I meant to say,” added Aramis, who had
now resumed his usual self-possession. “Come, monsieur, produce
your deed of sale,—you have it about you, I suppose in one of your
pockets, already prepared, as an assassin holds his pistol or his
dagger concealed under his cloak?”
Vanel began to mutter something.
“Enough!” cried Fouquet. “Where is this
deed?”
Vanel tremblingly searched in his pockets, and as
he drew out his pocket-book, a paper fell out of it, while Vanel
offered the other to Fouquet. Aramis pounced upon the paper which
had fallen out, as soon as he recognised the handwriting.
“I beg your pardon” said Vanel, “that is a rough
draft of the deed.”
“I see that very clearly,” retorted Aramis, with a
smile far more cutting than a lash of a whip would have been; “and
what I admire most is, that this draft is in M. Colbert’s
handwriting. Look, monseigneur, look.”
And he handed the draft to Fouquet, who recognised
the truth of the fact; for, covered with erasures, with inserted
words, the margins filled with additions, this deed—a living proof
of Colbert’s plot—had just revealed everything to its unhappy
victim. “Well!” murmured Fouquet.
Vanel, completely humiliated, seemed as if he were
looking for some deep hole where he could hide himself.
“Well!” said Aramis, “if your name were not
Fouquet, and if your enemy’s name were not Colbert—if you had not
this mean thief before you I should say to you, ‘Repudiate it’;
such a proof of this absolves you from your word; but these fellows
would think you were afraid; they would fear you less than they do;
therefore sign the deed at once.” And he held out a pen towards
him.
Fouquet pressed Aramis’s hand; but, instead of the
deed which Vanel handed to him, he took the rough draft of
it.
“No, not that paper,” said Aramis hastily; “this is
the one. The other is too precious a document for you to part
with.”
“No, no!” replied Fouquet; “I will sign under M.
Colbert’s own handwriting even; and I write, ‘The handwriting is
approved of.’” He then signed, and said, “Here it is, Monsieur
Vanel.” And the latter seized the paper, laid down his money, and
was about to make his escape.
“One moment,” said Aramis. “Are you quite sure the
exact amount is there? It ought to be counted over, Monsieur Vanel;
particularly since M. Colbert makes presents of money to ladies, I
see. Ah, that worthy M. Colbert is not so generous as M. Fouquet.”
And Aramis, spelling every word, every letter of the order, to pay,
distilled his wrath and his contempt, drop by drop, upon the
miserable wretch, who had to submit to this torture for a quarter
of an hour; he was then dismissed not in words, but by a gesture,
as one dismisses or discharges a beggar or a menial.
As soon as Vanel had gone, the minister and the
prelate, their eyes fixed on each other, remained silent for a few
moments.
“Well,” said Aramis, the first to break the
silence; “to what can that man be compared, who, at the very moment
he is on the point of entering into a conflict with an enemy armed
from head to foot, thirsting for his life, presents himself for the
contest quite defenceless, throws down his arms, and smiles and
kisses his hands to his adversary in the most gracious manner. Good
faith, M. Fouquet, is a weapon which scoundrels very frequently
make use of against men of honour, and it answers their purpose.
Men of honour ought, in their turn, also, to make use of dishonest
means against such scoundrels. You would soon see how strong they
would become, without ceasing to be men of honour.”
“What they did would be termed the acts of a
scoundrel,” replied Fouquet.
“Far from that; it would be merely coquetting or
playing with the truth. At all events, since you have finished with
this Vanel; since you have deprived yourself of the happiness of
confounding him by repudiating your word; and since you have given
up, for the purpose of being used against yourself, the only weapon
which can ruin you—”
“My dear friend,” said Fouquet mournfully, “you are
like the teacher of philosophy whom La Fontaine was telling us
about the other day: he saw a child drowning, and began to read him
a lecture divided into three heads.”
Aramis smiled as he said, “Philosophy—yes;
teacher—yes; a drowning child—yes; but a child that can be
saved—you shall see. But, first of all, let us talk about business.
Did you not some time ago,” he continued, as Fouquet looked at him
with a bewildered air, “speak to me about an idea you had of giving
a fête at Vaux?”
“Oh,” said Fouquet, “that was when affairs were
flourishing.”
“A fête, I believe, to which the King invited
himself of his own accord?”
“No, no, my dear prelate; a fête to which M.
Colbert advised the King to invite himself.”
“Ah—exactly; as it would be a fête of so costly a
character that you would be ruined in giving it.”
“Precisely so. In other times, as I said just now,
I had a kind of pride in showing my enemies how inexhaustible my
resources were; I felt it a point of honour to strike them with
amazement, in creating millions under circumstances where they had
imagined nothing but bankruptcies and failures would follow. But at
the present day I am arranging my accounts with the State, with the
King, with myself; and I must now become a mean, stingy man; I
shall be able to prove to the world that I can act or operate with
my deniers as I used to do with my bags of pistoles; and from
to-morrow my equipages shall be sold, my mansions mortgaged, my
expenses contracted.”
“From to-morrow,” interrupted Aramis quietly, “you
will occupy yourself, without the slightest delay, with your fête
at Vaux, which must hereafter be spoken of as one of the most
magnificent productions of your most prosperous days.”
“You are mad, Chevalier d’Herblay.”
“I!—you do not think that.”
“What do you mean, then? Do you not know that a
fête at Vaux, of the very simplest possible character, would cost
four or five millions?”
“I do not speak of a fete of the very simplest
possible character, my dear Surintendant.”
“But, since the fete is to be given to the King,”
replied Fouquet, who misunderstood Aramis’s idea, “it cannot be
simple.”
“Just so; it ought to be on a scale of the most
unbounded magnificence.”
“In that case, I shall have to spend ten or twelve
millions.”
“You shall spend twenty if you require it,” said
Aramis, in a perfectly calm voice.
“Where shall I get them?” exclaimed Fouquet.
“That is my affair, Monsieur le Surintendant; and
do not be uneasy for a moment about it. The money will be placed at
once at your disposal, as soon as you shall have arranged the plans
of your fête.”
“Chevalier! Chevalier!” said Fouquet, giddy with
amazement, “whither are you hurrying me?”
“Across the gulf into which you were about to
fall,” replied the Bishop of Vannes. “Take hold of my cloak, and
throw fear aside.”
“Why did you not tell me that sooner, Aramis? There
was a day when, with one million only, you could have saved me,
whilst to-day—”
“Whilst to-day, I can give you twenty,” said the
prelate. “Such is the case, however—the reason is very simple. On
the day you speak of, I had not the million which you had need of
at my disposal; whilst now I can easily procure the twenty million
we require.”
“May Heaven hear you, and save me!”
Aramis resumed his usual smile, the expression of
which was so singular. “Heaven never fails to hear me,” he
said.
“I abandon myself to you unreservedly,” Fouquet
murmured.
“No, no; I do not understand it in that manner. I
am unreservedly devoted to you. Therefore, as you have the
clearest, the most delicate, and the most ingenious mind of the
two, you shall have entire control over the fête, even to the very
smallest details. Only—”
“Only?” said Fouquet, as a man accustomed to
understand and appreciate the value of a parenthesis.
“Well, then, leaving the entire invention of the
details to you, I shall reserve to myself a general superintendence
over the execution.”
“In what way?”
“I mean that you will make of me, on that day, a
majordomo, a sort of inspector-general, or factotum—something
between a captain of the guard and manager or steward. I will look
after the people, and will keep the keys of the doors. You will
give your orders, of course; but will give them to no one but to
me; they will pass through my lips, to reach those for whom they
are intended—you understand?”
“No, I am very far from understanding.”
“But you agree?”
“Of course, of course, my friend.”
“That is all I care about, then, thanks, and now go
and prepare your list of invitations.”
“Whom shall I invite?”
“Every one.”