The clerk, a little put out by the serious air of the captain, replied that that was a very respectable reason, but that the customs of the house were respectable likewise; and that, in consequence, he begged the bearer to call again next day. D‘Artagnan asked if he could not see M. Fouquet. The clerk replied that M. le Surintendant did not interfere with such details ; and rudely closed the outer door in d’Artagnan’s face. But the latter had foreseen this stroke, and placed his boot between the door and the door-case, so that the lock did not catch, and the clerk was still nose to nose with his interlocutor. This made him change his tone, and say, with terrified politeness, “If monsieur wishes to speak to M. le Surintendant, he must go to the antechambers; these are the offices where monseigneur never comes.”

“Oh! very well! Where are they?” replied d’Artagnan.

“On the other side of the court,” said the clerk, delighted at being free.

D’Artagnan crossed the court, and fell in with a crowd of servants.

“Monseigneur sees nobody at this hour,” he was answered by a fellow carrying a vermeil dish, in which were three pheasants and twelve quails.

“Tell him,” said the captain, laying hold of the servant by the end of his dish, “that I am M. d’Artagnan, captain of His Majesty’s musketeers.”

The fellow uttered a cry of surprise and disappeared; d’Artagnan following him slowly. He arrived just in time to meet M. Pelisson in the antechamber: the latter a little pale, came hastily out of the dining-room to learn what was the matter—d’ Artagnan smiled.

“There is nothing unpleasant, Monsieur Pélisson; only a little order I want cashed.”

“Ah!” said Fouquet’s friend, breathing more freely; and he took the captain by the hand, and, dragging him behind him, led him into the dining-room, where a number of friends surrounded the Surintendant, placed in the centre, and buried in the cushions of a chair. There were assembled all the Epicureans who so lately at Vaux did the honours of the mansion of wit and money of M. Fouquet. Joyous friends, for the most part faithful, they had not fled their protector at the approach of the storm, and, in spite of the threatening heavens, in spite of the trembling earth, they remained there, smiling, cheerful, as devoted to misfortune as they had been to prosperity. On the left of the Surintendant was Madame de Bellière; on his right was Madame Fouquet; as if braving the laws of the world, and putting all vulgar reasons of propriety to silence, the two protecting angels of this man united to offer him, at the moment of the crisis, the support of their intertwined arms. Madame de Bellière was pale, trembling, and full of respectful attentions for Madame le Surintendante, who with one hand on the hand of her husband, was looking anxiously towards the door by which Pélisson had gone out to bring in d’Artagnan. The captain entered at first full of courtesy, and afterwards of admiration, when, with his infallible glance, he had divined as well as taken in the expression of every face. Fouquet raised himself up in his chair.

“Pardon me, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said he, “if I did not come to receive you when coming in the King’s name,” and he pronounced the last words with a sort of melancholy firmness which filled the hearts of his friends with terror.

“Monseigneur,” replied d’Artagnan, “I only come to you in the King’s name to demand payment of an order for two hundred pistoles.”

The clouds passed from every brow but that of Fouquet, which still remained overcast.

“Ah! then,” said he, “perhaps you are also setting out for Nantes?”

“I do not know whither I am setting out for, monseigneur.”

“But,” said Madame Fouquet, recovered from her fright, “you are not going so soon, captain, as not to do us the honour to take a seat with us?”

“Madame, I should esteem that a great honour done to me, but I am so pressed for time, that, you see, I have been obliged to permit myself to interrupt your repast to procure payment of my note.”

“The reply to which shall be gold,” said Fouquet, making a sign to his Intendant, who went out with the order which d’Artagnan handed to him.

“Oh!” said the latter, “I was not uneasy about the payment; the house is good.”

A painful smile passed over the pale features of Fouquet.

“Are you in pain?” asked Madame de Bellière.

“Do you feel your attack coming on?” asked Madame Fouquet.

“Neither, thank you both,” said Fouquet.

“Your attack?” said d’Artagnan in his turn; “are you unwell, monseigneur?”

“I have a tertian fever, which seized me after the fête at Vaux.”

“Caught cold in the grottos at night, perhaps?”

“No, no; nothing but agitation, that was all.”

“The too much heart you displayed in your reception of the King,” said La Fontaine quietly, without suspicion that he was uttering a sacrilege.

“We cannot devote too much heart to the reception of our King,” said Fouquet, mildly, to his poet.

“Monsieur meant to say the too great ardour,” interrupted d’Artagnan, with perfect frankness and much amenity. “The fact is, monseigneur, that hospitality was never practised as at Vaux.”

Madame Fouquet permitted her countenance to show clearly that if Fouquet had conducted himself well towards the King, the King had not rendered the like to the minister. But d‘Artagnan knew the terrible secret. He alone with Fouquet knew it; those two men had not, the one the courage to complain, the other the right to accuse. The captain, to whom the two hundred pistoles were brought, was about to take his leave, when Fouquet, rising, took a glass of wine, and ordered one to be given d’Artagnan.

“Monsieur,” said he, “to the health of the King, whatever may happen. ”

“And to your health, monseigneur, whatever may happen,” said d’Artagnan.

He bowed, with these words of evil omen, to all the company, who rose as soon as they heard the sound of his spurs and boots at the bottom of the stairs.

“I, for a moment, thought it was me, and not my money he wanted,” said Fouquet, endeavouring to laugh.

“You!” cried his friends; “and what for, in the name of Heaven?”

“Oh! do not deceive yourselves, my dear brothers in Epicurus,” said the Surintendant; “I will not make a comparison between the most humble sinner on the earth and the God we adore, but remember, he gave one day to his friends a repast which is called the Last Supper, and which was nothing but a farewell dinner, like that which we are making at this moment.”

A painful cry of denial arose from all parts of the table. “Shut the doors,” said Fouquet, and the servants disappeared. “My friends,” continued Fouquet, lowering his voice, “what was I formerly? What am I now? Consult among yourselves, and reply. A man like me sinks when he does not continue to rise. What shall we say, then, when he really sinks? I have no more money, no more credit; I have no longer anything but powerful enemies, and powerful friends.”

“Quick!” cried Pélisson, rising. “Since you explain yourself with that frankness, it is our duty to be frank, likewise. Yes, you are ruined—yes, you are hastening to your ruin—stop. And, in the first place, what money have we left?”

“Seven hundred thousand livres,” said the Intendant.

“Bread,” murmured Madame Fouquet.

“Relays,” said Pélisson, “relays, and fly!”

“Whither?”

“To Switzerland—to Savoy—but fly!”

“If monseigneur flies,” said Madame Bellière, “it will be said that he was guilty, and was afraid.”

“More than that, it will be said that I have carried away twenty millions with me.”

“We will draw up memoirs to justify you,” said La Fontaine. “Fly!”

“I will remain,” said Fouquet, “And, besides, does not everything serve me?”

“You have Belle-Isle,” cried the Abbé Fouquet.

“And I am naturally going there, when going to Nantes,” replied the Surintendant. “Patience, then, patience.”

“Before arriving at Nantes, what a distance!” said Madame Fouquet.

“Yes, I know that well,” replied Fouquet. “But what is to be done there? The King summons me to the States. I know well it is for the purpose of ruining me; but to refuse to go would be to evince uneasiness.”

“Well, I have discovered the means of reconciling everything,” cried Pélisson. “You are going to set out for Nantes.”

Fouquet looked at him with an air of surprise.

“But with friends; but in your own carriage as far as Orleans; in your barge as far as Nantes; always ready to defend yourself, if you are attacked; to escape if you are threatened. In fact, you will carry your money against all chances; and, whilst flying, you will only have obeyed the King; then, reaching the sea when you like, you will embark for Belle-Isle, and from Belle-Isle you will shoot out wherever it may please you, like the eagle which rushes into space when it has been driven from its eyrie.”

A general assent followed Pélisson’s words. “Yes, do so,” said Madame Fouquet to her husband.

“Do so,” said Madame Bellière.

“Do it! do it!” cried all his friends.

“I will do so,” replied Fouquet.

“This very evening?”

“In an hour.”

“Immediately.”

“With seven hundred thousand livres you can lay the foundation of another fortune,” said the Abbé Fouquet. “What is there to prevent our arming corsairs at Belle-Isle?”

“And if necessary we will go and discover a new world,” added La Fontaine, intoxicated with projects and enthusiasm.

A knock at the door interrupted this concert of joy and hope. “A courier from the King,” said the master of the ceremonies.

A profound silence immediately ensued, as if the message brought by this courier was nothing but a reply to all the projects given birth to an instant before. Every one waited to see what the master would do. His brow was streaming with perspiration, and he was really suffering from his fever at that instant. He passed into his cabinet, to receive the King’s message. There prevailed, as we have said, such a silence in the chambers, and throughout the attendance, that from the dining-room could be heard the voice of Fouquet, saying, “That is well, monsieur.” This voice was, however, broken by fatigue, trembling with emotion. An instant after, Fouquet called Gourville, who crossed the gallery amidst the universal expectation. At length, he himself reappeared among his guests; but it was no longer the same pale, spiritless countenance they had beheld when he left them; from pale he had become livid; and from spiritless, annihilated. A living spectre, he advanced with his arms stretched out, his mouth parched, like a shade that comes to salute friends of former days. On seeing him thus, every one cried out, and every one rushed towards Fouquet. The latter, looking at Pélisson, leant upon the Surintendante, and pressed the icy hand of the Marquise de Bellière.

“Well!” said he, in a voice which had nothing human in it.

“What has happened, my God?” said some one to him.

Fouquet opened his right hand, which was clenched, humid, and displayed a paper, upon which Pélisson cast a terrified glance. He read the following lines, written by the King’s hand:—

“‘The present letter is to serve as a receipt.’ ”

A murmur of terror circulated through the apartment.

“Well!” cried Pélisson, in his turn, “you have received that letter?”

“Received it, yes!”

“What will you do, then?”

“Nothing, since I have received it.”

“But—”

“If I have received it, Pélisson, I have paid it,” said the Surintendant, with a simplicity that went to the heart of all present.

“You have paid it?” cried Madame Fouquet. “Then we are ruined!”

“Come, no useless words,” interrupted Pélisson. “After money, life. Monsieur, to horse! to horse!”

“What, leave us! at once cried both women, wild with grief.

“Eh! monseigneur, in saving yourself, you save us all. To horse!”

“But he cannot hold himself on. Look at him.”

“Oh! if he takes time to reflect—” said the intrepid Pélisson.

“He is right,” murmured Fouquet.

“Monseigneur! Monseigneur!” cried Gourville, rushing up the stairs, four steps at once. “Monseigneur!”

“Well! What?”

“I escorted, as you desired, the King’s courier with the money.”

“Yes.”

“Well! when I arrived at the Palais-Royal, I saw—”

“Take breath, my poor friend, take breath; you are suffocating. ”

“What did you see?” cried the impatient friends.

“I saw the musketeers mounting on horseback,” said Gourville.

“There, then!” cried all voices at once; “there, then! is there an instant to be lost?”

Madame Fouquet rushed downstairs, calling for her horses; Madame de Bellière flew after her, catching her in her arms, and saying:—

“Madame, in the name of his safety, do not show anything, do not manifest any alarm.”

Pélisson ran to have the horses put to the carriages. And, in the meantime, Gourville gathered in his hat all that the weeping friends were able to throw into it of gold and silver—the last offering, the pious alms made to misfortune by poverty. The Surintendant, dragged along by some, carried by others, was shut up in his carriage. Gourville took the reins and mounted the box. Pélisson supported Madame Fouquet, who had fainted. Madame de Bellière had more strength, and was well paid for it; she received Fouquet’s last kiss. Pélisson easily explained this precipitate departure by saying that an order from the King had summoned the minister to Nantes.