The Vicomte de Bragelonne. Alexandre Dumas

too much happiness for any ill-feeling to remain in it, at that moment at least. Instead, therefore, of knitting his brows into a frown when he perceived his sister-in-law, Louis resolved to receive her in a more friendly and gracious manner than usual. But on one condition only, that she would be ready to set out early. Such was the nature of Louis's thoughts during mass, and which made him, during the ceremony, forget matters, which, in his character of Most Christian King and of the oldest son of the Church, ought to have occupied his attention. He returned to the chateau, and as the promenade was fixed for mid-day only, and it was at present just ten o'clock, he set to work most desperately with Colbert and Lyonne. But even while he worked, Louis went from the table to the window, inasmuch as the window looked out upon Madame's pavilion; he could see M. Fouquet in the courtyard, to whom the courtiers, since the favor shown toward him on the previous evening, paid greater attention than ever. The king, instinctively, on noticing Fouquet, turned toward Colbert, who was smiling, and seemed full of benevolence and delight, a state of feeling which had arisen from the very moment one of his secretaries had entered and handed him a pocket-book, which he had put unopened into his pocket. But, as there was always something sinister at the bottom of any delight expressed by Colbert, Louis preferred of the smiles of the two men that of Fouquet. He beckoned to the surintendant to come up, and then, turning toward Lyonne and Colbert, he said: "Finish this matter, place it on my desk, and I will read it at my leisure." And he left the room. At the sign the king had made to him, Fouquet had hastened up the staircase, while Aramis, who was with the surintendant, quietly retired among the group of courtiers, and disappeared without having been even observed by the king. The king and Fouquet met at the top of the staircase.

      "Sire," said Fouquet, remarking the gracious manner in which Louis was about to receive him, "your majesty has overwhelmed me with kindness during the last few days. It is not a youthful monarch, but a being of a higher order, who reigns over France—one whom pleasure, happiness, and love acknowledge as their master." The king colored. The compliment, although flattering, was not the less somewhat direct. Louis conducted Fouquet to a small room which separated his study from his sleeping apartment.

      "Do you know why I summoned you?" said the king, as he seated himself upon the edge of the window, so as not to lose anything that might be passing in the gardens which fronted the opposite entrance to Madame's pavilion.

      "No, sire," replied Fouquet; "but I am sure for something agreeable, if I am to judge from your majesty's gracious smile."

      "You are mistaken, then."

      "I, sire?"

      "For I summoned you, on the contrary, to pick a quarrel with you."

      "With me, sire?"

      "Yes, and that a serious one."

      "Your majesty alarms me; and yet I wait most confident in your justice and goodness."

      "Do you know I am told, Monsieur Fouquet, that you are preparing a grand fete at Vaux."

      Fouquet smiled, as a sick man would do at the first shiver of a fever which has left him but returns again.

      "And that you have not invited me!" continued the king.

      "Sire," replied Fouquet, "I have not even thought of the fete you speak of, and it was only yesterday evening that one of my friends" (Fouquet laid a stress upon the word) "was kind enough to make me think of it."

      "Yet I saw you yesterday evening, Monsieur Fouquet, and you said nothing to me about it."

      "How dared I hope that your majesty would so greatly descend from your own exalted station as to honor my dwelling with your royal presence?"

      "Excuse me, Monsieur Fouquet, you did not speak to me about your fete."

      "I did not allude to the fete to your majesty, I repeat, in the first place, because nothing had been decided with regard to it, and, secondly, because I feared a refusal."

      "And something made you fear a refusal, Monsieur Fouquet? You see I am determined to push you hard."

      "The profound wish I had that your majesty should accept my invitation—"

      "Well, Monsieur Fouquet, nothing is easier, I perceive, than our coming to an understanding. Your wish is to invite me to your fete—my own is to be present at it; invite me, and I will go."

      "Is it possible that your majesty will deign to accept?" murmured the surintendant.

      "Why, really, monsieur," said the king, laughing, "I think I do more than accept—I think I invite myself."

      "Your majesty overwhelms me with honor and delight!" exclaimed Fouquet; "but I shall be obliged to repeat what M. de Vieuville said to your ancestor Henry the Fourth, 'Domine non sum dignus.'"

      "To which I reply, Monsieur Fouquet, that if you give a fete, I will go whether I am invited or not."

      "I thank your majesty deeply," said Fouquet, as he raised his head beneath this favor, which he was convinced would be his ruin.

      "But how could your majesty have been informed of it?"

      "By public rumor, Monsieur Fouquet, which says such wonderful things of yourself and of the marvels of your house. Would you become proud, Monsieur Fouquet, if the king were to be jealous of you?"

      "I should be the happiest man in the world, sire, since the very day on which your majesty were to be jealous of Vaux, I should possess something worthy of being offered to you."

      "Very well, Monsieur Fouquet, prepare your fete, and open the doors of your house as wide as possible."

      

As the rain dripped more and more through the foliage of the oak, the King held his hat over the head of the young girl.—Page 22.

      "It is for your majesty to fix the day."

      "This day month, then."

      "Has your majesty any further commands?"

      "Nothing, Monsieur Fouquet, except from the present moment until then to have you near me as much as possible."

      "I have the honor to form one of your majesty's party for the promenade."

      "Very good. I am now going out indeed, for there are the ladies, I see, who are going to start."

      With this remark, the king, with all the eagerness, not only of a young man, but of a young man in love, withdrew from the window, in order to take his gloves and cane, which his valet held ready for him. The neighing of the horses and the rumbling of the wheels on the gravel of the courtyard could be distinctly heard. The king descended the stairs, and at the moment he made his appearance upon the flight of steps every one stopped. The king walked straight up to the young queen. The queen-mother, who was still suffering more than ever from the illness with which she was afflicted, did not wish to go out. Maria Theresa accompanied Madame in her carriage, and asked the king in what direction he wished the promenade to take place. The king, who had just seen La Valliere, still pale from the events of the previous evening, get into a carriage with three of her companions, told the queen that he had no preference, and wherever she would wish to go, there would he be with her. The queen then desired that the out-riders should proceed in the direction of Apremont. The out-riders set off, accordingly, before the others. The king rode on horseback, and for a few minutes accompanied the carriage of the queen and Madame, with his hand resting upon the door. The weather had cleared up a little, but a kind of veil of dust, like a thick gauze, was still spread over the surface of the heavens, and the sun made every glittering atom of dust glisten again within the circuit of its rays. The heat was stifling; but as the king did not seem to pay any attention to the appearance of the heavens, no one made himself uneasy about it, and the promenade, in obedience to the orders which had been given by the queen, took its course in the direction of Apremont. The courtiers who followed were merry and full of spirits; it was evident that every one tried to forget, and to make others forget, the bitter discussions of the previous evening.