The Vicomte de Bragelonne. Alexandre Dumas
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did not say the king: I said a king."
"Is it not all the same?"
"No, on the contrary, it is quite different."
"I do not understand you."
"You will do so shortly then. Suppose, for instance, the king in question were to be a very different person to Louis XIV."
"Another person?"
"Yes, who is indebted for everything to you."
"Impossible!"
"His very throne even."
"You are mad, D'Herblay! There is no man living besides Louis XIV. who can sit on the throne of France. I see none, not one."
"Unless it be Monsieur," said Fouquet, looking at Aramis uneasily, "yet Monsieur—"
"It is not Monsieur."
"But how can it be that a prince not of the royal line, that a prince without any right—"
"My king, or rather your king, will be everything that is necessary, be assured of that."
"Be careful, Monsieur d'Herblay; you make my blood run cold, and my head swim."
Aramis smiled. "There is but little occasion for that," he replied.
"Again, I repeat, you terrify me!" said Fouquet.
Aramis smiled.
"You laugh," said Fouquet.
"The day will come when you will laugh too; only at the present moment I must laugh alone."
"But explain yourself."
"When the proper day shall have arrived, I will explain all. Fear nothing; have faith in me, and doubt nothing."
"The fact is, I cannot but doubt, because I do not see clearly, or at all even."
"That is because of your blindness: but a day will come when you will be enlightened."
"Oh," said Fouquet, "how willingly would I believe!"
"You without belief! You who, through my means, have ten times crossed the abyss yawning at your feet, and in which, had you been alone, you would have been irretrievably swallowed up! You without belief! you who, from procureur-general, attained the rank of intendant, from the rank of intendant that of first minister of the crown, and who, from the rank of first minister, will pass to that of mayor of the palace! But no," he said, with the same unaltered smile, "no, no, you cannot see, and consequently cannot believe that." And Aramis rose to withdraw.
"One word more," said Fouquet. "You have never yet spoken to me in this manner, you have never yet shown yourself so confident—I should rather say so daring."
"Because it is necessary, in order to speak confidently, to have the lips unfettered."
"And that is now your case?"
"Yes."
"Since a very short time, then?"
"Since yesterday only."
"Oh, Monsieur d'Herblay, take care; your confidence is becoming audacity."
"One can well be audacious when one is powerful."
"And you are powerful?"
"I have already offered you ten millions: I offer them again to you."
Fouquet rose, much agitated and disturbed.
"Come," he said, "come; you spoke of overthrowing kings and replacing them by others. If, indeed, I am not really out of my senses, is or is not that what you said just now?"
"You are by no means out of your senses, for it is perfectly true I did say all that just now."
"And why did you say so?"
"Because it is easy to speak in this manner of thrones being cast down, and kings being raised up, when one is, one's self, far above all king's and thrones, of this world at least."
"Your power is infinite, then?" cried Fouquet.
"I have told you so already, and I repeat it," replied Aramis, with glistening eyes and trembling lips.
Fouquet threw himself back in his chair and buried his face in his hands. Aramis looked at him for a moment, as the angel of human destinies might have looked upon a simple mortal being.
"Adieu," he said to him, "sleep undisturbed, and send your letter to La Valliere. To-morrow we shall see each other again."
"Yes, to-morrow," said Fouquet, shaking his hand like a man returning to his senses. "But where shall we see each other?"
"At the king's promenade, if you like."
"Agreed." And they separated.
CHAPTER III.
THE STORM.
The dawn of the following day was dark and gloomy, and as every one knew that the promenade was set down in the royal programme, every one's gaze, as his eyes were opened, was directed toward the sky. Just above the tops of the trees a thick, suffocating vapor seemed to remain suspended, with hardly sufficient power to rise thirty feet above the ground under the influence of the sun's rays, which could barely be seen through the veil of a heavy and thick mist. No dew had fallen in the morning; the turf was dried up for want of moisture, the flowers were withered. The birds sung less inspiritingly than usual amid the boughs, which remained as motionless as death. The strange confused and animated murmurs, which seemed born of, and to exist by the sun, that respiration of nature which is unceasingly heard amid all other sounds, could not be heard now, and never had the silence been so profound. The king had noticed the cheerless aspect of the heavens as he approached the window immediately after rising. But as all the necessary directions had been given respecting the promenade, and every preparation had been made accordingly, and as, which was far more imperious than everything else, Louis relied upon this promenade to satisfy the cravings of his imagination, and we will even already say, the clamorous desires of his heart—the king unhesitatingly decided that the appearance of the heavens had nothing whatever to do with the matter; that the promenade was arranged, and that, whatever the state of the weather might be, the promenade should take place. Besides there are certain terrestrial sovereigns who seem to have accorded them privileged existences, and there are certain times when it might almost be supposed that the expressed wish of an earthly monarch has its influence over the Divine will. It was Virgil who observed of Augustus: Nocte placet tota redeunt spectacula manè. Louis attended mass as usual, but it was evident that his attention was somewhat distracted from the presence of the Creator by the remembrance of the creature. His mind was occupied during the service in reckoning more than once the number of minutes, then of seconds, which separated him from the blissful moment when the promenade would begin, that is to say, the moment when Madame would set out with her maids of honor.
Besides, as a matter of course, everybody at the chateau was ignorant of the interview which had taken place between La Valliere and the king. Montalais, perhaps, with her usual chattering propensity, might have been disposed to talk about it; but Montalais on this occasion was held in check by Malicorne, who had placed upon her lips the padlock of mutual interest. As for Louis XIV., his happiness was so extreme that he had forgiven Madame, or nearly so, her little piece of ill-nature of the previous evening. In fact, he had occasion to congratulate himself about it rather than to complain of it. Had it not been for her ill-natured action, he would not have received the letter from La Valliere; had it not been for the letter, he would have had no interview; and had it not been for the interview he would have remained undecided. His heart was filled