FOUQUET, SUPERINTENDENT OF FINANCE.

NICHOLAS FOUQUET, Marquis de Belle-Isle and Vicomte de MÉlun et Vaux, [3] held the post of Superintendent of Finance under the Regency of Anne of Austria. He was continued in this important office after the accession of Louis XIV. Fouquet was insinuating, specious, hypocritical, and sensual; a munificent patron to those about him, and an adorer of the beautiful in art and nature. He was, moreover, one of those courtly financiers so constantly met with before the Revolution, who, however the country starved, always found funds "for the service of his Majesty."

In course of time, Louis grew alarmed at Fouquet's reckless expenditure; his personal magnificence was boundless, but there was not a sous of state money in reserve. Colbert was consulted by the King. Colbert was jealous of Fouquet's position; he examined his accounts, and found them incorrect. The King courteously pointed out the errors to Fouquet, who persisted in the perfect accuracy of his figures. Louis, convinced of the Superintendent's dishonesty, resolved to dismiss him on the first opportunity.

But this falsification of accounts was his least cause of offence to his Sovereign. Fouquet had presumed to imitate the Olympian tastes of the Grand Monarque. If Louis was a god, his Superintendent was at least a demi-god, and claimed a demi-god's privilege of "loving the daughters of men." Unfortunately, too, he dared to raise his eyes to those particular idols worshipped by the King. His disgrace was therefore certain. Some indistinct rumours of the danger that threatened him reached his ears. He was moved, but not alarmed. He racked his fertile brain how best to recover favour, and he determined to give so magnificent a fÊte in honour of the King at his country-seat, Vaux, near MÉlun, as should remove all suspicion of his loyalty. Such were the customs of the age. Having for years systematically robbed the State, Fouquet was to reinstate himself in favour by a still more public theft!

Before Versailles arose on the sand-hills lying between Saint-Cyr and the wooded uplands of Saint-Cloud, Vaux was the most splendid palace in France. The architect was Le Vau, celebrated by Boileau. The corps de logis was surmounted by a dome supported by sixteen marble arches, resting on pillars; two immense pavilions formed the wings. The gardens, designed by Le NÔtre, were decorated with statues, and ballustraded terraces bordering canals, and water-works, in the Italian fashion—"surprises," as they were called. All was formal and symmetrical; the very plants and shrubs were only permitted to grow to order. Nature was banished to the distant woods, which spread in verdant folds about the rising ground behind the chÂteau, and decked the greensward of the park, ere it reached the waters of the Seine flowing below.

The fÊte was fixed for the 17th of August. It was a splendid day; the sky was unclouded, and the golden sunshine lighted up the deepest recesses of the forest, when Louis started in the morning from Fontainebleau, where the Court was then staying. He was escorted by D'Artagnan and a regiment of musketeers.

There was a goodly company; the King drove La ValliÈre and the Comtesse de Guiche in his calÈche; the Queen-mother came in her coach; other ladies were in litters. The Queen, who was in an interesting state of health, stayed at home. Fouquet stood ready, at the grand entrance of his palace. He received the King kneeling, and presented to him the golden keys of Vaux. Louis touched them with his fingers, raised Fouquet from the ground, and in a few gracious words assured him of his favour and protection; with what truth we shall see. The same ceremony was repeated by Madame Fouquet to the Queen mother, with a like result.

On entering the vestibule, even the Gallic Jupiter was amazed at the magnificence of all he saw. The suite of rooms were arranged in allegorical order, each named after a god or goddess; the ceilings and walls painted to represent their attributes and the events of their lives. The sun and moon, the planets and fixed stars, also formed an important feature in the decorations. The seasons added their attributes, and together with the winds lent themselves gracefully to the necessities of the general arrangements. His Majesty was invited to repose in the billiard-room, dedicated to Hercules, who by a happy invention prefigured himself. From the billiard-room he entered the grand saloon, where the sun, in gorgeous colours of saffron, crimson, and scarlet, covered the entire ceiling. Louis smiled a smile of gratification; the sun was his acknowledged emblem. Was it possible, he thought, that Fouquet might be forgiven? The Superintendent advanced. He bowed to the ground, and asked leave to explain the legend.

"The sun—the centre of the universe, the creator of light, heat, and life—is your Majesty. Deprived of your gracious presence, we sink into darkness and death. That star beside the sun is myself, Sire, receiving light from your Majesty's benignant rays."

Louis frowned, and bit his lip. It seemed to him that the star was dangerously near the sun; it displeased him. He changed his mind, and now decided that that too assertative star must be extinguished.

From the saloon, Louis passed into a retiring-room, dedicated to the Muses and the Virtues, all with open mouths, grouped round a figure of Fidelity, whose praises they sang.

"Who is represented by fidelity?" asked Louis, turning to the Duc de Saint-Aignan, in attendance on him.

"I have just been told that Fidelity represents Fouquet himself, your Majesty."

"What on earth can Fidelity have to do with a Superintendent of Finance?" muttered Louis, shrugging his shoulders. "And that female figure conducting Fidelity—who is that?"

"Prudence, I am told," replied Saint-Aignan. "Prudence; and the one on the other side is Reason."

"Prudence, Reason, and Fidelity guiding Fouquet. Ma foi, it is not bad," and an ironical smile passed over the monarch's face. "But we have not done with the paintings yet. Who are the others?"

"That figure, Sire, in a golden-coloured robe, is Clio, I am told, the Muse of History. With one hand she assists Fidelity into heaven, with the other she records the annals of his life."

"The annals of his life," muttered the King (for Fouquet stood near at hand, to be summoned by his Sovereign when wanted). "It will be well for him if history does not record his signal disgrace. He may prove another Phaeton, this M. Fouquet, and fall from the stars into eternal darkness. Jupiter still grasps his thunders. Let us leave this room—it stifles me," said Louis aloud. "What is the meaning of the device of the serpents I see everywhere?" again inquired Louis of the Duke.

"The serpents represent Colbert, the rival of Fouquet, Sire. Fidelity, Reason, and Discretion crush these serpents as you see."

"Really, these allegories are charming, M. Fouquet," said Louis, with a covert sneer, turning towards his host, and speaking in a loud voice, "but allegories are not always truthful." Fouquet bowed to the ground, and turned very pale.

After having examined the interior of the chÂteau, and partaken of a sumptuous refection, the King was invited to pass into the garden to see the illuminations.

There the whole horizon was aglow. On three broad terraces, of the purest white marble, which extended along the entire faÇade of the building, rows of golden candelabra bore myriads of wax lights. Rows of gigantic orange-trees, in full blossom, shone with orbs of variegated light, that glittered on the dark surface of the polished leaves. Below, in a vast square, fashioned into a sunken parterre of flowers, arranged in various patterns, cunningly concealed lamps of every hue were hidden among the leaves, their innumerable flamelets forming a carpet of living fire. Jets of flame leaped from tree to tree. Beyond the parterre, the broad canal banks blazed and palpitated with fiery heat. The waters, of a ruddy hue, now reflecting the gorgeous scene, now riven into jets d'eau and fountains which blaze upwards for an instant, throwing up clouds of rockets that sport like comets among the stars, to fall back in cascades of golden sparks. Beyond, in the woods, each noble forest-tree, in minutest detail of every branch and twig, stood out in relief against what appeared a vault of fire. Long vistas led far away among stalwart oaks and feathery limes, growing out of a sea of flames. All around there was nothing but fire—dazzling, overwhelming fire. Now it turned to green, then by some magic touch it changed to blue, then flashed into crimson; while feux de joie and cannon roared from concealed batteries, and shook the very air. Behind, the architectural lines of the chÂteau were marked by clusters of golden lamps. Every room shone brighter than at noon, and the central dome, with its graceful colonnade, blazed like a volcano. On the terrace, in front of the chÂteau, military bands clashed with joyous symphonies. When these ceased, soft music sounded from out the fiery woods, from violins and flutes, swelling in the cadences of some tender melody. The crowd below, changing with the metamorphose of the lights, formed a fitting fore-ground to this burning perspective. It was a scene of artificial life after Lancret, backed by a conflagration. Brocaded trains swept along the fine gravel of the walks. Wreaths of diamonds sparkled on voluminous wigs, which fell in heavy curls over neck and shoulders. Long white feathers, and finest Brussels lace, fringed and decked turned-up hats of velvet. Glittering officers were side by side with comely pages, brighter than butterflies. Gold embroideries shone on delicately coloured velvets, satins, and watered-silks; priceless jewels glittered on knee and shoe, on neck and arm, on waist and drapery; torsades on hats, and sword-hilts flashed and multiplied the fiery marvels of the night. Even le Grand Monarque, as he paused upon the terrace to observe the scene, deigned to express his admiration and surprise. But his praise was scant, his words cold, he spoke morosely, and his brows were knit.

The more he investigated the magnificence of Vaux, the more he believed the accusations of Colbert. Fouquet heard the praise; he did not observe the frown. He was radiant. Louis looked round, anxious to escape from the glare and the crowd. He longed to retire into some shady grove with La ValliÈre. She was very beautiful that evening. Louis reproached himself for ever having caused her pain. She wore a dress of white stuff, worked with golden leaves; a blue ribbon, tied in a knot in front, encircled her small waist. Her light hair, untouched by powder, and sown with flowers and pearls, fell over her shoulders; two enormous emeralds hung in her ears. Her arms were uncovered, but to conceal their thinness, she wore above the elbow a broad circlet of gold set with opals. Her gloves were of fine Brussels lace, showing the rosy skin beneath. Her graceful yet dignified manners, her tender blue eyes, breathing nothing but love and gentleness, her look of patient goodness, were never more charming than when seen among the painted and powdered belles of that intriguing Court. It was impossible for Louis to have a word with her in private. Every feminine eye was bent upon him. All the ladies—young, old, fair and dark—pressed round him as he moved among the alleys and terraces of the illuminated garden. He was the rose that attracted alike the butterflies and the grubs—the sunshine and the shadow. Like royalty of all ages, Louis soon grew weary of this espionage, and called for the Duc de Saint-Aignan. He was nowhere to be found. At last, after having walked up and down the three terraces, admired the great cascade and the grotto, afterwards to be repeated at Saint-Cloud, he sought out the Queen-mother. She was seated on the terrace, surveying the illumination at a distance. Louis leaned over the marble balustrade near her.

"This is magnificent, my mother," said he; "so magnificent that I believe every word Colbert has told me. Colbert showed me peculations on paper; I see them here with my own eyes. Think of the millions he must have spent! Look at my palace of Saint-Germain—dilapidated, dismal; Fontainebleau still unfinished. It is shameful! Fouquet is a mushroom, who has nourished himself out of my revenues. I can crush him—I will crush him—destroy him!" and the King stamped his foot savagely on a pavement of coloured marbles.

"My son, do not speak so loudly," replied the Queen.

At this moment Saint-Aignan appeared ascending the steps from below.

"Where have you been, Duke?" asked Louis sharply.

"A thousand pardons, your Majesty. They searched for me in the wrong place. You will not, however, have reason to regret my absence," and he gave the King a look full of meaning, and signed to him to move farther off from all possibility of listeners. "Sire," continued he, "I have made a discovery."

"A discovery! Where? What have you found?" and Louis drew closer to him.

"Sire, I fear you have a rival," and Saint-Aignan glanced significantly at the Duchesse de la ValliÈre, who sat on a settee behind, not far from the Queen-mother.

"A rival! Ridiculous! You have been asleep and dreaming, Duke."

"No, Sire; on the faith of a peer of France, no. Your Majesty has a rival, I repeat."

"What do I care for rivals! I have her heart," and Louis glanced tenderly at La ValliÈre.

"But is your Majesty so certain?"

"Certain? Ask me if I live!" exclaimed Louis with warmth. "But tell me what you mean. Speak, Duke, and speak quickly, for we may be interrupted."

"Well, Sire, some fairy, who I suppose watches over your interests, told me to wander over the chÂteau and examine the more private chambers. No one was by. Every one was in the garden with your Majesty to see the illuminations. At the end of a long gallery, in a distant part of the house, I came upon a boudoir—such a bijou of a room!—evidently belonging to Fouquet. On the walls hung the portraits of some of the fairest ladies of the Court. It is a hall of beauty, Sire."

"Go on," said Louis impatiently; "I understand."

"Among these beauties, Sire, was—well—there was the lady you honour with your special attentions—Madame la Duchesse—" and Saint-Aignan stopped, and again indicated La ValliÈre, who, unconscious of what was going on, sat near, her delicate cheek resting on her hand.

"You need mention no names, Saint-Aignan. I tell you, I understand," replied the King with evident irritation. "And pray what does it matter if you did find the portrait of that lady there? I see nothing in it at all remarkable. No hall of beauty would be complete without her likeness. Who were the other portraits?"

"Ah, Sire, that is precisely the point I am coming to. They were all portraits of ladies who are or have been the acknowledged mistresses of Fouquet. If Madame la Duchesse de——"

"I beg you again not to mention any names, Duke," broke in the King haughtily, a storm gathering on his brow.

"If that lady, Sire, had not resembled the others, why should she have been there?"

To this somewhat daring question Louis did not vouchsafe a reply. His countenance darkened into an expression of silent rage. His eyes glittered as he passed his hand over them. When he spoke there was doubt, anxiety, as well as anger in his voice and manner. "I am astonished, I confess," said he, speaking very deliberately. "I am quite at a loss to explain it. Her portrait is there, you say. It may be, Saint-Aignan. I cannot doubt your word, but—it is impossible that——" He paused, and his eyes rested on her guileless face.

"Sire, it is not for me to differ from your Majesty," rejoined Saint-Aignan, fearful lest he had injured himself in the King's opinion by his over-frankness; "your superior intellect and far-seeing judgment will unfold to you mysteries impervious to my grosser comprehension; but I repeat, in the boudoir of M. Fouquet I saw the portrait of Madame La Duchesse—I beg your Majesty's pardon—placed among those of ladies whose relations with him are more than equivocal."

"I will speak to the lady myself. She is ignorant of this, I venture my life," said Louis, his eyes again fixing themselves wistfully upon La ValliÈre. "In the meantime, Duke, I thank you for your zeal in my service. Now, remember, until our return to Fontainebleau silence—absolute silence—or I shall never forgive you." Louis placed his finger on his lip—Saint-Aignan, glad to end so perilous an interview, bowed, and immediately fell back among the crowd of courtiers who hovered about the King.

Louis's blood boiled within him. He had controlled himself in the presence of Saint-Aignan, but it was with the greatest difficulty he could any longer restrain his passion. He longed then and there to call in the musketeers, and arrest Fouquet on the spot. D'Artagnan and his followers were at hand; it would have been the work of an instant. At a loss what to do, and feeling the necessity for some expression of the violent rage he felt, he approached his mother, Anne of Austria, who was leaning back in her chair, absorbed in a deep reverie. She was only present at that dazzling fÊte in body—her mind was far away. To her the pomps and vanities of the world were become a mockery and a toil; she longed for the seclusion of the cloister.

"It is all over," whispered the King, and his voice grated huskily in her ear; "Fouquet will be arrested to-night."

"What has he done?" asked Anne of Austria.

"I have excellent reasons, my mother; besides, Fouquet may escape to Belle Isle—here I have him, I hold him!" and Louis, in his seat, shook his fist in his mother's face.

"You are strangely moved, Louis. I do not know your reasons, but I advise you, for the sake of your own dignity, to choose a more suitable moment than during a fÊte at which you are present in his own house."

"Every time is good to catch a traitor."

"Yes; but, my son, there is such a thing as decorum. The Superintendent has given you a superb fÊte, which you have accepted. You are under his roof; you cannot arrest him while you are his guest. It is out of the question."

"But, my mother, I have reasons of state."

"Then they must wait. What would the Court—what would France—say to such an act? Take care, my son, that those who may never know your justification do not condemn your act. Even you are not above public opinion."

Louis did not reply, but the Queen-mother perceived that her words had convinced him.

The Court returned to Fontainebleau in the same order as it came.

A lettre de cachet, dated the day after the fÊte, consigned Fouquet to the fortress of Pignerol. Louise de la ValliÈre was enabled to soothe his Majesty's suspicions, with regard to the portrait, by assuring him that if his indignation had been aroused, her feelings had been much more grossly outraged.