"What do you mean?"
"You know upon what I laid the greatest stress at the beginning of our conversation?"
"Yes, his majesty"s hate, invincible hate for me; yes, but what feeling of hate could resist the threat of such a revelation?"
"Such a revelation, do you say? that is the very point where your logic fails you. What! do you suppose that if I had made such a revelation to the king, I should have been alive now?"
"It is not ten minutes ago that you were with the king."
"That may be. He might not have had the time to get me killed outright, but he would have had the time to get me gagged and thrown in a dungeon.
Come, come, show a little consistency in your reasoning, _mordieu!_"
And by the mere use of this word, which was so thoroughly his old musketeer"s expression, forgotten by one who never seemed to forget anything, Fouquet could not but understand to what a pitch of exaltation the calm, impenetrable bishop of Vannes had wrought himself. He shuddered.
"And then," replied the latter, after having mastered his feelings, "should I be the man I really am, should I be the true friend you believe me, if I were to expose you, whom the king already hates so bitterly, to a feeling more than ever to be dreaded in that young man?
To have robbed him, is nothing; to have addressed the woman he loves, is not much; but to hold in your keeping both his crown and his honor, why, he would pluck out your heart with his own hands."
"You have not allowed him to penetrate your secret, then?"
"I would sooner, far sooner, have swallowed at one draught all the poisons that Mithridates drank in twenty years, in order to try and avoid death, than have betrayed my secret to the king."
"What have you done, then?"
"Ah! now we are coming to the point, monseigneur. I think I shall not fail to excite in you a little interest. You are listening, I hope."
"How can you ask me if I am listening? Go on."
Aramis walked softly all round the room, satisfied himself that they were alone, and that all was silent, and then returned and placed himself close to the armchair in which Fouquet was seated, awaiting with the deepest anxiety the revelation he had to make.
"I forgot to tell you," resumed Aramis, addressing himself to Fouquet, who listened to him with the most absorbed attention--"I forgot to mention a most remarkable circ.u.mstance respecting these twins, namely, that G.o.d had formed them so startlingly, so miraculously, like each other, that it would be utterly impossible to distinguish the one from the other. Their own mother would not be able to distinguish them."
"Is it possible?" exclaimed Fouquet.
"The same n.o.ble character in their features, the same carriage, the same stature, the same voice."
"But their thoughts? degree of intelligence? their knowledge of human life?"
"There is inequality there, I admit, monseigneur. Yes; for the prisoner of the Bastile is, most incontestably, superior in every way to his brother; and if, from his prison, this unhappy victim were to pa.s.s to the throne, France would not, from the earliest period of its history, perhaps, have had a master more powerful in genius and n.o.bility of character."
Fouquet buried his face in his hands, as if he were overwhelmed by the weight of this immense secret. Aramis approached him.
"There is a further inequality," he said, continuing his work of temptation, "an inequality which concerns yourself, monseigneur, between the twins, both sons of Louis XIII., namely, the last comer does not know M. Colbert."
Fouquet raised his head immediately--his features were pale and distorted. The bolt had hit its mark--not his heart, but his mind and comprehension.
"I understand you," he said to Aramis; "you are proposing a conspiracy to me?"
"Something like it."
"One of those attempts which, as you said at the beginning of this conversation, alters the fate of empires?"
"And of superintendents, too; yes, monseigneur."
"In a word, you propose that I should agree to the subst.i.tution of the son of Louis XIII., who is now a prisoner in the Bastile, for the son of Louis XIII., who is at this moment asleep in the Chamber of Morpheus?"
Aramis smiled with the sinister expression of the sinister thought which was pa.s.sing through his brain. "Exactly," he said.
"Have you thought," continued Fouquet, becoming animated with that strength of talent which in a few seconds originates, and matures the conception of a plan, and with that largeness of view which foresees all consequences, and embraces every result at a glance--"have you thought that we must a.s.semble the n.o.bility, the clergy, and the third estate of the realm; that we shall have to depose the reigning sovereign, to disturb by so frightful a scandal the tomb of their dead father, to sacrifice the life, the honor of a woman, Anne of Austria, the life and peace of mind and heart of another woman, Maria Theresa; and suppose that it were all done, if we were to succeed in doing it--"
"I do not understand you," continued Aramis, coldly. "There is not a single syllable of sense in all you have just said."
"What!" said the superintendent, surprised, "a man like you refuse to view the practical bearing of the case! Do you confine yourself to the childish delight of a political illusion, and neglect the chances of its being carried into execution; in other words, the reality itself, is it possible?"
"My friend," said Aramis, emphasizing the word with a kind of disdainful familiarity, "what does Heaven do in order to subst.i.tute one king for another?"
"Heaven!" exclaimed Fouquet--"Heaven gives directions to its agent, who seizes upon the doomed victim, hurries him away, and seats the triumphant rival on the empty throne. But you forget that this agent is called death. Oh! Monsieur d"Herblay, in Heaven"s name, tell me if you have had the idea--"
"There is no question of that, monseigneur; you are going beyond the object in view. Who spoke of Louis XIV."s death? who spoke of adopting the example which Heaven sets in following out the strict execution of its decrees? No, I wish you to understand that Heaven effects its purposes without confusion or disturbance, without exciting comment or remark, without difficulty or exertion; and that men, inspired by Heaven, succeed like Heaven itself, in all their undertakings, in all they attempt, in all they do."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, my _friend_," returned Aramis, with the same intonation on the word friend that he had applied to it the first time--"I mean that if there has been any confusion, scandal, and even effort in the subst.i.tution of the prisoner for the king, I defy you to prove it."
"What!" cried Fouquet, whiter than the handkerchief with which he wiped his temples, "what do you say?"
"Go to the king"s apartment," continued Aramis, tranquilly, "and you who know the mystery, I defy even you to perceive that the prisoner of the Bastile is lying in his brother"s bed."
"But the king," stammered Fouquet, seized with horror at the intelligence.
"What king?" said Aramis, in his gentlest tone; "the one who hates you, or the one who likes you?"
"The king--of--_yesterday_."
"The king of yesterday! be quite easy on that score; he has gone to take the place in the Bastile which his victim occupied for so many years."
"Great G.o.d! And who took him there?"
"I."
"You?"
"Yes, and in the simplest way. I carried him away last night. While he was descending into midnight, the other was ascending into day. I do not think there has been any disturbance whatever. A flash of lightning without thunder awakens n.o.body."
Fouquet uttered a thick, smothered cry, as if he had been struck by some invisible blow, and clasping his head between his clenched hands, he murmured: "You did that?"
"Cleverly enough, too; what do you think of it?"
"You dethroned the king? imprisoned him, too?"