The Man in the Iron Mask

The Chateau de Vaux-le-Vicomte.

The of Vaux-le-Vicomte, about a from Melun, had been by Fouquet in 1655, at a time when there was a of money in France; Mazarin had taken all that there was, and Fouquet the remainder. However, as men have fertile, false, and useful vices, Fouquet, in millions of money in the of this palace, had a means of gathering, as the result of his profusion, three men together: Levau, the of the building; Lenotre, the of the gardens; and Lebrun, the of the apartments. If the Chateau de Vaux a single fault with which it be reproached, it was its grand, character. It is at the present day to the number of of roofing, the of which would, in our age, be the of and as the itself. Vaux-le-Vicomte, when its gates, supported by caryatides, have been passed through, has the of the main opening upon a vast, so-called, of honor, by ditches, by a balustrade. Nothing be more in than the upon the of steps, like a king upon his throne, having around it four at the angles, the Ionic of which rose to the whole of the building. The with arabesques, and the which the pilasters, and on every part of the building, while the which the whole added and majesty. This mansion, by a subject, a to those which Wolsey he was called upon to construct, in order to present them to his master from the of him jealous. But if and were in any one particular part of this more than another,—if anything be to the of the interior, to the of the gilding, and to the of the paintings and statues, it would be the park and gardens of Vaux. The d’eau, which were as in 1653, are still so, at the present time; the the of kings and princes; and as for the famous grotto, the of so many effusions, the of that of Vaux, Pelisson with La Fontaine, we must be the of all its beauties. We will do as Despreaux did,—we will enter the park, the trees of which are of eight years’ only—that is to say, in their present position—and yet, as they proudly tower aloft, their to the of the sun. Lenotre had the of the Maecenas of his period; all the nursery-grounds had trees had been by and the plant-food. Every tree in the neighborhood which presented a of or had been taken up by its and to the park. Fouquet well to purchase trees to ornament his park, since he had up three villages and their (to use a legal word) to its extent. M. de Scudery said of this palace, that, for the purpose of the and gardens well watered, M. Fouquet had a river into a thousand fountains, and the of a thousand into torrents. This same Monsieur de Scudery said a great many other in his “Clelie,” about this of Valterre, the of which he most minutely. We should be to send our readers to Vaux to judge for themselves, than to them to “Clelie;” and yet there are as many from Paris to Vaux, as there are of the “Clelie.”

This had been got for the of the of the time. M. Fouquet’s friends had thither, some their actors and their dresses, others their of and artists; not others with their ready-mended pens,—floods of were contemplated. The cascades, though they were, their and than crystal: they over the and their of foam, which like fire in the of the sun. An army of were to and in in the and corridors; while Fouquet, who had only that arrived, walked all through the with a calm, glance, in order to give his last orders, after his had everything.

It was, as we have said, the 15th of August. The sun its upon the of marble and bronze: it the temperature of the water in the shells, and ripened, on the walls, those peaches, of which the king, fifty years later, spoke so regretfully, when, at Marly, on an occasion of a of the of being of, in the gardens there—gardens which had cost France the amount that had been on Vaux—the great king to some one: “You are too to have any of M. Fouquet’s peaches.”

Oh, fame! Oh, of renown! Oh, of this earth! That very man was so and where was concerned—he who had into his the of Nicholas Fouquet, who had him of Lenotre and Lebrun, and had sent him to for the of his life in one of the prisons—merely the of that vanquished, crushed, enemy! It was to little purpose that Fouquet had thirty millions of in the of his gardens, in the of his sculptors, in the writing-desks of his friends, in the of his painters; had he that he might be remembered. A peach—a blushing, rich-flavored fruit, in the work on the garden-wall, its long, green leaves,—this little vegetable production, that a would up without a thought, was to to the memory of this great the of the last of France.

With a perfect that Aramis had to the number of guests the palace, and that he had not to to any of the for their comfort, Fouquet his entire attention to the alone. In one direction Gourville him the which had been for the fireworks; in another, Moliere him over the theater; at last, after he had visited the chapel, the salons, and the galleries, and was again going downstairs, with fatigue, Fouquet saw Aramis on the staircase. The to him. The joined his friend, and, with him, paused a large picture finished. Applying himself, and soul, to his work, the painter Lebrun, with perspiration, with paint, from and the of genius, was the last touches with his brush. It was the portrait of the king, they were expecting, in the which Percerin had to to the of Vannes. Fouquet himself this portrait, which to live, as one might say, in the of its flesh, and in its of color. He upon it long and fixedly, the labor that had been upon it, and, not being able to any great for this Herculean effort, he passed his arm the painter’s and him. The surintendant, by this action, had a of a thousand pistoles, but he had satisfied, more than satisfied, Lebrun. It was a happy moment for the artist; it was an moment for M. Percerin, who was walking Fouquet, and was in admiring, in Lebrun’s painting, the that he had for his majesty, a perfect d’art, as he called it, which was not to be matched in the of the surintendant. His and his were by a which had been from the of the mansion. In the direction of Melun, in the still empty, open plain, the of Vaux had just the of the king and the queens. His was entering Melun with his long train of and cavaliers.

“In an hour—” said Aramis to Fouquet.

“In an hour!” the latter, sighing.

“And the people who ask one another what is the good of these fetes!” the of Vannes, laughing, with his false smile.

“Alas! I, too, who am not the people, ask myself the same thing.”

“I will answer you in four and twenty hours, monseigneur. Assume a countenance, for it should be a day of true rejoicing.”

“Well, me or not, as you like, D’Herblay,” said the surintendant, with a heart, pointing at the of Louis, visible in the horizon, “he loves me but very little, and I do not much more for him; but I cannot tell you how it is, that since he is my house—”

“Well, what?”

“Well, since I know he is on his way here, as my guest, he is more than for me; he is my sovereign, and as such is very dear to me.”

“Dear? yes,” said Aramis, playing upon the word, as the Abbe Terray did, at a later period, with Louis XV.

“Do not laugh, D’Herblay; I that, if he to wish it, I love that man.”

“You should not say that to me,” returned Aramis, “but to M. Colbert.”

“To M. Colbert!” Fouquet. “Why so?”

“Because he would allow you a pension out of the king’s purse, as soon as he surintendant,” said Aramis, preparing to as soon as he had this last blow.