The Man in the Iron Mask
Jealousy.
The we have just to, the attention every one displayed, and the new paid to the king by Fouquet, in time to the of a which La Valliere had already in Louis XIV.‘s heart. He looked at Fouquet with a almost of for having La Valliere an opportunity of herself so disposed, so powerful in the she over his heart. The moment of the last and had arrived. Hardly had Fouquet the king the chateau, when a of fire from the of Vaux, with a uproar, a of of on every side, and the of the gardens. The began. Colbert, at twenty from the king, who was and by the owner of Vaux, seemed, by the of his thoughts, to do his to Louis’s attention, which the of the was already, in his opinion, too easily diverting. Suddenly, just as Louis was on the point of it out to Fouquet, he in his hand the paper which, as he believed, La Valliere had at his as she away. The still of love the prince’s attention the of his idol; and, by the light, which in beauty, and from the villages loud of admiration, the king read the letter, which he was a and La Valliere had for him. But as he read it, a death-like over his face, and an of deep-seated wrath, by the many-colored fire which so brightly, around the scene, produced a terrible spectacle, which every one would have at, they only have read into his heart, now by the most and most passions. There was no for him now, as he was by and passion. From the very moment when the dark truth was to him, every to disappear; pity, of consideration, the religion of hospitality, all were forgotten. In the which his heart, he, still too weak to his sufferings, was almost on the point of a of alarm, and calling his to him. This which Colbert had at the king’s feet, the reader has guessed, was the same that had with the Toby at Fontainebleau, after the attempt which Fouquet had upon La Valliere’s heart. Fouquet saw the king’s pallor, and was from the evil; Colbert saw the king’s anger, and at the approach of the storm. Fouquet’s voice the from his reverie.
“What is the matter, sire?” the superintendent, with an of interest.
Louis a over himself, as he replied, “Nothing.”
“I am your is suffering?”
“I am suffering, and have already told you so, monsieur; but it is nothing.”
And the king, without waiting for the of the fireworks, the chateau. Fouquet him, and the whole followed, the of the for their own amusement. The again to question Louis XIV., but did not succeed in a reply. He there had been some Louis and La Valliere in the park, which had resulted in a quarrel; and that the king, who was not by disposition, but by his for La Valliere, had taken a to every one his had herself with him. This idea was to him; he had a and for the king, when the him good night. This, however, was not all the king had to submit to; he was to the ceremony, which on that was marked by close to the etiquette. The next day was the one for the departure; it was but proper that the guests should thank their host, and him a little attention in return for the of his twelve millions. The only remark, to amiability, which the king to say to M. Fouquet, as he took of him, were in these words, “M. Fouquet, you shall from me. Be good to M. d’Artagnan to come here.”
But the blood of Louis XIV., who had so his feelings, in his veins; and he was perfectly to order M. Fouquet to be put an end to with the same readiness, indeed, as his had the of le Marechal d’Ancre; and so he the terrible he had one of those which, like lightning-flashes, d’etat. Fouquet took the king’s hand and it; Louis his whole frame, but allowed M. Fouquet to touch his hand with his lips. Five minutes afterwards, D’Artagnan, to the order had been communicated, entered Louis XIV.‘s apartment. Aramis and Philippe were in theirs, still attentive, and still with all their ears. The king did not give the captain of the time to approach his armchair, but ran to meet him. “Take care,” he exclaimed, “that no one enters here.”
“Very good, sire,” the captain, had for a long time past the on the countenance. He gave the necessary order at the door; but, returning to the king, he said, “Is there something fresh the matter, your majesty?”
“How many men have you here?” the king, without making any other reply to the question to him.
“What for, sire?”
“How many men have you, I say?” the king, upon the ground with his foot.
“I have the musketeers.”
“Well; and what others?”
“Twenty and thirteen Swiss.”
“How many men will be to—”
“To do what, sire?” the musketeer, opening his large, eyes.
“To M. Fouquet.”
D’Artagnan a step.
“To M. Fouquet!” he forth.
“Are you going to tell me that it is impossible?” the king, in of cold, passion.
“I say that anything is impossible,” D’Artagnan, to the quick.
“Very well; do it, then.”
D’Artagnan on his heel, and his way the door; it was but a distance, and he it in a dozen paces; when he it he paused, and said, “Your will me, but, in order to this arrest, I should like directions.”
“For what purpose—and since when has the king’s word been for you?”
“Because the word of a king, when it from a of anger, may possibly when the changes.”
“A to set phrases, monsieur; you have another that?”
“Oh, I, at least, have and ideas, which, unfortunately, others have not,” D’Artagnan replied, impertinently.
The king, in the of his wrath, hesitated, and in the of D’Artagnan’s courage, just as a on his under the hand of a and rider. “What is your thought?” he exclaimed.
“This, sire,” D’Artagnan: “you a man to be when you are still under his roof; and is alone the of that. When your anger shall have passed, you will what you have done; and then I wish to be in a position to you your signature. If that, however, should fail to be a reparation, it will at least us that the king was to his temper.”
“Wrong to his temper!” the king, in a loud, voice. “Did not my father, my grandfathers, too, me, their at times, in Heaven’s name?”
“The king your father and the king your their when under the protection of their own palace.”
“The king is master he may be.”
“That is a flattering, phrase which cannot from any one but M. Colbert; but it not to be the truth. The king is at home in every man’s house when he has its owner out of it.”
The king his lips, but said nothing.
“Can it be possible?” said D’Artagnan; “here is a man who is positively himself in order to you, and you wish to have him arrested! Mordioux! Sire, if my name was Fouquet, and people me in that manner, I would at a single all of and other things, and I would set fire to them, and send myself and else in blown-up to the sky. But it is all the same; it is your wish, and it shall be done.”
“Go,” said the king; “but have you men enough?”
“Do you I am going to take a whole to help me? Arrest M. Fouquet! why, that is so easy that a very child might do it! It is like a of wormwood; one makes an face, and that is all.”
“If he himself?”
“He! it is not at all likely. Defend himself when such as you are going to makes the man a very martyr! Nay, I am sure that if he has a of left, which I very much doubt, he would be to give it in order to have such a as this. But what that matter? it shall be done at once.”
“Stay,” said the king; “do not make his a public affair.”
“That will be more difficult.”
“Why so?”
“Because nothing is than to go up to M. Fouquet in the of a thousand guests who him, and say, ‘In the king’s name, I you.’ But to go up to him, to turn him one way and then another, to drive him up into one of the of the chess-board, in such a way that he cannot escape; to take him away from his guests, and keep him a for you, without one of them, alas! having anything about it; that, indeed, is a difficulty, the of all, in truth; and I see how it is to be done.”
“You had say it is impossible, and you will have much sooner. Heaven help me, but I to be by people who prevent me doing what I wish.”
“I do not prevent your doing anything. Have you decided?”
“Take of M. Fouquet, until I shall have up my mind by to-morrow morning.”
“That shall be done, sire.”
“And return, when I in the morning, for orders; and now me to myself.”
“You do not want M. Colbert, then?” said the musketeer, his last as he was the room. The king started. With his whole mind on the of revenge, he had the and of the offense.
“No, no one,” he said; “no one here! Leave me.”
D’Artagnan the room. The king closed the door with his own hands, and to walk up and his at a pace, like a in an arena, from his the and the iron darts. At last he to take in the of his feelings.
“Miserable that he is! not only he my finances, but with his ill-gotten he secretaries, friends, generals, artists, and all, and to me of the one to I am most attached. This is the that girl so took his part! Gratitude! and who can tell it was not a feeling—love itself?” He gave himself up for a moment to the reflections. “A satyr!” he thought, with that with which men those more in life, who still think of love. “A man who has opposition or in any one, who his gold and in every direction, and who his staff of in order to take the portraits of his in the of goddesses.” The king with as he continued, “He and that to me! He that is mine. He will be my death at last, I know. That man is too much for me; he is my enemy, but he shall fall! I him—I him—I him!” and as he these words, he the arm of the chair in which he was violently, over and over again, and then rose like one in an fit. “To-morrow! to-morrow! oh, happy day!” he murmured, “when the sun rises, no other shall that king of space but me. That man shall so low that when people look at the my anger shall have wrought, they will be to at last and at least that I am than he.” The king, who was of his any longer, over with a of his a small table close to his bedside, and in the very of anger, almost weeping, and half-suffocated, he himself on his bed, as he was, and the in his of passion, trying to of at least there. The his weight, and with the of a sounds, emerging, or, one might say, exploding, from his chest, soon in the of Morpheus.
