“This is a piece of great skill in the art of war that you have exhibited here, monsieur,” said Louis.
“Sire, the initiative did not come from me,” replied Fouquet; “many officers have inspired me with it. The plans themselves have been made by one of the most distinguished engineers.”
“His name?”
“M. du Vallon.”
“M. du Vallon?” resumed Louis; “I do not know him. It is much to be lamented, M. Colbert,” continued he, “that I do not know the names of the men of talent who do honor to my reign.” And while saying these words he turned towards Colbert. The latter felt himself crushed, the sweat flowed from his brow, no word presented itself to his lips, he suffered an inexpressible martyrdom. “You will recollect that name,” added Louis XIV.
Colbert bowed, but was paler than his ruffles of Flemish lace. Fouquet continued:
“The masonries are of Roman concrete; the architects amalgamated it for me after the best accounts of antiquity.”
“And the cannon?” asked Louis.
“Oh! sire, that concerns your majesty; it did not become me to place cannon in my own house, unless your majesty had told me it was yours.”
Louis began to float, undetermined between the hatred which this so powerful man inspired him with, and the pity he felt for the other, so cast down, who seemed to him the counterfeit of the former. But the consciousness of his kingly duty prevailed over the feelings of the man, and he stretched out his finger to the paper.