“It is there, sire; but this confiscation, whilst threatening M. Fouquet, has not touched him.”
“You conclude, then, M. Colbert——”
“That if M. Fouquet has raised against your majesty a troop of factious rioters to extricate his friends from punishment, he will raise an army when he has in turn to extricate himself from punishment.”
The king darted at his confidant one of those looks which resemble the livid fire of a flash of lightning, one of those looks which illuminate the darkness of the basest consciences. “I am astonished,” said he, “that, thinking such things of M. Fouquet, you did not come to give me your counsels thereupon.”
“Counsels upon what, sire?”
“Tell me, in the first place, clearly and precisely, what you think, M. Colbert.”
“Upon what subject, sire?”
“Upon the conduct of M. Fouquet.”
“I think, sire, that M. Fouquet, not satisfied with attracting all the money to himself, as M. Mazarin did, and by that means depriving your majesty of one part of your power, still wishes to attract to himself all the friends of easy life and pleasure—of what idlers call poetry, and politicians, corruption. I, think that, by holding the subjects of your majesty in pay, he trespasses upon the royal prerogative, and cannot, if this continues so, be long in placing your majesty among the weak and the obscure.”
“How would you qualify all these projects, M. Colbert?”