“No, sire.”
“Whose then?”
“Your majesty’s.”
Colbert was seized with as much terror as if a gulf had opened beneath his feet. Louis started with admiration, either at the genius or the devotion of Fouquet.
“Explain yourself, monsieur,” said he.
“Nothing more easy, sire; Belle-Isle is one of my estates; I have fortified it at my own expense. But as nothing in the world can oppose a subject making an humble present to his king, I offer your majesty the proprietorship of the estate, of which you will leave me the usufruct. Belle-Isle, as a place of war, ought to be occupied by the king. Your majesty will be able, henceforth, to keep a safe garrison there.”
Colbert felt almost sinking down upon the floor. To keep himself from falling, he was obliged to hold by the columns of the wainscoting.
“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 others have inspired me with it. The plans themselves have been made by one of the most distinguished engineers.”
“His name?”