Colbert hung down his head, for he felt that the king had abandoned him. However, as he bent his head, he murmured, “Mademoiselle, I have only one word to say.”
“Do not say it, then, monsieur; for I would not listen to it. Besides, what could you have to tell me? That M. Fouquet has been guilty of certain crimes? I believe he has, because the king has said so; and, from the moment the king said, ‘I think so,’ I have no occasion for other lips to say, ‘I affirm it.’ But, were M. Fouquet the vilest of men, I should say aloud, ‘M. Fouquet’s person is sacred to the king because he is the guest of M. Fouquet. Were his house a den of thieves, were Vaux a cave of coiners or robbers, his home is sacred, his palace is inviolable, since his wife is living in it; and that is an asylum which even executioners would not dare to violate.’”
La Valliere paused, and was silent. In spite of himself the king could not but admire her; he was overpowered by the passionate energy of her voice; by the nobleness of the cause she advocated. Colbert yielded, overcome by the inequality of the struggle. At last the king breathed again more freely, shook his head, and held out his hand to La Valliere. “Mademoiselle,” he said, gently, “why do you decide against me? Do you know what this wretched fellow will do, if I give him time to breathe again?”
“Is he not a prey which will always be within your grasp?”
“Should he escape, and take to flight?” exclaimed Colbert.
“Well, monsieur, it will always remain on record, to the king’s eternal honor, that he allowed M. Fouquet to flee; and the more guilty he may have been, the greater will the king’s honor and glory appear, compared with such unnecessary misery and shame.”
Louis kissed La Valliere’s hand, as he knelt before her.
“I am lost,” thought Colbert; then suddenly his face brightened up again. “Oh! no, no, aha, old fox!—not yet,” he said to himself.
And while the king, protected from observation by the thick covert of an enormous lime, pressed La Valliere to his breast, with all the ardor of ineffable affection, Colbert tranquilly fumbled among the papers in his pocket-book and drew out of it a paper folded in the form of a letter, somewhat yellow, perhaps, but one that must have been most precious, since the intendant smiled as he looked at it; he then bent a look, full of hatred, upon the charming group which the young girl and the king formed together—a group revealed but for a moment, as the light of the approaching torches shone upon it. Louis noticed the light reflected upon La Valliere’s white dress. “Leave me, Louise,” he said, “for some one is coming.”
“Mademoiselle, mademoiselle, some one is coming,” cried Colbert, to expedite the young girl’s departure.