PERFECT FRIENDSHIP.
Seneca has observed, and justly, that a great man struggling with adversity, and bearing its attacks with fortitude, is a sight worthy of the gods. But a sight, as interesting, if not more so, is that of a virtuous mind, oppressed by calumny, with the ability to elude its shafts, yet cheerfully opposing itself to their force, for some secret but worthy purpose.
Fouquet, intendant of the finances to Lewis the Fourteenth, after living in the greatest splendor, enjoying the unlimited favour and confidence of his master, and seeing his levees crowded by the first nobles in the land, fell into disgrace, and was sent to the Bastile. He experienced the common fate of all favourites in disgrace; forsaken by his friends, and persecuted by his foes, the courtiers in general viewed his ruin with pleasure, and charitably resolved to complete his destruction. The envious and the disappointed had found means to prejudice his sovereign against him, and his displeasure was the signal of hatred and persecution to the fawning crew that surrounded his throne. Adulation is coeval with monarchy; and no king probably ever deserved implicit obedience from his subjects more than Lewis the Fourteenth[*], on whom nature had conferred every quality that could excite awe, or command respect; the majesty of his person seemed one of his first claims to sovereignty. It has been remarked, that but very few of those who were so unfortunate to incur the displeasure of this prince, could survive the loss of his favour[†]. Fouquet is one of the few. He was well aware, however, of the extreme danger to which he was exposed; and among an infinity of motives for serious apprehension, the intendant regarded the examination of his papers as one of the most certain causes of his ruin. This consideration greatly encreased the anxiety occasioned by his confinement; if he could but have destroyed those unfortunate papers previous to his detention, he should not have so much dreaded the machinations of his enemies, however ingeniously formed, or inveterately pursued.
In the midst of these alarms for his situation, he received the dreadful news that Pélisson, his secretary, and his friend, had openly declared himself his accuser, and was soon to be confronted with him. Shocked at the intelligence, his courage forsook him, and he gave way to despair.
This action of Pélisson’s soon made a noise in the world, and excited the most lively sensations of resentment in the minds of the public, who so seldom interest themselves in the fate of the unfortunate. Every body exclaimed that he was the most base and most criminal of mankind! Loaded with the benefactions of his master, honoured with his particular confidence,—his friend, in short—he stands forward in the infamous light of a public informer, and is about to stab him to the heart.
Pélisson, could not be ignorant of these reports to his prejudice, which encreased every day; at length they attained to such a height, that some worthy members of society took the resolution publicly to reproach him with the baseness of his conduct, wherever they met him. The secretary, though now an object of contempt, preserved his tranquility, and appeared wholly indifferent to every thing that was said to him. The few friends who still remained true to the interests of the unfortunate minister, went to Pélisson’s house, and by alternate threats, entreaties, and supplications, endeavoured to deter him from his purpose, but in vain; he remained firm, and persisted in his resolution of speaking the truth, and of accusing Fouquet to his face. It must be observed that the prisoner, during this time, was invisible to every one but his judges, who were his greatest enemies, and many of whom, in violation of every principle of justice, had openly declared their intention of finding him guilty.
At length the day arrived on which Pélisson was to prefer his accusation, and incur the atrocious sin of ingratitude. The doors of the Bastile are opened to him: he is confronted with his master, who exclaims, “Ah Pélisson, is it you? Are you my enemy, too?—Alas! I mistook you for my friend!”—The secretary, far from being disconcerted at this exclamation, began to fulfil the task he had undertaken, with all the impudence of the most hardened calumniator; he taxed Fouquet with crimes which were totally destitute of foundation, and which he hastened to contradict, with the manly firmness of conscious innocence. “That is not true,” said he, interrupting Pélisson, “you are an impostor, a detestable lyar! Can you advance falsehoods thus gross, and not blush with shame?”—“Oh,” replied Pélisson, whose countenance betrayed the most violent indignation, “you would not dare to contradict me, with so much assurance, if you did not know that your papers were burnt.”
These last words flashed conviction on the mind of Fouquet, who immediately perceived the wonderful address of Pélisson, and the generosity of his soul. He perceived that his secretary, firm and unshaken in his friendship, had burned his papers, and had conceived the design—the only one that could be possibly adopted—of becoming the accuser, in order to gain admittance to his inaccessible prison, that he might make him acquainted with the important service he had rendered him. The intendant, ashamed of his unjust suspicions, and anxious to make amends for them, cast a look on Pélisson, which gave him to understand that he had perfectly understood him, and was penetrated with the most lively sensations of gratitude for his conduct.
The secretary, feeling the complete satisfaction at the success of his project, still continued to expose himself to the scorn and indignation of the public. Considered as the basest of mankind, he experienced every species of insult; while conscious integrity insured to him that serenity of soul, which was regarded as the hardened effrontery of a mind wholly callous to shame.