The Man in the Iron Mask by Alexandre Dumas (read 50 shades of grey .txt) 📗

he supposed was a loving and tender epistle La Valliere had destined for him. But as he read it, a death-like pallor stole over his face, and an expression of deep-seated wrath, illumined by the many-colored fire which gleamed so brightly, soaringly around the scene, produced a terrible spectacle, which every one would have shuddered at, could they only have read into his heart, now torn by the most stormy and most bitter passions. There was no truce for him now, influenced as he was by jealousy and mad passion. From the very moment when the dark truth was revealed to him, every gentler feeling seemed to disappear; pity, kindness of consideration, the religion of hospitality, all were forgotten. In the bitter pang which wrung his heart, he, still too weak to hide his sufferings, was almost on the point of uttering a cry of alarm, and calling his guards to gather round him. This letter which Colbert had thrown down at the king’s feet, the reader has doubtlessly guessed, was the same that had disappeared with the porter Toby at Fontainebleau, after the attempt which Fouquet had made upon La Valliere’s heart. Fouquet saw the king’s pallor, and was far from guessing the evil; Colbert saw the king’s anger, and rejoiced inwardly at the approach of the storm. Fouquet’s voice drew the young prince from his wrathful reverie.

“What is the matter, sire?” inquired the superintendent, with an expression of graceful interest.

Louis made a violent effort over himself, as he replied, “Nothing.”

“I am afraid your majesty is suffering?”

“I am suffering, and have already told you so, monsieur; but it is nothing.”

And the king, without waiting for the termination of the fireworks, turned towards the chateau. Fouquet accompanied him, and the whole court followed, leaving the remains of the fireworks consuming for their own amusement. The superintendent endeavored again to question Louis XIV., but did not succeed in obtaining a reply. He imagined there had been some misunderstanding between Louis and La Valliere in the park, which had resulted in a slight quarrel; and that the king, who was not ordinarily sulky by disposition, but completely absorbed by his passion for La Valliere, had taken a dislike to every one because his mistress had shown herself offended with him. This idea was sufficient to console him; he had even a friendly and kindly smile for the young king, when the latter wished him good night. This, however, was not all the king had to submit to; he was obliged to undergo the usual ceremony, which on that evening was marked by close adherence to the strictest etiquette. The next day was the one fixed for the departure; it was but proper that the guests should thank their host, and show him a little attention in return for the expenditure of his twelve millions. The only remark, approaching to amiability, which the king could find to say to M. Fouquet, as he took leave of him, were in these words, “M. Fouquet, you shall hear from me. Be good enough to desire M. d’Artagnan to come here.”

But the blood of Louis XIV., who had so profoundly dissimulated his feelings, boiled in his veins; and he was perfectly willing to order M. Fouquet to be put an end to with the same readiness, indeed, as his predecessor had caused the assassination of le Marechal d’Ancre; and so he disguised the terrible resolution he had formed beneath one of those royal smiles which, like lightning-flashes, indicated coups d’etat. Fouquet took the king’s hand and kissed it; Louis shuddered throughout his whole frame, but allowed M. Fouquet to touch his hand with his lips. Five minutes afterwards, D’Artagnan, to whom the royal order had been communicated, entered Louis XIV.‘s apartment. Aramis and Philippe were in theirs, still eagerly attentive, and still listening with all their ears. The king did not even give the captain of the musketeers time to approach his armchair, but ran forward to meet him. “Take care,” he exclaimed, “that no one enters here.”

“Very good, sire,” replied the captain, whose glance had for a long time past analyzed the stormy indications on the royal countenance. He gave the necessary order at the door; but, returning to the king, he said, “Is there something fresh the matter, your majesty?”

“How many men have you here?” inquired the king, without making any other reply to the question addressed to him.

“What for, sire?”

“How many men have you, I say?” repeated the king, stamping upon the ground with his foot.

“I have the musketeers.”

“Well; and what others?”

“Twenty guards and thirteen Swiss.”

“How many men will be required to—”

“To do what, sire?” replied the musketeer, opening his large, calm eyes.

“To arrest M. Fouquet.”

D’Artagnan fell back a step.

“To arrest M. Fouquet!” he burst forth.

“Are you going to tell me that it is impossible?” exclaimed the king, in tones of cold, vindictive passion.

“I never say that anything is impossible,” replied D’Artagnan, wounded to the quick.

“Very well; do it, then.”

D’Artagnan turned on his heel, and made his way towards the door; it was but a short distance, and he cleared it in half a dozen paces; when he reached it he suddenly paused, and said, “Your majesty will forgive me, but, in order to effect this arrest, I should like written directions.”

“For what purpose—and since when has the king’s word been insufficient for you?”

“Because the word of a king, when it springs from a feeling of anger, may possibly change when the feeling changes.”

“A truce to set phrases, monsieur; you have another thought besides that?”

“Oh, I, at least, have certain thoughts and ideas, which, unfortunately, others have not,” D’Artagnan replied, impertinently.

The king, in the tempest of his wrath, hesitated, and drew back in the face of D’Artagnan’s frank courage, just as a horse crouches on his haunches under the strong hand of a bold and experienced rider. “What is your thought?” he exclaimed.

“This, sire,” replied D’Artagnan: “you cause a man to be arrested when you are still under his roof; and passion is alone the cause of that. When your anger shall have passed, you will regret what you have done; and then I wish to be in a position to show you your signature. If that, however, should fail to be a reparation, it will at least show us that the king was wrong to lose his temper.”

“Wrong to lose his temper!” cried the king, in a loud, passionate voice. “Did not my father, my grandfathers, too, before me, lose their temper at times, in Heaven’s name?”

“The king your father and the king your grandfather never lost their temper except when under the protection of their own palace.”

“The king is master wherever he may be.”

“That is a flattering, complimentary phrase which cannot proceed from any one but M. Colbert; but it happens not to be the truth. The king is at home in