The King’s Gratitude.

The two men were on the point of darting towards each other when they suddenly and abruptly stopped, as a mutual recognition took place, and each uttered a cry of horror.

“Have you come to assassinate me, monsieur?” said the king, when he recognized Fouquet.

“The king in this state!” murmured the minister.

Nothing could be more terrible indeed than the appearance of the young prince at the moment Fouquet had surprised him; his clothes were in tatters; his shirt, open and torn to rags, was stained with sweat and with the blood which streamed from his lacerated breast and arms. Haggard, ghastly pale, his hair in disheveled masses, Louis XIV. presented the most perfect picture of despair, distress, anger and fear combined that could possibly be united in one figure. Fouquet was so touched, so affected and disturbed by it, that he ran towards him with his arms stretched out and his eyes filled with tears. Louis held up the massive piece of wood of which he had made such a furious use.

“Sire,” said Fouquet, in a voice trembling with emotion, “do you not recognize the most faithful of your friends?”

“A friend — you!” repeated Louis, gnashing his teeth in a manner which betrayed his hate and desire for speedy vengeance.

“The most respectful of your servants,” added Fouquet, throwing himself on his knees. The king let the rude weapon fall from his grasp. Fouquet approached him, kissed his knees, and took him in his arms with inconceivable tenderness.

“My king, my child,” he said, “how you must have suffered!”

Louis, recalled to himself by the change of situation, looked at himself, and ashamed of the disordered state of his apparel, ashamed of his conduct, and ashamed of the air of pity and protection that was shown towards him, drew back. Fouquet did not understand this movement; he did not perceive that the king’s feeling of pride would never forgive him for having been a witness of such an exhibition of weakness.

“Come, sire,” he said, “you are free.”

“Free?” repeated the king. “Oh! you set me at liberty, then, after having dared to lift up your hand against me.”

“You do not believe that!” exclaimed Fouquet, indignantly; “you cannot believe me to be guilty of such an act.”

And rapidly, warmly even, he related the whole particulars of the intrigue, the details of which are already known to the reader. While the recital continued, Louis suffered the most horrible anguish of mind; and when it was finished, the magnitude of the danger he had run struck him far more than the importance of the secret relative to his twin brother.

“Monsieur,” he said, suddenly to Fouquet, “this double birth is a falsehood; it is impossible — you cannot have been the dupe of it.”

“Sire!”

“It is impossible, I tell you, that the honor, the virtue of my mother can be suspected, and my first minister has not yet done justice on the criminals!”

“Reflect, sire, before you are hurried away by anger,” replied Fouquet. “The birth of your brother —”

“I have only one brother — and that is Monsieur. You know it as well as myself. There is a plot, I tell you, beginning with the governor of the Bastile.”

“Be careful, sire, for this man has been deceived as every one else has by the prince’s likeness to yourself.”

“Likeness? Absurd!”

“This Marchiali must be singularly like your majesty, to be able to deceive every one’s eye,” Fouquet persisted.

“Ridiculous!”

“Do not say so, sire; those who had prepared everything in order to face and deceive your ministers, your mother, your officers of state, the members of your family, must be quite confident of the resemblance between you.”

“But where are these persons, then?” murmured the king.

“At Vaux.”

“At Vaux! and you suffer them to remain there!”

“My most instant duty appeared to me to be your majesty’s release. I have accomplished that duty; and now, whatever your majesty may command, shall be done. I await your orders.”

Louis reflected for a few moments.

“Muster all the troops in Paris,” he said.

“All the necessary orders are given for that purpose,” replied Fouquet.

“You have given orders!” exclaimed the king.

“For that purpose, yes, sire; your majesty will be at the head of ten thousand men in less than an hour.”

The only reply the king made was to take hold of Fouquet’s hand with such an expression of feeling, that it was very easy to perceive how strongly he had, until that remark, maintained his suspicions of the minister, notwithstanding the latter’s intervention.

“And with these troops,” he said, “we shall go at once and besiege in your house the rebels who by this time will have established and intrenched themselves therein.”

“I should be surprised if that were the case,” replied Fouquet.

“Why?”

“Because their chief — the very soul of the enterprise — having been unmasked by me, the whole plan seems to me to have miscarried.”

“You have unmasked this false prince also?”

“No, I have not seen him.”

“Whom have you seen, then?”

“The leader of the enterprise, not that unhappy young man; the latter is merely an instrument, destined through his whole life to wretchedness, I plainly perceive.”

“Most certainly.”

“It is M. l’Abbe d’Herblay, Eveque de Vannes.”

“Your friend?”

“He was my friend, sire,” replied Fouquet, nobly.

“An unfortunate circumstance for you,” said the king, in a less generous tone of voice.

“Such friendships, sire, had nothing dishonorable in them so long as I was ignorant of the crime.”

“You should have foreseen it.”

“If I am guilty, I place myself in your majesty’s hands.”

“Ah! Monsieur Fouquet, it was not that I meant,” returned the king, sorry to have shown the bitterness of his thought in such a manner. “Well! I assure you that, notwithstanding the mask with which the villain covered his face, I had something like a vague suspicion that he was the very man. But with this chief of the enterprise there was a man of prodigious strength, the one who menaced me with a force almost herculean; what is he?”

“It must be his friend the Baron du Vallon, formerly one of the musketeers.”

“The friend of D’Artagnan? the friend of the Comte de la Fere? Ah!” exclaimed the king, as he paused at the name of the latter, “we must not forget the connection that existed between the conspirators and M. de Bragelonne.”

“Sire, sire, do not go too far. M. de la Fere is the most honorable man in France. Be satisfied with those whom I deliver up to you.”

“With those whom you deliver up to me, you say? Very good, for you will deliver up those who are guilty to me.”

“What does your majesty understand by that?” inquired Fouquet.

“I understand,” replied the king, “that we shall soon arrive at Vaux with a large body of troops, that we will lay violent hands upon that nest of vipers, and that not a soul shall escape.”

“Your majesty will put these men to death!” cried Fouquet.

“To the very meanest of them.”

“Oh! sire.”

“Let us understand one another, Monsieur Fouquet,” said the king, haughtily. “We no longer live in times when assassination was the only and the last resource kings held in reservation at extremity. No, Heaven be praised! I have parliaments who sit and judge in my name, and I have scaffolds on which supreme authority is carried out.”

Fouquet turned pale. “I will take the liberty of observing to your majesty, that any proceedings instituted respecting these matters would bring down the greatest scandal upon the dignity of the throne. The august name of Anne of Austria must never be allowed to pass the lips of the people accompanied by a smile.”

“Justice must be done, however, monsieur.”

“Good, sire; but royal blood must not be shed upon a scaffold.”

“The royal blood! you believe that!” cried the king with fury in his voice, stamping his foot on the ground. “This double birth is an invention; and in that invention, particularly, do I see M. d’Herblay’s crime. It is the crime I wish to punish rather than the violence, or the insult.”

“And punish it with death, sire?”

“With death; yes, monsieur, I have said it.”

“Sire............