The King's Conversation with Nicolas Fouquet

Nicolas Fouquet was the third person the King had received in this room. But unlike the first two gentlemen, Fouquet was still merely a royal inspector, one of those "nobles of the robe" scorned by the "nobles of the sword." He saw nothing shameful in that. The only difference between them was that one served the King with a sword, while the other served him with his mind. Indeed, he thought his own abilities surpassed those brutish men's, though he would never dare say so.

When the King received Fouquet, he was even more casually dressed. He wore only a loose nightshirt beneath a fox-fur robe, whose lavish pelt made the young King appear even slimmer. At the sight of Fouquet, he merely indicated a stool that had been prepared beforehand with his quill. Fouquet bowed, lifted his outer robe, and sat upon it with perfect propriety. The King finished writing the letter in his hand before setting down his pen. "Would you like something to drink?"

"If I may," Fouquet said, "some hot chocolate. The weather is bitterly cold."

"Two cups of chocolate," the King said to Bontemps. "Add some whisky to Monsieur Fouquet's." Bontemps left. Before he returned, the King was about to speak to Fouquet when he saw the man draw a deep breath. At first he did not understand why, but he quickly guessed. Ah—when people realized a heavy burden was about to fall upon them, they always took a deep breath. Fouquet was a shrewd man. He had been in Rethel for a week already; he had seen everything he wished to see, and nothing he wished to know could have escaped his ears. He must have known that the King... was running out of money.

The first time they fled Paris, it had been so hasty that the royal family had not even managed to take much money with them. By the time they reached Saint-Germain-en-Laye, they were hard-pressed even to cover their daily expenses. Thus, when they left Paris for the second time, Louis urged his mother and the Cardinal to make arrangements early. They took every movable possession they could carry, including some sacred vessels. So although famine lay everywhere along the road, the King's circumstances had not been too straitened. But the expenses of a single man—even of a royal family—were utterly incomparable to those of an army. Not to mention that the King had been supporting General Schomberg in gathering refugees and training them to fill out the ranks. Not long ago, Viscount of Turenne had also surrendered to the King with his three thousand soldiers, and the King showed no sign of wishing to disband them.

If the King summoned General Schomberg or Viscount of Turenne, it might have been for political reasons, or military ones. But there was only one reason he had summoned Fouquet: money.

Fouquet's trip to find wheat for the King could fairly be called a losing business. Especially those muskets, cannon, and two three-masted ships converted into warships. Though they had achieved an unexpected effect during the siege of Rethel, the ships, the gunpowder, and the sailors' wages had all come from Fouquet's private purse. For this, he had even pawned his family's old house and sent his mother, wife, and children to live in the countryside. He had staked everything on a single throw. And because of that, if the King required him to continue gathering money for him, could he refuse? No, of course not. Though they had not spent much time together, he had already seen that their young King possessed an extraordinary memory. If he dared wash his hands of this affair now, the King would not only remember him—he might engrave the name Fouquet firmly in his heart as well.

The thought left Fouquet both anxious and troubled. He only hoped the King might either give him more time, more men, or more authority. He had already deceived every merchant accompanying the court whom he could deceive, along with some ignorant fools from the estates. To avoid them, he had not even dared leave the castle these past few days. This money, together with the paulette tax he ought to have paid the King, had all been poured into the bottomless pit of military expenditure—and by the look of things, it would have to keep pouring in.

"Monsieur Fouquet," Louis said affectionately, amused to see him immediately tense up as if prepared to leap up and flee at any moment. "I called you here to reward you," he said. "In view of the work you have done for me, which you completed so perfectly—far beyond my expectations—I am truly delighted."

"It was only my duty," the ambitious gentleman replied. "Your reward would only make me feel ashamed and uneasy, because I have not done nearly as well as Your Majesty says." His words were humble, but when the King's gaze fell upon his hands, he saw that one pale hand was continuously clenching and unclenching. It was a sign of nervous tension. He was not as calm as he claimed; quite the contrary.

"Come here, please," Louis said.

Fouquet immediately rose and approached him. The closer he came, the more apparent the signs of his intense agitation became. His black pupils had visibly contracted, his lips were dry and cracked, and tiny beads of sweat dotted his temples. When he saw the King reach out and open a drawer, he even held his breath.

The King took out a rose and pinned it to Fouquet's collar.

This gentleman, who had always been so self-assured and pleased with himself, froze.

He looked at his collar, then at the King's smiling face, and an aggrieved expression could not help appearing on his own. "God," he complained, "I did not expect a great diamond pin, but is Your Majesty really so stingy that you will not even grant me a sash?" Roses could only be found in hothouses at this time of year, but he was not Miss Mali Mancini or Princess Henrietta. What meaning could such a thing have for him?

"Oh?" Louis said. "You saw those diamond pins too."

"Indeed," Fouquet said. "In such cold weather, the two generals rose at five in the morning and did not retire until midnight, all so that more people could see their diamond pins. They shone like the sun itself—bright enough to blind a man. I think even a blind man could have seen them."

"Of course," Louis said. "Until recently, they had been pinned to my mother's shoulders. Because my mother gave birth to me, my father, King Louis XIII, gave her a set of diamond jewelry. Those were the two most precious pieces in it."

"Good heavens!" Fouquet was genuinely astonished now. "Do the two generals know this?"

"Of course not." The young King made a face fitting for his age. "Just as they do not know that I gave them diamond pins because I had no other reward to offer."

"Has it come to this?" Fouquet asked.

"It has come to this." Louis pulled open the drawer. "Every one of my chests is as empty as the one you see here. Even Saint Francis, who spoke with birds, was never as poor as I am." Then he saw Fouquet lower his head, as though calculating something. "What are you planning?" he asked curiously.

"I am calculating how much money I can still obtain for Your Majesty," Fouquet said sincerely. "At the very least, enough to send you back to Paris."

"I fear that will be difficult."

"It will be difficult, Your Majesty."

"Then let me give you a suggestion."

"I am listening."

"Borrow some money from someone else."

"I was just planning to do so."

"But you would never guess whom you should ask."

"Who?"

"Mazarin."

The choice truly took Nicolas Fouquet by surprise. His heart sank like a stone, for he feared he had been drawn into a struggle between the young King and the Cardinal.

"I have already written a letter," Louis said. "I need a reliable person to take it to Liège, deliver it to the Cardinal, and borrow five hundred thousand livres from him."

"That is an enormous sum."

"Believe me, to the Cardinal, it is merely a drop in the ocean. After all, it is only one-fifth of what he embezzled from the naval budget."

Fouquet felt bitterness on his tongue. Now he no longer needed to worry, for he had truly become a blade in the King's hand.

"What are you hesitating over?" Louis asked. "Do you think the Cardinal will be unhappy because of this?"

"Would he be pleased by it?"

"Why not?" Louis said calmly. "After all, he takes as his guiding principle a saying from his teacher, Cardinal Richelieu: 'My first purpose is to make the King great; my second is to make the kingdom glorious.' I believe you have read those words as well. Very well, take this letter. If he asks you anything, answer truthfully. If he is truly willing to act according to the promises he made me, he will lend you this money."

Fouquet accepted the letter. It was like a red-hot shard of iron, burning all the way into his heart.

"You are taking far too great a risk by doing this." When the Queen Mother learned of the matter, this was what she said to Louis. "Why did you not tell him what we had already agreed upon, so that he could happily carry out this task? If he fears the Cardinal's wrath, destroys the letter and flees, or gives it to some other ill-intentioned person, what then?"

"Then he will never earn my trust again," Louis said.

"But not everyone can withstand such a test," the Queen Mother said.

"But I have a very important matter to entrust to someone reliable and skilled at handling financial affairs," Louis said, kissing his mother's hand. "If Fouquet is not suitable, then I shall find another—where is Mali?"

Queen Mother Anne knew this was the King's signal that he intended to end the conversation. Louis was nearly fourteen, the universally accepted age of adulthood. She had originally intended to hold his ceremony and the following banquet in Rethel. Later, after Viscount of Turenne's surrender, she thought they might wait until they returned to Paris. But now it seemed they might still have to hold the ceremony in Rethel—she had also learned that the King had very little money left. Otherwise, she would not have taken out the gift Louis XIII had given her, even if it was only part of a set, and given it to Louis to reward the two generals. Though she was not sensitive enough in politics and knew nothing at all of military affairs, she still knew that before setting out, they would first need to pay a considerable sum in wages to ensure the soldiers' loyalty.

"Mali is in her room," the Queen Mother said. Though Mali was nominally her maidservant, no one would truly make such a young child wait upon the Queen Mother. Mali was also frequently with the King. People often whispered about it, but so long as the Cardinal, the Queen Mother, and the King said nothing, Mali's status would only become more exalted, not more lowly. One could see it from how her room had moved ever closer to those of the Queen Mother and King, grown ever more lavishly furnished, and received increasingly abundant food and water.

When the King pushed open the door, Mali sprang up from before a crystal ball. In a fluster, she snatched up a piece of black velvet to cover it. Only when she saw that it was the King did she breathe a sigh of relief. "You should knock," she said angrily. "I nearly broke it. Crystal like this is not so easy to obtain now." And it was expensive—so expensive that even a little witch like her would feel the pinch.

Louis turned and closed the door. "It was my fault," he admitted. "Did you find him?"

"I found him," Mali said. She pulled the King down to sit beside her. "Concentrate," she said.

The King did as she said. First, he saw a thick mist. "I cannot see anything."

"Do not speak." Mali's voice seemed to come from far away. "Close your eyes and think of the face of the person you wish to see."

So the King closed his eyes. In his mind, he traced out Nicolas Fouquet's image. He was the same age as General Schomberg, born in 1615, but unlike the general, he looked like a handsome, gentle, amiable man. He wore no beard, and his fingers were long, pale, and delicate. His only flaw was that the hair at his forehead was somewhat thin, so he arranged his fringe as neatly as possible. He always liked to wear a black outer coat, with the translucent collar of his shirt turned out over it. His sleeves were similarly rolled up, forming handsome folds.