The Conversation Between the Cardinal and Monsieur D'Artagnan

"Very well," Mali said. "Now you may open your eyes and look at the crystal ball."

The king opened his eyes as instructed. When he looked into the crystal ball, he initially saw nothing but dense white fog, but after a few seconds, it gradually dispersed. The first thing he saw was a patch of black and white rising and falling. Before he could think of anything improper, the view suddenly shifted, and he realized that what he had been seeing was one of Fouquet's sleeves. The hand extending from it pinched off a piece of bread and tossed it onto what seemed to be a windowsill. Then the "view" began to sway rapidly again, bobbing up and down so violently that it made the king dizzy. He turned to Mali, but before he could say anything, she snarled, "What are you looking at me for? Look at the crystal ball!"

The king choked back his words and could only obediently comply. Fortunately, the "view" had stopped swaying by then. It had drawn far away, yet it remained fixed on Fouquet. The gentleman no longer wore that pitiful, trembling look. He gazed into the distance with a grave expression, the letter the king had given him in his hand. That letter might well have sent him to his death, but it might also become the first step on a road paved with splendor—it all depended on his choice. Louis's gaze lingered on him for a moment before shifting away, searching for people who seemed to be speaking or dealing with him. Then, as the "view" moved, he saw the inside of the inn. Unfortunately, this inn was like every other lodging house: uniformly filthy and shabby, with nothing remarkable about it.

"But at least it proves that he is on the road," the king said softly. Fortunately, it was morning. Monsieur Fouquet had finished his meal—that is, the piece of bread—and set out. Golden sunlight fell on his face rather than his back, which meant he was traveling east. Liège lay on the border between Belgium and the French Ardennes, which meant it was east of Rethel. Paris, Orléans, and Bordeaux all lay to the west—Monsieur Fouquet was not going to their enemies.

"Your... this," the king said, unable to find the right description, "how far can it see?"

"That depends on how long the rose's scent can remain on him," Mali said. "My white-beaked crow tracks its target by scent. Once the scent fades, it will lose him."

"That is excellent," the king said. "It seems we can watch him reach Liège."

"How did I not know that the rose's scent could last that long?" Mali muttered strangely.

The king smiled. "Because Monsieur Fouquet will certainly keep it. If he successfully completes the task I entrusted to him, he will show it to me when he returns."

"How do you know?"

"Because if it were me, that is what I would do." Anyone, even a king, would be delighted to see that even the smallest favor had been remembered.

"Men!" Mali said with a sigh.

Monsieur Fouquet did not know that magic was watching him. Though he did not travel day and night—he knew perfectly well that he could not manage it, and falling ill in an inn would only waste more time—he still covered thirty leagues a day. On the evening of the third day, he reached Cardinal Mazarin's place of seclusion. Cardinal Mazarin had cautiously chosen a monastery that resembled a fortress. Such monasteries were not uncommon in Europe. After all, armies loved to plunder castles and monasteries above all else; sometimes monasteries even ranked first, because apart from jewels, relics, and books, most monasteries possessed great stores of food and their own brewed liquor.

When Monsieur Fouquet requested an audience with the cardinal, His Eminence had been invited by the abbot to judge the quality of the "holy water." Of course, this was not spring water with salt added, but beer. This golden liquor with its abundant foam had been brewed by monks as early as the eleventh century, though it had never been made public. It was said that someone was advising the Holy Father in Rome to permit monks to brew their own beer and drink it on fasting days to replenish their lacking nourishment. But the Holy Father was always occupied from dawn to dusk and had no time to attend to such matters for the moment. Besides, even when fasting, the clergy in Rome would not go hungry. People said that a Roman cleric counted for three—not because of his attainments in theology, but because of his immensely corpulent body.

Cardinal Mazarin had no opinion on this. He was equally uninterested in whether monks could drink beer on fasting days. Though he had declared his retirement, his heart remained at the king's side, and his eyes had never ceased watching every movement in Paris, Orléans, and Bordeaux. The moment he heard that someone had come from Rethel, he immediately set down his cup, while the abbot sensibly withdrew first.

Upon seeing the cardinal, Fouquet knelt and kissed his ring, and the cardinal permitted it. He had a clear impression of Fouquet and knew that he stood with the king and himself. Yet he did not immediately listen to the information Fouquet had brought. Instead, he told him to rise and accompany him on a walk through the courtyard. A monastery courtyard differed from those of ordinary people's residences: there were almost no tall trees where eavesdroppers could conceal themselves, and it was difficult to overhear their words. Fouquet readily obeyed. After all, if they remained in the courtyard, then should the cardinal's fury erupt, he could still flee. Inside a room... he would wager that guards occupied both rooms beside the cardinal's.

To Monsieur Fouquet's surprise, the cardinal did not fly into a rage after reading the letter. He lowered his head and thought for a while. "Then so it shall be," he said, seeming not to understand why this young man looked so gloomy in the face of such good fortune.

"What?"

"What, did His Majesty not tell you?" Cardinal Mazarin said kindly. "You know that because of what happened in Saint-Germain-en-Laye, I removed the Superintendent of Finances, Particelli d'Émery, from office and sent him back to his Siena to continue being a farmer. But the king and I need a trustworthy person to manage the finances for us. You understand, Monsieur Fouquet, money is needed everywhere now. I wrote to the king and asked him to recommend someone."

He glanced at Fouquet. "He recommended you, Monsieur Fouquet. From this day onward, you are the Superintendent of Finances. You will manage the royal treasury for the king... Why do you look so pale? Are you unwell?"

"My apologies..." Only Fouquet himself knew that water had pooled inside his boots and soaked through his underclothes. To say that he had not entertained other thoughts would have been a lie, but he possessed a gambler's nature, so he had come all the same. He had won his wager, yet he still could not withstand a wave of dizziness. He knew this was the king's test. Whether he chose betrayal, tried to flee, or made some mistake along the road through insufficient caution, only utter ruin awaited him.

"Oh, yes." As though he had not noticed anything unusual about him, the cardinal said leisurely, "His Majesty and I had previously agreed that I would first hand you bills of exchange worth five hundred thousand livres, for you to control and manage. For the sake of safety, I will have my guards escort you back to Rethel." He called toward a clump of withered eggplant vines, "Send Charles de Batz de Castelmore to me." Someone immediately answered loudly and ran swiftly back into the monastery. "He is a Gascon, but he has a good mother. We all call her Madame Françoise de D'Artagnan de Montesquiou, so sometimes we call him Count D'Artagnan, or simply D'Artagnan. You may address him as you please; he is not overly bound by ceremony."

In the brief time it took the cardinal to say those words, Monsieur D'Artagnan had already run swiftly to stand before Fouquet. He was a fine young man with a red face—perhaps only because he had run too quickly—tall in stature, with a pair of bright brown eyes. The moment he saw the cardinal, he saluted him and kissed his ring. Only then did he loudly ask whether the cardinal had summoned him because some important task needed doing. He would do anything he could, so long as the cardinal commanded it.

The cardinal then told him of the matter, ordering him to bring men he considered trustworthy and escort Monsieur Fouquet and a vast sum of money to the old city of Rethel, where they would hand them over to His Majesty the king.

"Ah, but I must always come back," D'Artagnan said.

"Do not come back," the cardinal said. "I mean to send you to the king's side. What use is there in remaining beside me, beside a cleric? Better to fight for the king. His Majesty is a generous and just man. At his side, you will be put to good use. That is what a talented young man ought to do."

"And besides," the cardinal added, "your cousin, Pierre de Montesquiou, is also among the king's musketeers. Do you not wish to fight shoulder to shoulder with him? I believe he misses you greatly. Go to his side, win some merit, and return the title he lent you."

At this, D'Artagnan agreed as well. When he enlisted, he had used the count's title lent to him by his cousin Pierre, which was how he had so swiftly caught the eye of the cardinal and Marshal Gramont and received their recommendation. Thus, the matter had always weighed on his mind. "More than that," he said, "I still owe him seven hundred Gold louis."

"Then you should go all the more," the cardinal said. "There will be many battles to fight afterward. You must earn rewards from the king."

Upon hearing this, D'Artagnan immediately bowed and accepted the order, thanking the cardinal profusely. After returning, he selected three companions from among his friends—they too were willing to serve the king. They set out in haste the next day and returned to Rethel on the seventh day after Monsieur Fouquet's departure. The instant Fouquet saw the king, he threw himself at his feet and thanked him for his trust.

"Then I may trust you, I suppose?" Louis asked.

"Without a doubt!" Fouquet said. "Even if you commanded me to dance with the devil, I would go—and ask whether you wished to see a Branle or a Minuet."

"I do not ask you to dance with the devil," Louis said, "but the people you will deal with are probably little different from devils. You must be cautious and careful if you wish to keep your life safe."

"So long as it is your command."

The king nodded to Bontemps, who left the room, leaving only Fouquet and the king within.

"I want you to go elsewhere and do something for me," Louis said. "First, I will give you one hundred thousand livres. Find a reliable printer and have him print some exquisite little slips of paper. Each slip must bear twelve numbers arranged in sequence. The printing plates must be incomparably precise and difficult to counterfeit; once the printing is complete, they must be destroyed. Then place advertisements in the newspapers, telling people that these slips will be sold for one small écu each. Once all the slips have been sold, you will set up a large rotating barrel in the square. Put small numbered balls inside it, and leave a small opening in the barrel, wide enough for only one ball to fall through. You may have a person renowned for fairness and integrity, or an ignorant child, turn the barrel. Once twelve balls have been drawn and arranged in order, determine the amount of the prize according to how many numbers match."

Nicolas Fouquet had always been a shrewd man, and he possessed an unparalleled love and talent for amassing wealth. The moment Louis explained it, he understood at once. He clenched his fists in excitement, wishing he could begin immediately! This would be faster and simpler than the moneylending scheme he had previously imagined for rolling wealth into greater wealth!

"And more dangerous," Louis said.