The King Continued His Conversation with Fouquet, and the Two D'Artagnans

The King's words immediately calmed Nicolas Fouquet.

"Delicious fruit is always guarded by fierce venomous serpents," Fouquet said. "Only the brave can obtain it."

"And if I want you to go farther afield?" Louis asked.

"As you command?"

"Not in Paris."

"Not in Paris." Fouquet bowed to the King, fully understanding his meaning. Apart from the fact that Paris was, after all, the capital of France and the King's domain, it was already turbulent enough to explode at the slightest spark. The King did not want him issuing lottery tickets there, both for Paris's sake and for his own safety. He engraved this in his heart. "Orléans, then? Bordeaux?"

"Neither," Louis said. "The people there will surely be on their guard against outsiders a hundred and twenty thousand times over. I want you to go to Bourges, to Lyon, to Provence—to those places which have not openly raised the banner of rebellion, yet have always been watching and playing at intrigue. Do not go as an official of the King, but as a merchant consumed by greed. Wherever you go, first visit the local lord. Offer him gifts and sincerity, promise him dividends and tax revenues. You may judge the proper extent of these things yourself."

Hearing this, Fouquet instinctively straightened. He knew very well that since the King had said the extent was for him to decide, it meant that, apart from the post of Superintendent of Finances, he would also receive a share of the profits drawn from these lotteries. It depended only on how he balanced the interests of the King, the lords, and himself. At the thought of the immense wealth that might be gathered, he could not help trembling again.

"Then how large do you believe the prize should be?" he asked.

Lotteries had in fact existed since ancient Rome and continued down to the present day, but before Louis, few had used them for profit. More often, they were used to win support from the common people, like bread and the arena. Thus, rather than a lottery, it was another, more entertaining kind of reward. But now Louis intended to turn it into a lasting business, and like all businesses, it required detailed calculations of expenditure and return.

"I shall leave that matter to you," Louis said. Otherwise, why had he recommended Fouquet to Mazarin in his letter? "But I have one requirement. Small prizes should be widely distributed, yet there must be one grand prize... perhaps... ten thousand livres."

"Good heavens!" Fouquet cried. "That is far too much."

It was indeed a great deal. Even General Schomberg had only been promised fifty thousand livres by Louis, and that could only be redeemed upon reaching Paris.

"But if it is less than that," Louis said coldly, "people will not go mad for it."

Fouquet drew a deep breath—he could almost see how many people would lose everything over it... No one could withstand such temptation. Compared to gambling games where one could win only two or three deniers, a few écus, or at most a single Gold louis, one could suddenly obtain... Fouquet had heard before that when Richelieu was appointed cardinal, he received an annual pension of five thousand livres, and that Louis XIII had then given him ten thousand livres. In other words, a commoner who could produce only one small écu, if the goddess of fortune chose to smile upon him, could live comfortably as a cardinal for two years, or as the King's best friend for one year.

Not to mention others—even Fouquet felt the impulse to take out all his money and buy every lottery ticket he could lay his hands on.

"The drawing must be public, where everyone can see it. Whoever wins the grand prize, you must stack the Gold louis in a chest and hand it to him in neat order, with the lid open."

Fouquet imagined the scene and found his mouth dry.

"And," Louis hesitated for a moment, "you decide this yourself."

"Please speak... Your Majesty."

"Whether to limit the number of tickets each person may purchase, and... to give a certain degree of protection to whoever wins the grand prize."

Fouquet lowered his head and thought for a while before understanding. Limiting ticket purchases would clearly not benefit them, but neither would it produce excessively terrible consequences. Even if someone bought tickets from others at great cost, it would be difficult to supervise. Yet when faced with criticism from men of virtue, such a rule would clearly soothe public sentiment, allowing him to stand in a more favorable position. As for whether to protect the grand-prize winner, that was certain. Fouquet had even begun making preparations—or rather, perhaps he would deliberately arrange for a poor man to win the grand prize. That would spread faster and farther. After all, in people's minds, the great and noble were often accompanied by good fortune. If a nobleman received an unexpected windfall, he would not care much, and others would mention it only occasionally and carelessly. But if someone born lowly leapt, merely by staking a tiny écu, into a class he had once been able only to gaze up at, that was the kind of tale people would never tire of discussing.

If so, then to keep the tale spreading without end, the first grand-prize winner not only could not meet with misfortune, Fouquet would also have to find a way to help him escape the exactions of lords and judges, the plundering of bandits and officers, and allow him to become, happily and smoothly, a country gentleman, a clergyman, or any other position worthy of respect and envy.

"I shall consider it carefully, Your Majesty," Fouquet said.

"Very good," Louis said. "Then submit a work plan tomorrow."

"What?"

"An analysis of the situation; tasks and requirements; methods, steps, and measures; possible problems and means of resolving them; concluding work and preparations for the next stage, and so on..." the young King said lightly and gently, entirely ignoring Fouquet's stunned expression. Fouquet had never written anything of the sort before. Love letters filled with honeyed words or torrents of flattery would have been no trouble at all—but if the man standing before him had merely been some ignorant fool, perhaps he could have relaxed. Yet this was Fouquet, a robed nobleman proud of his shrewdness and keen perception. From those few key phrases alone, he knew it might be difficult to fob off his new master as he had those fools... He had been as delighted and excited as a lark when he heard that the King wanted him to oversee the lottery's issuance; now he was just as frightened and shrinking. Like a dog that saw a steak, he drooled with desire, yet hesitated because of the whip hanging above it.

The King was in no hurry at all. He knew that any clever man would understand that once he submitted this document, he would be putting a bridle upon himself—and what was more hateful, it would be a bridle forged by his own hands. But could he refuse?

Fouquet could not refuse. "Please give me a little more time," he said softly, stripped of his earlier spirit. "Your Majesty, give me three days—no, five days... In five days, I shall give you what you want."

Louis also knew that he could not finish such a document in one night. It was merely a small intimidation, for Fouquet was entirely unlike Schomberg or the Viscount of Turenne.

Bontemps watched Monsieur Fouquet emerge with his head hanging low, then pushed open the door and entered. The King glanced at the sky. "Send up lunch for three."

"You mean to dine with those two gentlemen?"

"The two Counts D'Artagnan," Louis said. "They are both my musketeers now: Monsieur Pierre de Montesquiou and Monsieur Charles de Batz de Castelmore."

Bontemps obeyed and left. Soon, there came a respectful knock upon the King's door, and two spirited young men appeared before him. "Ah," said the King as soon as he saw that somewhat familiar face, "no wonder I detected a little Welsh accent in your speech. You both come from Gascony." Gascony was a region in southwestern France. It had once belonged to King Edward I of England, then been seized by Philip IV the Fair, King of France. Later, because Philip IV was occupied with his struggle against the Church of Rome, he negotiated with Edward I and returned Gascony to England. But during the Hundred Years' War that followed, France and England fought over Gascony again and again. Although France ultimately gained Gascony, some foreigners remained there, among them Welshmen. Everyone knew the Welsh were the most unruly sort, and so people gradually came to believe that the Gascons were an untrustworthy lot as well. But if Louis had his say, what he needed now were precisely those people most eager to change their circumstances, like Nicolas Fouquet and these two cousins.

When Pierre realized that the King had spoken to him first, he could not help becoming excited. Compared to his cousin, Pierre de Montesquiou had an ordinary face and was not good with words. Though he made every effort with his appearance, he still could not be as popular as his cousin Charles among friends and ladies. But he loved this cousin dearly, even though the latter was always fond of boasting and blowing his own trumpet. Otherwise, he would not have lent him his title of count.

Charles de Batz de Castelmore knew this well and was deeply grateful. After all, relying on the name Castelmore alone, who knew when he might catch the attention of the great? This young gentleman never cared about so-called virtue. To him, whether it was accepting the generous support of ladies—almost all of which they took from their husbands' coffers—or climbing to high position through flattery, bragging, or a borrowed title, it was all something to be proud of.

Had someone else been standing beside him, and had the King spoken to that person first, Charles would certainly have been angry. Perhaps after leaving, he would have challenged the man to a duel, proving in blood which of them better deserved the King's trust. But since the man was his cousin, he was perfectly willing to be happy for him.

"I have heard that one of you is Count D'Artagnan," the King said. "The other has temporarily borrowed that title."

"Yes," Pierre said. "I am Count D'Artagnan, but I have lent the title to my cousin."

"Then which of you should I call D'Artagnan?"

"Please call my cousin D'Artagnan," Pierre said sincerely. "As for myself, my companions and friends call me Pierre, and I have grown accustomed to it. Your Majesty calls me so as well, so please use the name D'Artagnan for my cousin."

"Then," said the King, "Pierre, D'Artagnan, my two dear gentlemen, please come sit at the table and have lunch with me."

The two musketeers immediately bowed to the King, showing that they were happy to obey. As soon as they sat down, lavish dishes arrived in an unbroken stream. The King was at the age when he was growing, and the two musketeers were also at the age when hunger came most easily. At first they might have been somewhat restrained, but soon they began to wolf down their food. This also had much to do with the King's dishes, which spared neither spices, salt, nor butter, and tasted incomparably delicious.