“A month since, sire, your majesty has truly said; but it is more than six months since the fortifications of Belle-Isle were begun.”

“Then they have become useless.”

“Sire, fortifications are never useless.  I fortified Belle-Isle against MM.  Monk and Lambert and all those London citizens who were playing at soldiers.  Belle-Isle will be ready fortified against the Dutch, against whom either England or your majesty cannot fail to make war.”

The king was again silent, and looked askant at Colbert.  “Belle-Isle, I believe,” added Louis, “is yours, M. Fouquet?”

“No, sire.”

“Whose then?”

“Your majesty’s.”

Colbert was seized with as much terror as if a gulf had opened beneath his feet.  Louis started with admiration, either at the genius or the devotion of Fouquet.

“Explain yourself, monsieur,” said he.

“Nothing more easy, sire; Belle-Isle is one of my estates; I have fortified it at my own expense.  But as nothing in the world can oppose a subject making an humble present to his king, I offer your majesty the proprietorship of the estate, of which you will leave me the usufruct.  Belle-Isle, as a place of war, ought to be occupied by the king.  Your majesty will be able, henceforth, to keep a safe garrison there.”

Colbert felt almost sinking down upon the floor.  To keep himself from falling, he was obliged to hold by the columns of the wainscoting.

“This is a piece of great skill in the art of war that you have exhibited here, monsieur,” said Louis.

“Sire, the initiative did not come from me,” replied Fouquet; “many officers have inspired me with it.  The plans themselves have been made by one of the most distinguished engineers.”

“His name?”

“M. du Vallon.”

“M. du Vallon?” resumed Louis; “I do not know him.  It is much to be lamented, M. Colbert,” continued he, “that I do not know the names of the men of talent who do honor to my reign.”  And while saying these words he turned towards Colbert.  The latter felt himself crushed, the sweat flowed from his brow, no word presented itself to his lips, he suffered an inexpressible martyrdom.  “You will recollect that name,” added Louis XIV.

Colbert bowed, but was paler than his ruffles of Flemish lace.  Fouquet continued: 

“The masonries are of Roman concrete; the architects amalgamated it for me after the best accounts of antiquity.”

“And the cannon?” asked Louis.

“Oh! sire, that concerns your majesty; it did not become me to place cannon in my own house, unless your majesty had told me it was yours.”

Louis began to float, undetermined between the hatred which this so powerful man inspired him with, and the pity he felt for the other, so cast down, who seemed to him the counterfeit of the former.  But the consciousness of his kingly duty prevailed over the feelings of the man, and he stretched out his finger to the paper.