That night was one of anguish for both the dying man and the king.
The dying man awaited his deliverance.
The king awaited his freedom.
Louis never went to bed. An hour after he’d left the cardinal’s chamber, he heard that the dying man, recovering a little strength, had had himself dressed, rouged, and combed, and had asked to receive the latest ambassadors. Like Caesar Augustus, he seemed to regard the world as a theater and wanted to play out properly the last act of his comedy.
Anne of Austria didn’t visit the cardinal again; she had nothing more to do there. The appearance of propriety was the pretext for her absence. Besides, the cardinal didn’t ask for her, as the advice the queen had given her son still irked him.
Toward midnight, while still fully dressed, Mazarin entered his final agony. He had reviewed his will, and as that document was the exact expression of his desires, and he feared someone with another agenda would take advantage of his weakness to get him to change it, he’d given it to Colbert, a most vigilant sentry who posted himself in the corridor outside the cardinal’s bedroom.
The king, confining himself to his room, sent his old governess every hour to Mazarin’s suite for the latest report on the cardinal’s health. After having heard that Mazarin had had himself dressed to receive the ambassadors, Louis next heard that they were beginning the prayers for the dying.
At one o’clock in the morning Guénaud prepared a final potion, his Remedy Heroic. This was a prime example of a period that saw everything as swordplay, an old attitude that, though on its way out, still clung to belief in a “secret thrust” effective even against death. Mazarin, after taking this remedy, was able to breathe easily for almost ten minutes. Immediately he gave orders that the word should be spread of a sudden improvement.
The king, at this news, felt cold sweat break out on his forehead; having glimpsed his liberty, slavery seemed darker and less acceptable than ever. But the next report completely changed the face of things: suddenly Mazarin scarcely breathed at all, and had trouble following the prayers that the Curate of Saint-Nicolas-des-Champs recited before him.
The king began to march back and forth in his chamber, consulting, as he walked, several papers taken from a bureau to which he alone had the key.
A third time the governess returned: Monsieur de Mazarin was making jokes and had ordered the cleaning of his Flora by Titian.120
Finally, at about half past two in the morning, the king could no longer stand the strain—he hadn’t slept for twenty-four hours. Sleep, so powerful at that age, took hold of him for about an hour. But he didn’t go to bed, he slept in an armchair.
Around four o’clock the governess entered the room and woke him up. “Well?” the king asked.
“Well, my dear Sire!” said the governess, wringing her hands sadly. “Well! He is dead.”
The king rose suddenly, as if a steel spring had brought him to his feet. “Dead!” he cried.
“Alas! Yes.”
“For sure?”
“Yes.”
“Officially?”
“Yes.”
“Has the news been announced?”
“Not yet.”
“Then, who told you the cardinal was dead?”
“Monsieur Colbert.”
“Monsieur Colbert?”
“Yes.”
“And he was sure of what he told you?”
“He’d just come from the bedchamber where he’d spent several minutes holding a mirror up to the cardinal’s lips.”
“Ah!” said the king. “And what has become of this Monsieur Colbert?”
“He’s just left His Eminence’s chamber.”
“To go where?”
“To follow me.”
“So, then he’s…?”
“Here, Sire, waiting outside your door for when it pleases you to receive him.”
Louis sprang to the door, opened it himself, and saw Colbert standing there and waiting. The king started at the sight of this statue all dressed in black.
Colbert bowed with profound respect and took two steps toward His Majesty.
Louis withdrew into his room, gesturing for Colbert to follow him. Colbert came in. Louis dismissed the governess, who closed the door behind her as she left.
Colbert stood humbly near the door. “What have you come to tell me, Monsieur?” said Louis, troubled by this surprise intruder who seemed to divine his secret thoughts.
“That the cardinal has just passed away, Sire, and that I bring you his final farewell.”
The king paused thoughtfully for a moment, looking attentively at Colbert. It was apparent that the cardinal’s last words were on his mind. “So, you’re Monsieur Colbert?” he asked.
“Yes, Sire.”
“His Eminence’s loyal servant, as he described you to me?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Guardian of some of his secrets?”
“Of all of them.”
“The friends and servants of His Late Eminence will be dear to me, Monsieur, and I’ll make sure that you find a place in my own service.”
Colbert bowed.
“You’re a financial secretary, Monsieur, are you not?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“And Monsieur le Cardinal employed you in his accounting?”
“I had that honor, Sire.”
“But you didn’t do anything for the royal budget, I believe.”
“On the contrary, Sire, it was I who gave Monsieur le Cardinal an idea that saved Your Majesty’s treasury three hundred thousand livres a year.”
“What idea was that, Monsieur?” asked Louis XIV.
“Your Majesty is aware that the Hundred Swiss121 display silver lace on all their uniform ribbons?”
“Of course.”
“Well, Sire! I proposed that their ribbons be made with imitation silver. No one can tell the difference, and three hundred thousand livres can feed a regiment for half a year, or buy ten thousand good muskets, or build a ten-gun flute122 ready to sail.”
“That’s true,” said Louis XIV, looking more attentively at the character before him. “And, my faith, that’s a sensible savings, for it’s ridiculous to have soldiers wearing lace like they’re lords.”
“I’m happy that His Majesty approves,” said Colbert.
“And is that the only job you had with the cardinal?” asked the king.
“It was I whom His Eminence charged with examining the accounts of the Superintendent of Finances, Sire.”
“Ah!” said Louis XIV, who had been about to dismiss Colbert when he was stopped by these final words. “So, it was you His Eminence charged with auditing Monsieur Fouquet. And what was the result of this audit?”
“It found a deficit, Sire. If Your Majesty will permit me…?”
“Speak, Monsieur Colbert.”
“I ought to give Your Majesty some explanations.”
“No need, Monsieur; you audited the accounts, so tell me the balance.”
“Easily done, Sire. Empty everywhere, money nowhere.”
“Take care, Monsieur, you’re impugning the management of Monsieur Fouquet, whom everyone says is a capable man.”
Colbert flushed, then turned pale, for he felt that from this moment, he was at war with a man whose power was nearly as great as that of the late minister. “Indeed, Sire, a very capable man,” Colbert repeated with a bow.
“But if Monsieur Fouquet is a capable man who, despite his capability, lacks funds, whose fault is that?”
“I accuse no one, Sire, I just state the facts.”
“Very well; summarize your accounts and present them to me. There’s a deficit, you say? But a deficit can be temporary—credit comes back, the funds replenish.”
“No, Sire.”
“Not this year, perhaps, I understand that, but next year?”
“Next year, Sire, is as exhausted as this year.”
“And the year after that?”
“The same.”
“What are you telling me, Monsieur Colbert?”
“That the next four years’ revenue is expended in advance.”
“We’ll need a loan, then.”
“We’ll need three, Sire.”
“I’ll create offices and sell them, and the price of the posts will be paid into the treasury.”
“Impossible, Sire, for post upon post has already been created and sold, most with their requirements left blank so that the purchasers need do nothing to fulfill them—which means Your Majesty can’t even force them to resign for noncompliance. Furthermore, Monsieur le Surintendant sold the posts at a one-third discount, so the people are further burdened, and Your Majesty doesn’t even profit from it.”
The king frowned. “Explain that to me, Monsieur Colbert.”
“If Your Majesty can formulate his question more clearly, I shall try to explain what he wishes to know.”
“You’re right—clarity is what we need.”
“Yes, Sire, clarity. God is God above all because he made the light.”
“Then, tell me, for example, if Monsieur le Cardinal is dead,” asked Louis XIV, “now that I rule as king, what if I want some money?”
“Your Majesty has none.”
“How can that be, Monsieur? Can’t the superintendent find me any money?”
Colbert shook his heavy head.
“Why?” said the king. “Are the State’s revenues so completely committed that there’s no income at all?”
“At this point, Sire, yes.”
The king frowned. “In that case, I’ll have the King’s Council draw up orders to sell off our notes at a low rate for quick liquidation.”
“Impossible, for the notes have been converted into mortgages and the mortgages have been leveraged, with the debts divided into so many parts and resold that the original note could never be reconstructed.”
Louis, upset, was walking back and forth, frowning. “But if it’s as you say, Monsieur Colbert,” he said, stopping suddenly, “wouldn’t I be ruined before I’ve even reigned?”
“That is, in fact, the case, Sire,” replied the impassive compiler of figures.
“But surely, Monsieur, there’s some money somewhere?”
“There is, Sire, and as a beginning, I bring Your Majesty an account of funds that Monsieur le Cardinal de Mazarin wasn’t willing to list in his last will and testament, or in any testament at all, but which he entrusted to me.”
“To you?”
“Yes, Sire, with instructions to deliver them to Your Majesty.”
“What? Money beyond the forty million in the will?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Monsieur de Mazarin had even more money?”
Colbert bowed.
“What a bottomless pit that man was!” murmured the king. “Monsieur de Mazarin on the one hand, Monsieur Fouquet on the other, and maybe a hundred million between them! It’s no wonder my coffers are empty.”
Colbert just waited.
“And is the sum you bring me worth the trouble?” asked the king.
“Yes, Sire, it’s a goodly sum.”
“Amounting to…?”
“Thirteen million livres, Sire.”
“Thirteen million!” cried Louis XIV, trembling with joy. “Did you say thirteen million, Monsieur Colbert?”
“I said thirteen million, yes, Your Majesty.”
“That nobody knows about?”
“That nobody knows about.”
“And which are in your hands?”
“In my hands, yes, Sire.”
“And when could I have it?”
“Within two hours.”
“But where is it, then?”
“In the cellar of a house that Monsieur le Cardinal had in the city, and which he was good enough to leave to me in a particular clause in his will.”
“You’re familiar with the cardinal’s will?”
“I have a legal copy signed by his hand.”
“A copy?”
“Yes, Sire. Here it is.” Colbert drew the will from his doublet and showed it to the king.
Louis read the article relative to the gift of the house. “But,” he said, “this is only about the house, and doesn’t mention any money.”
“Your pardon, Sire, but that part was confided to my conscience.”
“And Monsieur de Mazarin confided that to you?”
“Why not, Sire?”
“Him, the most suspicious of all men?”
“He wasn’t so with me, Sire, as Your Majesty can see.”
Louis paused to admire that face, vulgar but expressive. “You’re an honest man, Monsieur Colbert,” said the king.
“It’s not a virtue, Sire, it’s a duty,” replied Colbert coolly.
“But isn’t that money intended for his family?” asked Louis XIV.
“If that money were for his family, it would be listed in the cardinal’s will with the rest of his fortune. If that money was owed to the family, I, who drew up the deed of bequest in favor of His Majesty, would have added the sum of thirteen million to the forty million already offered to you.”
“What!” said Louis XIV. “It was you who drew up the bequest, Monsieur Colbert?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“And yet the cardinal trusted you?” added the king naïvely.
“I told His Eminence that Your Majesty would never accept it,” said Colbert in his usual tone, calm and rather solemn.
Louis wiped his hand across his brow. “Oh, how young I am,” he murmured under his breath, “to think I can command men!”
Colbert waited until the end of this interior dialogue and Louis lifted his head. “At what time should I bring the money to Your Majesty?” he asked.
“Tonight, at eleven o’clock. And I don’t want anyone to know that I have this money.”
Colbert made no reply, as if he preferred to talk as little as necessary about secrets.
“This sum, is it in ingots or in coins?”
“In gold coins, Sire.”
“Good.”
“Where shall I bring it?”
“To the Louvre. Thank you, Monsieur Colbert.”
Colbert bowed and left.
“Thirteen million!” whispered Louis XIV when he was alone. “It’s like a dream!”
He leaned his forehead into his hands, as if he were preparing to sleep. But after a moment he raised his head, shook his shining hair, rose, and throwing open the window, bathed his burning forehead in the brisk morning breeze that brought him the bitter scent of the trees and the sweet perfume of the flowers. A resplendent dawn was rising on the horizon, and the first rays of the sun gilded the young king’s brow.