Chapter 42

Chapter XLII:
The Skin of the Bear.

Colbert handed the duchesse the letter, and gently drew aside the chair
behind which she was standing; Madame de Chevreuse, with a very slight
bow, immediately left the room. Colbert, who had recognized Mazarin's
handwriting, and had counted the letters, rang to summon his secretary,
whom he enjoined to go in immediate search of M. Vanel, a counselor of
the parliament. The secretary replied that, according to his usual
practice, M. Vanel had just that moment entered the house, in order to
give the intendant an account of the principal details of the business
which had been transacted during the day in parliament. Colbert
approached one of the lamps, read the letters of the deceased cardinal
over again, smiled repeatedly as he recognized the great value of the
papers Madame de Chevreuse had just delivered - and burying his head in
his hands for a few minutes, reflected profoundly. In the meantime, a
tall, loosely-made man entered the room; his spare, thin face, steady
look, and hooked nose, as he entered Colbert's cabinet, with a modest
assurance of manner, revealed a character at once supple and decided, -
supple towards the master who could throw him the prey, firm towards the
dogs who might possibly be disposed to dispute its possession. M. Vanel
carried a voluminous bundle of papers under his arm, and placed it on the
desk on which Colbert was leaning both his elbows, as he supported his
head.

"Good day, M. Vanel," said the latter, rousing himself from his
meditation.

"Good day, monseigneur," said Vanel, naturally.

"You should say monsieur, and not monseigneur," replied Colbert, gently.

"We give the title of monseigneur to ministers," returned Vanel, with
extreme self-possession, "and you are a minister."

"Not yet."

"You are so in point of fact, and I call you monseigneur accordingly;
besides you are seigneur for _me_, and that is sufficient; if you dislike
my calling you monseigneur before others, allow me, at least, to call you
so in private."

Colbert raised his head as if to read, or try to read, upon Vanel's face
how much or how little sincerity entered into this protestation of
devotion. But the counselor knew perfectly well how to sustain the
weight of such a look, even backed with the full authority of the title
he had conferred. Colbert sighed; he could not read anything in Vanel's
face, and Vanel might possibly be honest in his professions, but Colbert
recollected that this man, inferior to himself in every other respect,
was actually his master in virtue of the fact of his having a wife. As
he was pitying this man's lot, Vanel coldly drew from his pocket a
perfumed letter, sealed with Spanish wax, and