Chapter 47

Chapter XLVII:
Madame de Belliere's Plate and Diamonds.

Fouquet had no sooner dismissed Vanel than he began to reflect for a few
moments - "A man never can do too much for the woman he has once loved.
Marguerite wishes to be the wife of a procureur-general - and why not
confer this pleasure upon her? And, now that the most scrupulous and
sensitive conscience will be unable to reproach me with anything, let my
thoughts be bestowed on her who has shown so much devotion for me.
Madame de Belliere ought to be there by this time," he said, as he turned
towards the secret door.

After he had locked himself in, he opened the subterranean passage, and
rapidly hastened towards the means of communicating between the house at
Vincennes and his own residence. He had neglected to apprise his friend
of his approach, by ringing the bell, perfectly assured that she would
never fail to be exact at the rendezvous; as, indeed, was the case, for
she was already waiting. The noise the superintendent made aroused her;
she ran to take from under the door the letter he had thrust there, and
which simply said, "Come, marquise; we are waiting supper for you." With
her heart filled with happiness Madame de Belliere ran to her carriage in
the Avenue de Vincennes, and in a few minutes she was holding out her
hand to Gourville, who was standing at the entrance, where, in order the
better to please his master, he had stationed himself to watch her
arrival. She had not observed that Fouquet's black horse arrived at the
same time, all steaming and foam-flaked, having returned to Saint-Mande
with Pelisson and the very jeweler to whom Madame de Belliere had sold
her plate and her jewels. Pelisson introduced the goldsmith into the
cabinet, which Fouquet had not yet left. The superintendent thanked him
for having been good enough to regard as a simple deposit in his hands,
the valuable property which he had every right to sell; and he cast his
eyes on the total of the account, which amounted to thirteen hundred
thousand francs. Then, going for a few moments to his desk, he wrote an
order for fourteen hundred thousand francs, payable at sight, at his
treasury, before twelve o'clock the next day.

"A hundred thousand francs profit!" cried the goldsmith. "Oh,
monseigneur, what generosity!"

"Nay, nay, not so, monsieur," said Fouquet, touching him on the shoulder;
"there are certain kindnesses which can never be repaid. This profit is
only what you have earned; but the interest of your money still remains
to be arranged." And, saying this, he unfastened from his sleeve a
diamond button, which the goldsmith himself had often valued at three
thousand pistoles. "Take this," he said to the goldsmith, "in
remembrance of me.