tails;
and the new object which presented itself appeared as luminous as though
it shone out in full sunlight. So it happened with Louis XIV., when he
showed himself, pale and frowning, in the doorway of the secret stairs.
The face of Fouquet appeared behind him, stamped with sorrow and
determination. The queen-mother, who perceived Louis XIV., and who held
the hand of Philippe, uttered a cry of which we have spoken, as if she
beheld a phantom. Monsieur was bewildered, and kept turning his head in
astonishment from one to the other. Madame made a step forward, thinking
she was looking at the form of her brother-in-law reflected in a mirror.
And, in fact, the illusion was possible. The two princes, both pale as
death--for we renounce the hope of being able to describe the fearful
state of Philippe--trembling, clenching their hands convulsively,
measured each other with looks, and darted their glances, sharp as
poniards, at each other. Silent, panting, bending forward, they appeared
as if about to spring upon an enemy. The unheard-of resemblance of
countenance, gesture, shape, height, even to the resemblance of costume,
produced by chance--for Louis XIV. had been to the Louvre and put on a
violet-colored dress--the perfect analogy of the two princes, completed
the consternation of Anne of Austria. And yet she did not at once guess
the truth. There are misfortunes in life so truly dreadful that no one
will at first accept them; people rather believe in the supernatural and
the impossible. Louis had not reckoned on these obstacles. He expected
that he had only to appear to be acknowledged. A living sun, he could
not endure the suspicion of equality with any one. He did not admit that
every torch should not become darkness at the instant he shone out with
his conquering ray. At the aspect of Philippe, then, he was perhaps more
terrified than any one round him, and his silence, his immobility
were, this time, a concentration and a calm which precede the violent
explosions of concentrated passion.

But Fouquet! who shall paint his emotion and stupor in presence of this
living portrait of his master! Fouquet thought Aramis was right, that
this newly-arrived was a king as pure in his race as the other, and
that, for having repudiated all participation in this _coup d'etat_,
so skillfully got up by the General of the Jesuits, he must be a mad
enthusiast, unworthy of ever dipping his hands in political grand
strategy work. And the