uis XIV., when he showed himself pale and frowning in the doorway
of the secret stairs. The face of Fouquet appeared behind him, impressed
with sorrow and sternness. The queen-mother, who perceived Louis XIV.,
and who held the hand of Philippe, uttered the cry of which we have
spoken, as if she had 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 saw the form of her brother-in-law
reflected in a glass. 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--both trembling, and clenching
their hands convulsively, measured each other with their looks, and
darted their eyes, like poniards, into each other. Mute, 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 that
no one will accept; people would rather believe in the supernatural and
the impossible. Louis had not reckoned upon these obstacles. He expected
he had only to appear and be acknowledged. A living sun, he could not
endure the suspicion of parity 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 violent explosions
of passion.

But Fouquet! who could 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 again dipping his hands in a political work.
And then it was the blood of Louis XIII. which Fouquet was sacrificing
to the blood of Louis XIII.; it was to a selfish ambition he was
sacrificing a noble ambition; it was to the right of keeping