Chapter CXL: Letter IX: Wednesday, December 17, 1664

You languish, my dear friend, after intelligence, and so do we. I was sorry I sent you word that judgment would be pronounced on Tuesday; for, not hearing from me, you must have thought it was all over; but our hopes are as strong as ever. I informed you, on Saturday, in what way M. d’Ormesson had reported the cause, and how he had voted, but I did not sufficiently express the extraordinary esteem he has acquired by his conduct in this business. I have heard several of this profession say that his speech was a master-piece; that he explained himself with great clearness, and rested his opinion upon the most convincing arguments: it was eloquence and grace combined. In short, no man had ever a finer opportunity of making himself known, and no man ever made a better use of it. If he had wished to open his door to congratulations, his house would have been crowded; but he was too modest for this, and kept out of the way. His colleague, Sainte-Hélène, indignant at his success, spoke on Monday and Tuesday. He resumed the affair weakly and miserably, reading what he had to say, without adding any new circumstance or giving a different turn to it. He voted, but did not assign his reasons, that M. Fouquet should lose his head for his crime against the state; and to gain votes on his side, he played the Normand, and alleged that it was probable the king, who alone could do it, would remit the sentence and pardon him. It was yesterday he performed this brilliant action, at which we were as much grieved as we had before been satisfied with the conduct of M. d’Ormesson.

This morning Puissort spoke for four hours, but with so much vehemence, fury, rage, and rancor, that several of the judges were shocked; and it is thought his intemperance will do more good than harm to our poor friend. He even redoubled his violence toward the end, and said, upon the subject of the crime against the state, that the example of a certain Spaniard, who had so great a horror for a rebel that he ordered his house to be burned, because Charles of Bourbon had passed through it, ought to make us blush at our moderation; that we had much greater reason to hold in abhorrence the crime of M. Fouquet; that the halter and the gibbet were the only proper punishments for him; but that, in consideration of the high offices he had held, and the noble families to which he was related, he would relax his opinion, and vote with M. de Sainte-Hélène, that he be beheaded.

What say you to this moderation? Is it because he is the uncle of M. de Nesmond, and was excepted against, that he conducts himself so generously? For my part, I can scarcely contain myself when I think of this scandalous proceeding. I do not know whether judgment will be pronounced to-morrow, or the business be protracted to the end of the week. We have still many difficulties to encounter: but perhaps some one will side with M. d’Ormesson, whose opinion at present stands alone.

But I have to beg your attention to two or three little incidents, which are no less extraordinary than true. In the first place, then, a comet made its appearance about four days ago. It was announced, at first, by some women only, who were laughed at for their pains; but it has now been seen by every one. M. d’Artagan sat up last night, and saw it very distinctly. M. de Neuré, a great astronomer, says it is of considerable magnitude. M. du Foin has seen it, with three or four other learned men. I have not seen it myself, but I intend sitting up to-night for the purpose: it appears about three o’clock. I tell you of this, ignorant whether you will be pleased or displeased with the intelligence.

Berrier, in the literal sense of the word, is become mad; he has been bled profusely, and is in a perfect frenzy. He raves of wheels and gibbets, and has even mentioned particular trees; he declares he is going to be hanged, and makes so dreadful a noise that his keepers are obliged to chain him. This is evidently a judgment of Providence, and a very just one. A criminal of the name of Lamothe, who was in prison and about to be tried, has deposed that Messrs. de B***,[281] C***, and B*** (they add also Puissort, or Poncet, but of him I am not so certain) urged him several times to implicate M. Fouquet and Lorme, promising if he would do so that they would obtain his pardon; but he refused, and published the circumstance in court, before his trial took place. He was condemned to the galleys. The wife and mother of M. Fouquet have procured a copy of the deposition, and will present it to-morrow at the chamber. Perhaps it will not be received, because the judges are now giving their opinions; but it may be made known, and must produce a strong impression on the court. Is not all this very extraordinary?

[281] M. de Boucherat was one of the commissioners: the other,
B***, is, no doubt, Berrier.

I must tell you, also, of a heroic act of Masnau. He had been dangerously ill, for a whole week, of a bladder complaint; he took a variety of medicines, and was at last bled, at midnight. The next morning, at seven o’clock, he insisted on being carried to the chamber of justice, where he suffered the most excruciating pain. The chancellor saw him turn pale, and said, “This is not a fit place for you, sir; you had better retire.” “True, sir,” he replied, “but I may as well die here.” The chancellor perceiving him ready to faint, and finding him bent upon remaining, said, “Well, sir, retire; we will wait for you.” Upon this he went out for a quarter of an hour, during which time he passed two stones, of so enormous a size, that it might be considered as a miracle, if men were deserving that God should work miracles in their favor. This worthy man then returned into court, gay and cheerful, every one astonished at the adventure.

This is all I know. Every body is interested in this weighty affair. Nothing else is talked of. Men reason, infer, calculate, pity, fear, wish, hate, admire, are overwhelmed; in short, my dear sir, our present situation is a most singular one; but the resignation and firmness of our dear unfortunate friend is perfectly heavenly. He knows every day what passes, and every day volumes might be written in his praise. I beg you to thank your father[282] for the gratifying note he has written me, and the charming works he sent me. I have read them, though my head feels, alas, as if it were split into pieces. Tell him I am delighted he loves me a little--a great deal, I mean--and that I love him still more. I have received your last letter; alas! you overpay so abundantly the trifling services I render you, that I remain your debtor.

[282] Arnaud d’Andilly, the translator of Josephus.