"That figure, Sire, in a golden-coloured robe, is Clio, I am told, the Muse of History. With one hand she assists Fidelity into heaven, with the other she records the annals of his life." "The annals of _his_ life," muttered the King (for Fouquet stood near at hand, to be summoned by his Sovereign when wanted). "It will be well for him if history does not record his signal disgrace. He may prove another Phaeton, this M. Fouquet, and fall from the stars into eternal darkness. Jupiter still grasps his thunders. Let us leave this room—it stifles me," said Louis aloud. "What is the meaning of the device of the serpents I see everywhere?" again inquired Louis of the Duke. "The serpents represent Colbert, the rival of Fouquet, Sire. Fidelity, Reason, and Discretion crush these serpents as you see." "Really, these allegories are charming, M. Fouquet," said Louis, with a covert sneer, turning towards his host, and speaking in a loud voice, "but allegories are not always truthful." Fouquet bowed to the ground, and turned very pale. After having examined the interior of the château, and partaken of a sumptuous refection, the King was invited to pass into the garden to see the illuminations. There the whole horizon was aglow. On three broad terraces, of the purest white marble, which extended along the entire façade of the building, rows of golden candelabra bore myriads of wax lights. Rows of gigantic orange-trees, in full blossom, shone with orbs of variegated light, that glittered on the dark surface of the polished leaves. Below, in a vast square, fashioned into a sunken parterre of flowers, arranged in various patterns, cunningly concealed lamps of every hue were hidden among the leaves, their innumerable flamelets forming a carpet of living fire. Jets of flame leaped from tree to tree. Beyond the parterre, the broad canal banks blazed and palpitated with fiery heat. The waters, of a ruddy hue, now reflecting the gorgeous scene, now riven into _jets d'eau_ and fountains which blaze upwards for an instant, throwing up clouds of rockets that sport like comets among the stars, to fall back in cascades of golden sparks. Beyond, in the woods, each noble forest-tree, in minutest detail of every branch and twig, stood out in relief against what appeared a vault of fire. Long vistas led far away among stalwart oaks and feathery limes, growing out of a sea of flames. All around there was nothing but fire—dazzling, overwhelming fire. Now it turned to green, then by some magic touch it changed to blue, then flashed into crimson; while _feux de joie_ and cannon roared from concealed batteries, and shook the very air. Behind, the architectural lines of the château were marked by clusters of golden lamps. Every room shone brighter than at noon, and the central dome, with its graceful colonnade, blazed like a volcano. On the terrace, in front of the château, military bands clashed with joyous symphonies.