"Admirable."
"Well, then: this is the surprise we intend. M. Lebrun here is a man who draws most exactly."
"Yes," said Percerin; "I have seen his pictures and observed that the dresses were highly elaborated. That is why I at once agreed to make him a costume—whether to agree with those of the Epicureans, or an original one."
"My dear monsieur, we accept your offer, and shall presently avail ourselves of it; but just now, M. Lebrun is not in want of the dresses you will make for himself, but of those you are making for the king."
Percerin made a bound backward, which D'Artagnan—calmest and most appreciative of men—did not consider overdone; so many strange and startling aspects wore the proposal which Aramis had just hazarded. "The king's dresses! Give the king's dresses to any mortal whatever! Oh! for once, monseigneur, your grace is mad!" cried the poor tailor in extremity.
"Help me now, D'Artagnan," said Aramis, more and more calm and smiling. "Help me now to persuade monsieur, foryouunderstand, do you not?"
"Eh! eh!—not exactly, I declare."
"What! you do not understand that M. Fouquet wishes to afford the king the surprise of finding his portrait on his arrival at Vaux; and that the portrait, which will be a striking resemblance, ought to be dressed exactly as the king will be on the day it is shown?"
"Oh! yes, yes," said the musketeer, nearly convinced, so plausible was this reasoning. "Yes, my dear Aramis, you are right; it is a happy idea. I will wager it is one of your own, Aramis."
"Well, I don't know," replied the bishop; "either mine, or M. Fouquet's." Then scanning Percerin, after noticing D'Artagnan's hesitation. "Well, Monsieur Percerin," he asked, "what do you say to this?"
"I say, that—"
"That you are, doubtless, free to refuse. I know well—and I by no means count upon compelling you, my dear monsieur. I will say more, I even understand all the delicacy you feel in taking up with M. Fouquet's idea; you dread appearing to flatter the king. A noble spirit, M. Percerin, a noble spirit!" The tailor stammered. "It would indeed be a very pretty compliment to pay the young prince," continued Aramis; "but as the surintendant told me, 'If Percerin refuse, tell him that it will not at all lower him in my opinion, and I shall always esteem him, only—'"
"Only?" repeated Percerin, rather troubled.
"'Only,'" continued Aramis, "'I shall be compelled to say to the king'—you understand, my dear Monsieur Percerin, that these are M. Fouquet's words—I shall be constrained to say to the king, 'Sire, I had intended to present your majesty with your portrait, but owing to a feeling of delicacy, slightly exaggerated perhaps, although creditable, M. Percerin opposed the project.'"
"Opposed!" cried the tailor, terrified at the responsibility which would weigh upon him; "I to oppose the desire, the will of M. Fouquet when he is seeking to please the king! Oh! what a hateful word you have uttered, monseigneur. Oppose! Oh, 'tis not I who said it, Heaven have mercy on me. I call the captain of the musketeers to witness it! Is it not true, Monsieur d'Artagnan, that I have opposed nothing?"
D'Artagnan made a sign indicating that he wished to remain neutral. He felt that there was an intrigue at the bottom of it, whether comedy or tragedy; he was at his wit's end at not being able to fathom it, but in the meanwhile wished to keep clear.
But already Percerin, goaded by the idea that the king should be told he had stood in the way of a pleasant surprise, had offered Lebrun a chair, and proceeded to bring from a wardrobe four magnificent dresses, the fifth being still in the workmen's hands; and these master-pieces he successively fitted upon four lay figures, which, imported into France in the time of Concini, had been given to Percerin II., by Marshal d'Onore, after the discomfiture of the Italian tailors, ruined in their competition. The painter set to work to draw and then to paint the dresses. But Aramis, who was closely watching all the phases of his toil, suddenly stopped him.
"I think you have not quite got it, my dear Lebrun," he said; "your colors will deceive you, and on canvas we shall lack that exact resemblance which is absolutely requisite. Time is necessary for attentively observing the finer shades."
"Quite true," said Percerin, "but time is wanting, and on that head, you will agree with me, monseigneur, I can do nothing."
"Then the affair will fail," said Aramis, quietly, "and that because of a want of precision in the colors."
Nevertheless, Lebrun went on copying the materials and ornaments with the closest fidelity—a process which Aramis watched with ill-concealed impatience.
"What in the world, now, is the meaning of this imbroglio?" the musketeer kept saying to himself.
"That will certainly never do," saidAramis; "M. Lebrun, close your box, and roll up your canvas."
"But, monsieur," cried the vexed painter, "the light is abominable here."
"An idea, M. Lebrun, an idea! If we had a pattern of the materials, for example, and with time, and a better light—"
"Oh, then," cried Lebrun, "I would answer for the effect."
"Good!" said D'Artagnan, "this ought to be the knotty point of the whole thing; they want a pattern of each of the materials. Mordioux! will this Percerin give it now?"
Percerin, beaten in his last retreat, and duped, moreover, by the feigned good-nature of Aramis, cut out five patterns and handed them to the bishop of Vannes.
"I like this better. That is your opinion, is it not?" said Aramis to D'Artagnan.
"My dear Aramis," said D'Artagnan, "my opinion is that you are always the same."
"And, consequently, always your friend," said the bishop, in a charming tone.
"Yes, yes," said D'Artagnan aloud; then, in a low voice, "If I am your dupe, double Jesuit that you are, I will not be your accomplice; and to prevent it, 'tis time I left this place. Adieu, Aramis," he added aloud, "adieu; I am going to rejoin Porthos."
"Then wait for me," said Aramis, pocketing the patterns, "for I have done, and shall not be sorry to say a parting word to our friend."
Lebrun packed up, Percerin put back the dresses into the closet, Aramis put his hand on his pocket to assure himself the patterns were secure—and they all left the study.
D'Artagnan found Porthos in the adjoining chamber; but no longer an irritated Porthos, or a disappointed Porthos, but Porthos radiant, blooming, fascinating, and chatting with Moliere, who was looking upon him with a species of idolatry, and as a man would who had not only never seen anything better, but not even ever anything so good. Aramis went straight up to Porthos and offered him his delicate white hand, which lost itself in the gigantic hand of his old friend—an operation which Aramis never hazarded without a certain uneasiness. But the friendly pressure having been performed not too painfully for him, the bishop of Vannes passed over to Moliere.
"Well, monsieur," said he, "will you come with me to Saint-Mandé?"
"I will go anywhere you like, monseigneur," answered Moliere.
"To Saint-Mandé!" cried Porthos, surprised at seeing the proud bishop of Vannes fraternizing with a journeyman tailor. "What, Aramis, are you going to take this gentleman to Saint-Mandé?"
"Yes," said Aramis, smiling, "our work is pressing."
"And besides, my dear Porthos," continued D'Artagnan, "M. Moliere is not altogether what he seems."
"In what way?" asked Porthos.
"Why, this gentleman is one of M. Percerin's chief clerks, and is expected at Saint-Mandé to try on the dresses which M. Fouquet has ordered for the Epicureans."
"'Tis precisely so," said Moliere.
"Yes, monsieur."
"Come, then, my dear M. Moliere," said Aramis, "that is, if you have done with M. de Valon?"
"We have finished," replied Porthos.
"And you are satisfied?" asked D'Artagnan.
"Completely so," replied Porthos.
Moliere took his leave of Porthos with much ceremony, and grasped the hand which the captain of the musketeers furtively offered him.
"Pray, monsieur," concluded Porthos, mincingly, "above all, be exact."
"You will have your dress after to-morrow, Monsieur le Baron," answered Moliere. And he left with Aramis.
Then D'Artagnan, taking Porthos' arm, "What has this tailor done for you, my dear Porthos," he asked, "that you are so pleased with him?"
"What has he done for me, my friend! done for me!" cried Porthos, enthusiastically.
"Yes, I ask you, what has he done for you?"
"My friend, he has done that which no tailor ever yet accomplished—he has taken my measure without touching me!"
"Ah, bah! tell me how he did it!"
"First, then, they went, I don't know where, for a number of lay figures, of all heights and sizes, hoping there would be one to suit mine; but the largest—that of the drum-major of the Swiss guard—was two inches too short, and half a foot too slender."
"Indeed!"
"It is exactly as I tell you, D'Artagnan; but he is a great man, or at the very least a great tailor, is this M. Moliere. He was not at all put at fault by the circumstance."
"What did he do, then?"
"Oh! it is a very simple matter. I'faith, 'tis an unheard-of thing that people should have been so stupid as not to have discovered this method from the first. What annoyance and humiliation they would have spared me!"
"Not to speak of the dresses, my dear Porthos."
"Yes, thirty dresses."
"Well, my dear Porthos, tell me M. Moliere's plan."
"Moliere? You call him so, do you? I shall make a point of recollecting his name."
"Yes; or Poquelin, if you prefer that."
"No; I like Moliere best. When I wish to recollect his name, I shall think of Voliere (an aviary); and as I have one at Pierrefonds—"
"Capital!" returned D'Artagnan; "and M. Moliere's plan?"
"'Tis this: instead of pulling me to pieces, as all these rascals do—of making me bend in my back, and double my joints—all of them low and dishonorable practices—"
D'Artagnan made a sign of approbation with his head.
Aramis saw that the young manAramis saw that the young man was stretched upon hisbed, his face half-concealed by his arms.—Page294.
"'Monsieur,' he said to me," continued Porthos, "'a gentleman ought to measure himself. Do me the pleasure to draw near this glass,' and I drew near the glass. I must own I did not exactly understand what this good M. Voliere wanted with me."
"Moliere."
"Ah! yes, Moliere—Moliere. And as the fear of being measured still possessed me, 'Take care,' said I to him, 'what you are going to do with me; I am very ticklish, I warn you.' But he, with his soft voice (for he is a courteous fellow, we must admit, my friend), he with his soft voice, 'Monsieur,' said he, 'that your dress may fit you well, it must be made according to your figure. Your figure is exactly reflected in this mirror. We shall take the measure of this reflection.'"
"In fact," said D'Artagnan, "you saw yourself in the glass; but where did they find one in which could see your whole figure?"
"My good friend, it is the very glass in which the king sees himself."
"Yes; but the king is a foot and a half shorter than you are."
"Ah! well, I know not how that may be; it would no doubt be a way of flattering the king; but the looking-glass was too large for me. 'Tis true that its height was made up of three Venetian plates of glass, placed one above another, and its breadth of the three similar pieces in juxtaposition."
"Oh, Porthos! what excellent words you have command of. Where in the world did you make the collection?"
"At Belle-Isle. Aramis explained them to the architect."
"Ah! very good. Let us return to the glass, my friend."
"Then, this good M. Voliere—"
"Moliere."
"Yes—Moliere—you are right. You will see now, my dear friend, that I shall recollect his name too well. This excellent M. Moliere set to work tracing out lines on the mirror with a piece of Spanishchalk, following in all the make of my arms and my shoulders, all the while expounding this maxim, which I thought admirable: 'It is necessary that a dress do not incommode its wearer.'"
"In reality," said D'Artagnan, "that is an excellent maxim, which is, unfortunately, seldom carried out in practice."
"That is why I found it all the more astonishing when he expatiated upon it."
"Ah! he expatiated?"
"Parbleu!"
"Let me hear his theory."
"'Seeing that,' he continued, 'one may, in awkward circumstances, or in a troublesome position, have one's doublet on one's shoulder, and not desire to take one's doublet off—"
"True," said D'Artagnan.
"'And so,' continued M. Voliere—"
"Moliere."
"Moliere, yes. 'And so,' went on M. Moliere, 'you want to draw your sword, monsieur, and you have your doublet on your back. What do you do?'
"'I take it off,' I answered.
"'Well, no,' he replied.
"'How no?'
"'I say that the dress should be so well made that it can in no way encumber you, even in drawing your sword.'
"'Ah, ah! throw yourself on guard,' pursued he.
"I did it with such wondrous firmness that two panes of glass burst out of the window.
"'Tis nothing, nothing,' said he. 'Keep your position.'
"I raised my left arm in the air, the forearm gracefully bent, the ruffle drooping, and my wrist curved, while my right arm, half extended, securely covered my waist with the elbow, and my breast with the wrist."
"Yes," said D'Artagnan, "'tis the true guard—the academic guard."
"You have said the very word, dear friend. In the meanwhile Voliere—"
"Moliere."
"Hold! I should certainly, after all, prefer to call him—what did you say his other name was?"
"Poquelin."
"I prefer to call him Poquelin."
"And how will you remember this name better than the other?"
"You understand, he calls himself Poquelin, does he not?"
"Yes."
"I shall recall to mind Madame Coquenard."
"Good."
"I shall changeCocintoPoc,nardintolin; and instead of Coquenard I shall have Poquelin."
"'Tis wonderful," cried D'Artagnan, astounded. "Go on, my friend, I am listening to you with admiration."
"This Coquelin sketched my arm on the glass."
"I beg your pardon—Poquelin."
"What did I say, then?"
"You said Coquelin."
"Ah! true. This Poquelin, then, sketched my arm on the glass; but he took his time over it; he kept looking at me a good deal. The fact is, that I was very handsome. 'Does it weary you?' he asked.
"'A little,' I replied, bending a little in my hands, 'but I could yet hold out an hour.'
"'No, no, I will not allow it; the willing fellows will make it a duty to support your arms, as of old, men supported those of the prophet.'
"'Very good,' I answered.
"'That will not be humiliating to you?'
"'My friend,' said I, 'there is, I think, a great difference between being supported and being measured.'"
"The distinction is full of sense," interrupted D'Artagnan.
"Then," continued Porthos, "he made a sign; two lads approached; one supported my left arm, while the other, with infinite address, supported my right arm.
"'Another, my man,' cried he. A third approached. 'Support monsieur by the waist,' said he. Thegarçoncomplied.
"So that you were at rest?" asked D'Artagnan.
"Perfectly; and Pocquenard drew me on the glass."
"Poquelin, my friend."
"Poquelin—you are right. Stay, decidedly I prefer calling him Voliere."
"Yes, and then it was over, wasn't it?"
"During that time Voliere drew me on the mirror."
"'Twas delicate in him."
"I much like the plan: it is respectful, and keeps every one in his place."
"And there it ended?"
"Without a soul having touched me, my friend."
"Except the threegarçonswho supported you."
"Doubtless; but I have, I think, already explained to you the difference there is between supporting and measuring."
"'Tis true," answered D'Artagnan: who said afterward to himself, "I'faith, I greatly deceive myself, or I have been the means of a good windfall to that rascal Moliere, and we shall assuredly see the scene hit off to the life in some comedy or other." Porthos smiled.
"What are you laughing at?" asked D'Artagnan.
"Must I confess it? Well, I was laughing over my good fortune."
"Oh, that is true; I don't know a happier man than you. But what is this last piece of luck that has befallen you?"
"Well, my dear fellow, congratulate me."
"I desire nothing better."
"It seems I am the first who has had his measure taken in that manner."
"Are you sure of it!"
"Nearly so. Certain signs of intelligence which passed between Voliere and the othergarçonsshowed me the fact."
"Well, my friend, that does not surprise me from Moliere," said D'Artagnan.
"Voliere, my friend."
"Oh, no, no, indeed; I am very willing to leave you to say Voliere; but myself I shall continue to say Moliere. Well, this, I was saying, does not surprise me, coming from Moliere, who is a very ingenious fellow, and inspired you with this grand idea."
"It will be of great use to him by-and-by I am sure."
"Won't it be of use to him indeed! I believe you it will, and not a little so; for you see my friend Moliere is of all known tailors the man who best clothes our barons, comtes, and marquises—according to their measure."
On this observation, neither the application nor depth of which shall we discuss, D'Artagnan and Porthos quitted M. Percerin's house and rejoined their carriage, wherein we will leave them, in order to look after Moliere and Aramis at Saint-Mandé.
The bishop of Vannes, much annoyed at having met D'Artagnan at M. Percerin's, returned to Saint-Mandé in no very good humor. Moliere, on the other hand, quite delighted at having made such a capital rough sketch, and at knowing where to find its original again, whenever he should desire to convert his sketch into a picture, Moliere arrived in the merriest of moods. All the first story of the left wing was occupied by the most celebrated Epicureans in Paris, and those on the freest footing in the house—every one in his compartment, like the bees in their cells, employed in producing the honey intended for that royal cake which M. Fouquet proposed to offer his majesty Louis XIV. during the fete at Vaux. Pellisson, his head leaning on his hand, was engaged in drawing out the plan of the prologue to the "Facheux," a comedy in three acts, which was to be put on the stage by Poquelin de Moliere, as D'Artagnan called him, or Coquelin de Voliere, as Porthos styled him. Loret, with all the charming innocence of a gazetteer—the gazetteers of all ages have always been so artless!—Loret was composing an account of the fetes of Vaux, before those fetes had taken place. La Fontaine, sauntering about from one to the other, a wandering, absent, boring, unbearable shade, who kept buzzing and humming at everybody's shoulder a thousand poetic abstractions. He so often disturbed Pellisson, that the latter, raising his head, crosslysaid, "At least, La Fontaine, supply me with a rhyme, since you say you have the run of the gardens at Parnassus."
"What rhyme do you want?" asked theFabler, as Madame de Sevigne used to call him.
"I want a rhyme tolumière."
"Ornière," answered La Fontaine.
"Ah, but, my good friend, one cannot talk ofwheel-rutswhen celebrating the delights of Vaux," said Loret.
"Besides, it doesn't rhyme," answered Pellisson.
"How! doesn't rhyme!" cried La Fontaine, in surprise.
"Yes; you have an abominable habit, my friend—a habit which will ever prevent your becoming a poet of the first order. You rhyme in a slovenly manner."
"Oh, oh, you think so, do you, Pellisson?"
"Yes, I do, indeed. Remember that a rhyme is never good so long as one can find a better."
"Then I will never write anything again but in prose," said La Fontaine, who had taken up Pellisson's reproach in earnest. "Ah! I often suspected I was nothing but a rascally poet! Yes, 'tis the very truth."
"Do not say so; your remark is too sweeping, and there is much that is good in your 'Fables.'"
"And to begin," continued La Fontaine, following up his idea, "I will go and burn a hundred verses I have just made."
"Where are your verses?"
"In my head."
"Well, if they are in your head you cannot burn them."
"True," said La Fontaine; "but if I do not burn them—"
"Well, what will happen if you do not burn them?"
"They will remain in my mind, and I shall never forget them."
"The deuce?" cried Loret; "what a dangerous thing! One would go mad with it!"
"The deuce! the deuce!" repeated La Fontaine; "what can I do?"
"I have discovered the way," saidMoliere, who had entered just at this point of the conversation.
"What way?"
"Write them first and burn them afterward."
"How simple it is! Well, I should never have discovered that. What a mind that devil Moliere has!" said La Fontaine. Then, striking his forehead, "Oh, thou wilt never be aught but an ass, Jean la Fontaine!" he added.
"Whatare you saying there, my friend?" broke in Moliere, approaching the poet, whose aside he had heard.
"I say I shall never be aught but an ass," answered La Fontaine, with a heavy sigh and swimming eyes. "Yes, my friend," he added, with increasing grief, "it seems that I rhyme in a slovenly manner."
"Oh, 'tis wrong to say so."
"Nay I am a poor creature!"
"Who said so?"
"Parbleu! 'twas Pellisson; did you not, Pellisson?"
Pellisson, again lost in his work, took good care not to answer.
"But if Pellisson said you were so," cried Moliere, "Pellisson has seriously offended you."
"Do you think so?"
"Ah! I advise you, as you are a gentleman, not to leave an insult like that unpunished."
"How!" exclaimed La Fontaine.
"Did you ever fight?"
"Once only, with a lieutenant in the light horse."
"What wrong had he done you?"
"It seems he had run away with my wife."
"Ah, ah!" said Moliere, becoming slightly pale; but, as at La Fontaine's declaration, the others had turned round, Moliere kept upon his lips the rallying smile which had so nearly died away, and continuing to make La Fontaine speak—
"And what was the result of the duel?"
"The result was that on the ground my opponent disarmed me, and then made an apology, promising never again to set foot in my house."
"And you considered yourself satisfied," said Moliere.
"Not at all! on the contrary, I picked up my sword. 'I beg your pardon, monsieur,' I said, 'I have not fought you because you were my wife's friend, but because I was told I ought to fight. So, as I have never known any peace save since you made her acquaintance, do me the pleasure to continue your visits as heretofore, or, morbleu! let us set to again.' And so," continued La Fontaine, "he was compelled to resume his friendship with madame, and I continue to be the happiest of husbands."
All burst out laughing. Moliere alone passed his hands across his eyes. Why? Perhaps to wipe away a tear, perhaps to smother a sigh. Alas! we know that Moliere was a moralist, but he was not a philosopher. "'Tis all the same," he said, returning to the topic of the conversation, "Pellisson has insulted you."
"Ah, truly! I had already forgotten it."
"And I am going to challenge him on your behalf."
"Well, you can do so, if you think it indispensable."
"I do think it indispensable, and I am going—"
"Stay," exclaimed La Fontaine, "I want your advice."
"Upon what? this insult?"
"No; tell me really now whetherlumièredoes not rhyme withornière."
"I should make them rhyme—ah! I knew you would—and I have made a hundred thousand such rhymes in my time."
"A hundred thousand!" cried La Fontaine, "four times as many as La Pucelle, which M. Chaplain is meditating. Is it also on this subject too that you have composed a hundred thousand verses?"
"Listen to me, you eternally absent creature," said Moliere.
"It is certain," continued La Fontaine, "thatlégume, for instance, rhymes withposthume."
"In the plural, above all."
"Yes, above all in the plural, seeing that then it rhymes not with three letters, but with four; asornièredoes withlumière."
"Butornièresandlumièresin the plural, my dear Pellisson," said La Fontaine, clapping his hand on the shoulder of his friend, whose insult he had quite forgotten, "and they will rhyme."
"Hem!" cried Pellisson.
"Moliere says so, and Moliere is a judge of it; he declares he has himself made a hundred thousand verses."
"Come," said Moliere, laughing, "he is off now."
"It is likerivage, which rhymes admirably withherbage. I would take my oath of it."
"But—" said Moliere.
"I tell you all this," continued La Fontaine, "because you are preparing adivertissementfor Vaux, are you not?"
"Yes, the 'Facheux.'"
"Ah, yes, the 'Facheux;' yes, I recollect. Well, I was thinking a prologue would admirably suit yourdivertissement."
"Doubtless it would suit capitally."
"Ah! you are of my opinion?"
"So much so, that I ask you to write this prologue."
"You askmeto write it?"
"Yes, you, and on your refusal begged you to ask Pellisson, who is engaged upon it at this moment."
"Ah! that is what Pellisson is doing, then?"
"I'faith, my dear Moliere, you might indeed often be right."
"When?"
"When you call me absent. It is a wretched defect. I will cure myself of it, and do your prologue for you."
"But seeing that Pellisson is about it!—"
"Ah, true, double rascal that I am! Loret was indeed right in saying I was a poor creature."
"It was not Loret who said so, my friend."
"Well, then, whoever said so, 'tis the same to me! And so yourdivertissementis called the 'Facheux?' Well, can you not makeheureuxrhyme withfácheux?"
"If obliged, yes."
"And even withcapricieux."
"Oh, no, no."
"It would be hazardous, and yet why so?"
"There is too great a difference in the cadences."
"I was fancying," said La Fontaine, leaving Moliere for Loret—"I was fancying—"
"What were you fancying?" said Loret, in the middle of a sentence. "Make haste."
"You are writing the prologue to the 'Facheux,' are you not?"
"No! mordieu! it is Pellisson."
"Ah, Pellisson!" cried La Fontaine, going over to him. "I was fancying," he continued, "that the nymph of Vaux—"
"Ah, beautiful!" cried Loret. "The nymph of Vaux! thank you, La Fontaine; you have just given me the two concluding verses of my paper."
"Well, if you can rhyme so well, La Fontaine," said Pellisson, "tell me now in what way you would begin my prologue?"
"I should say, for instance, 'Oh! nymph, who—' After 'who' I should place a verb in the second person singular of the present indicative; and should go on thus: 'this grot profound.'"
"But the verb, the verb?" asked Pellisson.
"To admire the greatest king of all kings round," continued La Fontaine.
"But the verb, the verb," obstinately insisted Pellisson. "This second person singular of the present indicative?"
"Well then; quittest:—
"O, nymph, who quittest now this grot profound,To admire the greatest king of all kings round."
"You would put 'who quittest,' would you?"
"Why not?"
"'Gentlest' after 'you who?'"
"Ah! my dear fellow," exclaimed La Fontaine, "you are a shocking pedant!"
"Without counting," said Moliere, "that the second verse, 'king of all kings round,' is very weak, my dear La Fontaine."
"Then you see clearly I am nothing but a poor creature—a shuffler, as you said."
"I never said so."
"Then, as Loret said."
"And it was not Loret neither; it was Pellisson."
"Well, Pellisson was right a hundred times over. But what annoys me more than anything, my dear Moliere, is, that I fear we shall not have our Epicurean dresses."
"You expected yours, then, for the fete?"
"Yes, for the fete, and then for after the fete. My housekeeper told me that my own is rather faded."
"Diable!Your housekeeper is right; rather more than faded!"
"Ah, you see," resumed La Fontaine, "the fact is, I left it on the floor in my room, and my cat—"
"Well; your cat—"
"She kittened upon it, which has rather altered its color."
Moliere burst out laughing; Pellisson and Loret followed his example. At this juncture, the bishop of Vannes appeared, with a roll of plans and parchments under his arm. As if the angel of death had chilled all gay and sprightly fancies—as if that wan form had scared away the Graces to whom Xenocrates sacrificed—silence immediately reigned through the study, and every one resumed his self-possession and his pen. Aramis distributed the notes of invitation, and thanked them in the name of M. Fouquet. "The surintendant," he said, "being kept to his room by business, could not come and see them, but begged them to send him some of the fruits of their day's work, to enable him to forget the fatigue of his labor in the night."
At these words, all settled to work. La Fontaine placed himself at a table, and set his rapid pen running over the vellum; Pellisson made a fair copy of his prologue; Moliere gave fifty fresh verses, with which his visit to Percerin had inspired him; Loret, his article on the marvelous fetes he predicted; and Aramis, laden with booty like the king of the bees, that great black drone, decked with purple and gold, re-entered his apartment, silent and busy. But before departing, "Remember, gentlemen," said he, "we all leave to-morrow evening."
"In that case, I must give notice at home," said Moliere.
"Yes; poor Moliere!" said Loret, smiling; "he loves his home."
"'Heloves,' yes," replied Moliere, with his sad, sweet smile. "'He loves,' that does not mean, they lovehim."
"As for me," said La Fontaine, "they love me at Chateau Thierry, I am very sure."
Aramis here re-entered after a brief disappearance. "Will any one go with me?" he asked. "I am going by Paris, after having passed a quarter of an hour with M. Fouquet. I offer my carriage."
"Good," said Moliere, "I accept it. I am in a hurry."
"I shall dine here," said Loret. "M. de Gourville has promised me some crawfish."
"He has promised me some whitings. Find a rhyme for that, La Fontaine."
Aramis went out laughing, as only he could laugh, and Moliere followed him. They were at the bottom of the stairs, when La Fontaine opened the door and shouted out:
"He has promised us some whitings,In return for all our writings."
The shouts of laughter reached the ears of Fouquet, at the moment Aramis opened the door of the study. As to Moliere, he had undertaken to order the horses, while Aramis went to exchange a parting word with the surintendant. "Oh, how they are laughing there!" said Fouquet with a sigh.
"And do not you laugh, monseigneur?"
"I laugh no longer now, M. d'Herblay. The fete is approaching; money is departing."
"Have I not told you that was my business?"
"Yes; you promised me millions."
"You shall have them the day after the king's entrée into Vaux."
Fouquet looked closely at Aramis, and passed his icy hand across his moistened brow. Aramis perceived that the surintendant either doubted him, or felt he was powerless to obtain the money. How could Fouquet suppose that a poor bishop, ex-abbe, ex-musketeer, could find any?
"Why doubt me?" said Aramis. Fouquet smiled and shook his head.
"Man of little faith!" added the bishop.
"My dear M. d'Herblay," answered Fouquet, "if I fall—"
"Well; if you 'fall'?"
"I shall, at least, fall from such a height that I shall shatter myself in falling." Then giving himself a shake, as though to escape from himself, "Whence come you," said he, "my friend?"
"From Paris—from Percerin."
"And what have you been doing at Percerin's, for I suppose you attach no such great importance to our poets' dresses?"
"No; I went to prepare a surprise!
"Surprise?"
"Yes; which you are to give to the king."
"And will it cost much?"
"Oh! a hundred pistoles you will give Lebrun."
"A painting?—Ah! all the better! And what is this painting to represent?"
"I will tell you; then at the same time, whatever you may say of it, I went to see the dresses for our poets."
"Bah! and they will be rich and elegant?"
"Splendid! There will be few great monsiegneurs with so good. People will see the difference there is between the courtiers of wealth and those of friendship."
"Ever generous and graceful, dear prelate!"
"In your school."
Fouquet grasped his hand. "And where are you going?" he said.
"I am off to Paris, when you shall have given a certain letter."
"For whom?"
"M. de Lyonne."
"And what do you want with Lyonne?"
"I wish to make him sign a lettre de cachet."
"'Lettre de cachet!' Do you desire to put somebody in the Bastille?"
"On the contrary—to let somebody out."
"And who?"
"A poor devil—a youth, a lad who has been bastilled these ten years, for two Latin verses he made against the Jesuits."
"'Two Latin verses!' and, for 'two Latin verses,' the miserable being has been in prison for ten years!"
"'Yes!"
"And has committed no other crime?"
"Beyond this he is as innocent as you or I."
"On your word?"
"On my honor!"
"And his name is—?"
"Seldon."
"Yes.—But it is too bad. You knew this, and you never told me!"
"'Twas only yesterday his mother applied to me, monseigneur."
"And the woman is poor."
"In the deepest misery."
"Oh, Heaven!" said Fouquet, "you sometimes bear with such injustice on earth, that I understand why there are wretches who doubt in your existence. Stay, M. d'Herblay." And Fouquet, taking a pen, wrote a few rapid lines to his colleague Lyonne. Aramis took the letter and made ready to go.
"Wait," said Fouquet. He opened his drawer, and took out ten government notes which were there, each for a thousand francs. "Stay," he said; "set the son at liberty, and give this to the mother; but, above all, tell her not—."
"What, monseigneur?"
"That she is ten thousand livres richer than I. She would say, I am but a poor surintendant! Go! and I hope that God will bless those who are mindful of his poor!"
"So also do I hope," replied Aramis, kissing Fouquet's hand.
And he went out quickly, carrying off the letter for Lyonne, and the notes for Seldon's mother, and taking up Moliere, who was beginning to lose patience.
Seven o'clock sounded from the great clock of the Bastille, that famous clock, which like all the accessories of the state prison, the very use of which is a torture, recalled to the prisoners' minds the destination of every hour of their punishment. The timepiece of the Bastille, adorned with figures, like most of the clocks of the period, represented St. Peter in bonds. It was the supper hour of the unfortunate captives. The doors, grating on their enormous hinges, opened for the passage of the baskets and trays of provisions, the delicacy of which, as M. de Baisemeaux has himself taught us, was regulated by the condition in life of the prisoner. We understand on this head the theories of M. de Baisemeaux, sovereign dispenser of gastronomic delicacies, head cook of the royal fortress, whose trays, full laden, were ascending the steep staircases, carrying some consolation to the prisoners in the bottom of honestly filled bottles. This same hour was that of M. le Gouverneur's supper also. He had a guest to-day, and the spit turned more heavily than usual. Roast partridges flanked with quails and flanking a larded leveret; boiled fowls; ham, fried and sprinkled with white wine;cardonsof Guipuzcoa andla bisque écrevisses: these, together with the soups andhors-d'œuvre, constituted the governor's bill of fare. Baisemeaux, seated at table, was rubbing his hands and looking at the bishop of Vannes, who, booted like a cavalier, dressed in gray and sword at side, kept talking of his hunger and testifying the liveliest impatience. M. de Baisemeaux de Montlezun was not accustomed to the unbending movements of his greatness, my lord of Vannes, and this evening, Aramis becoming quite sprightly, volunteered confidence on confidence. The prelate had again a little touch of the musketeer about him. The bishop just trenched on the borders only of license in his style of conversation. As for M. de Baisemeaux, with the facility of vulgar people, he gave himself up entirely upon this point of his guest's freedom. "Monsieur," said he, "for indeed to-night I dare not call you monseigneur."
"By no means," said Aramis; "call me monsieur; I am booted."
"Do you know, monsieur, of whom you remind me this evening?"
"No! faith," said Aramis, taking up his glass; "but I hope I remind you of a capital guest."
"You remind me of two, monsieur. Francois, shut the window; the wind may annoy his greatness."
"And let him go," added Aramis. "The supper is completely served, and we shall eat it very well without waiters. I like extremely to be tete-à-tete when I am with a friend." Baisemeaux bowed respectfully. "I like extremely," continued Aramis, "to help myself."
"Retire, Francois," cried Baisemeaux. "I was saying that your greatness puts me in mind of two persons; one very illustrious, the late cardinal, the great cardinal de la Rochelle, who wore boots like you."
"Indeed," said Aramis; "and the other?"
"The other was a certain musketeer, very handsome, very brave, very adventurous, very fortunate, who, from being abbe, turned musketeer, and from musketeer turned abbe." Aramis condescended to smile. "From abbe," continued Baisemeaux, encouraged by Aramis' smile—"from abbe, bishop—and from bishop—"
"Ah! stay there, I beg," exclaimed Aramis.
"I say, monsieur, that you give me the idea of a cardinal."
"Enough, dear M. Baisemeaux. As you said, I have on the boots of a cavalier, but I do not intend, for all that, to embroil myself with the church this evening."
"But you have wicked intentions, however, monseigneur."
"Oh, yes, wicked I own, as everything mundane is."
"You traverse the town and the streets in disguise?"
"In disguise, as you say."
"And do you still make use of your sword?"
"Yes, I should think so; but only when I am compelled. Do me the pleasure to summon Francois."
"Have you no wine there?"
"'Tis not for wine, but because it is hot here and the window is shut."
"I shut the windows at supper-time so as not to hear the sounds of the arrival of couriers."
"Ah, yes. You hear them when the window is open?"
"But too well, and that disturbs me. You understand."
"Nevertheless I am suffocated. Francois." Francois entered. "Open the windows, I pray you, Master Francois," said Aramis. "You will allow him, dear M. Baisemeaux?"
"You are at home here," answered the governor. The window was opened. "Do you not think," said M. de Baisemeaux, "that you will find yourself very lonely, now M. de la Fere has returned to his household gods at Blois? He is a very old friend, is he not?"
"You know it as I do, Baisemeaux, seeing that you were in the musketeers with us."
"Bah! with my friends I reckon neither bottles of wine nor years."
"And you are right. But I do more than love M. de la Fere, dear Baisemeaux; I venerate him."
"Well, for my part, though 'tis singular," said the governor, "I prefer M. d'Artagnan to him. There is a man for you, who drinks long and well! That kind of people allow you at least to penetrate their thoughts."
"Baisemeaux, make me tipsy to-night; let us have a debauch as of old, and if I have a trouble at the bottom of my heart, I promise you, you shall see it as you would a diamond at the bottom of your glass."
"Bravo!" said Baisemeaux, and he poured out a great glass of wine and drank it off at a draught, trembling with joy at the idea of being, by hook or by crook, in the secret of some high archiepiscopal misdemeanor. While he was drinking he did not see with what attention Aramis was noting the sounds in the great court. A courier came in about eight o'clock as Francois brought in the fifth bottle, and, although the courier made a great noise, Baisemeaux heard nothing.
"The devil take him," said Aramis.
"What! who?" asked Baisemeaux. "I hope 'tis neither the wine you drink nor he who is the cause of your drinking it."
"No; it is a horse, who is making noise enough in the court for a whole squadron."
"Pooh! some courier or other," replied the governor, redoubling his numerous bumpers. "Yes; and may the devil take him, and so quickly that we shall never hear him speak more! Hurrah! hurrah!"
"You forget me, Baisemeaux! my glass is empty," said Aramis, showing his dazzling goblet.
"Upon honor, you delight me. Francois, wine!"
Francois entered. "Wine, fellow! and better."
"Yes, monsieur, yes; but a courier has just arrived."
"Let him go to the devil, I say."
"Yes, monsieur, but—"
"Let him leave his news at the office: we will see to it to-morrow. To-morrow, there will be time to-morrow; there will be daylight," said Baisemeaux, chanting the words.
"Ah, monsieur," grumbled the soldier Francois, in spite of himself, "monsieur."
"Take care," said Aramis, "take care!"
"Of what? dear M. d'Herblay," said Baisemeaux, half intoxicated.
"The letter which the courier brings to the governor of a fortress is sometimes an order."
"Nearly always."
"Do not orders issue from the ministers?"
"Yes, undoubtedly; but—"
"And what do these ministers do but countersign the signature of the king?"
"Perhaps you are right. Nevertheless, 'tis very tiresome when you are sitting before a good table, tete-à-tete witha friend—Ah! I beg your pardon, monsieur; I forgot it is I who engage you at supper, and that I speak to a future cardinal."
"Let us pass over that, dear Baisemeaux, and return to our soldier, to Francois."
"Well, and what has Francois done?"
"He has demurred!"
"He was wrong, then."
"However, hehasdemurred, you see; 'tis because there is something extraordinary in this matter. It is very possible that it was not Francois who was wrong in demurring, but you, who will be wrong in not listening to him."
"Wrong? I to be wrong before Francois? that seems rather hard."
"Pardon me, merely an irregularity. But I thought it my duty to make an observation which I deem important."
"Oh! perhaps you are right," stammered Baisemeaux. "The king's order is sacred; but as to orders that arrive when one is at supper, I repeat that the devil—"
"If you had said as much to the great cardinal—hem! my dear Baisemeaux, and if his order had any importance."
"I do it that I may not disturb a bishop. Mordioux! am I not, then, excusable?"
"Do not forget, Baisemeaux, that I have worn the soldier's coat, and I am accustomed to see everywhere obedience."
"You wish, then—"
"I wish that you should do your duty, my friend; yes, at least before this soldier."
"'Tis mathematically true," exclaimed Baisemeaux. Francois still waited: "Let them send this order of the king's up to me," he repeated, recovering himself. And he added in a low tone, "Do you know what it is? I will tell you something about as interesting as this. 'Beware of fire near the powder magazine;' or 'Look close after such a one, who is clever at escaping.' Ah! if you only knew, monseigneur, how many times I have been suddenly awakened from the very sweetest and deepest slumber, by messengers arriving at full gallop to tell me, or rather bring me a slip of paper, containing these words: 'Monsieur de Baisemeaux, what news?' 'Tis clear enough that those who waste their time writing such orders have never slept in the Bastille. They would know better; the thickness of my walls, the vigilance of my officers, the number of rounds we go. But, indeed, what can you expect, monseigneur? It is their business to write and torment me when I am at rest, and to trouble me when I am happy," added Baisemeaux, bowing to Aramis. "Then let them do their business."
"And do you do yours," added the bishop, smiling.
Francois re-entered; Baisemeaux took from his hands the minister's order. He slowly undid it, and as slowly read it. Aramis pretended to be drinking, so as to be able to watch his host through the glass. Then, Baisemeaux having read it: "What was I just saying?" he exclaimed.
"What is it?" asked the bishop.
"An order of release! There, now; excellent news indeed to disturb us!"
"Excellent news for him whom it concerns, you will at least agree, my dear governor!"
"And at eight o'clock in the evening!"
"It is charitable!"
"Oh! charity is all very well, but it is for that fellow who says he is so weary and tired, but not for me who am amusing myself," said Baisemeaux, exasperated.
"Will you lose by him, then? And is the prisoner who is to be set at liberty a high payer?"
"Oh, yes, indeed! a miserable, five-franc rat!"
"Let me see it," asked M. d'Herblay. "It is no indiscretion?"
"By no means; read it."
"There is 'Urgent' on the paper; you have seen that, I suppose?"
"Oh, admirable! 'Urgent'!—a man who has been there ten years! It isurgentto set him free to-day, this very evening, at eight o'clock!—urgent!" And Baisemeaux, shrugging his shoulders with an air of supreme disdain, flung the order on the table and began eating again. "They are fond of these dodges!" he said, with his mouth full; "they seize a man, some fine day, maintain him for ten years, and write to you, 'Watch this fellow well,' or 'Keep him very strictly.' And then, as soon as you are accustomed to look upon the prisoner as a dangerous man, all of a sudden, without cause or precedent, they write—'Set him at liberty;' and actually add to their missive—'urgent.' You will own, my lord, 'tis enough to make any one shrug his shoulders!"
"What do you expect? It is they who write," said Aramis, "and it is for you to execute the order."
"Good! good! execute it! Oh, patience! You must not imagine that I am a slave."
"Gracious Heaven! my very good M. Baisemeaux, who ever said so? Your independence is known."
"Thank Heaven!"
"But your good heart also is known."
"Ah! don't speak of it!"
"And your obedience to your superiors. Once a soldier, you see, Baisemeaux, always a soldier."
"And so I shall strictly obey; and, to-morrow morning, at daybreak, the prisoner referred to shall be set free."
"To-morrow?"
"At dawn."
"Why not this evening, seeing that thelettre de cachetbears, both on the direction and inside, 'urgent!'"
"Because this evening we are at supper, and our affairs are urgent too!"
"Dear Baisemeaux, booted though I be, I feel myself a priest, and charity has higher claims upon me than hunger and thirst. This unfortunate man has suffered long enough, since you have just told me that he has been your prisoner these ten years. Abridge his suffering. His good time has come; give him the benefit quickly. God will repay you in Paradise with years of felicity."
"You wish it?"
"I entreat you."
"What! in the very middle of our repast?"
"I implore you; such an action is worth ten Benedicites."
"It shall be as you desire, only our supper will get cold."
"Oh! never heed that."
Baisemeaux leaned back to ring for Francois, and by a very natural motion turned round toward the door. The order had remained on the table; Aramis seized the opportunity when Baisemeaux was not looking to change the paper for another, folded in the same manner, and which he took from his pocket. "Francois," said the governor, "let the major come up here with the turnkeys of the Bertaudiere."
Francois bowed and quitted the room, leaving the two companions alone.
There was now a brief silence, during which Aramis never removed his eyes from Baisemeaux for a moment. The latter seemed only half decided to disturb himself thus in the middle of supper, and it was clear he was seeking some pretext, whether good or bad, for delay, at any rate till after dessert. And it appeared also that he had hit upon a pretext at last.
"Eh! but it is impossible!" he cried.
"How impossible?" said Aramis. "Give me a glimpse of this impossibility."
"'Tis impossible to set a prisoner at liberty at such an hour. Where can he go to, he, who is unacquainted with Paris?"
"He will go wherever he can."
"You see, now, one might as well set a blind man free!"
"I have a carriage, and will take him wherever he wishes."
"You have an answer for everything. Francois, tell Monsieur le Major to go and open the cell of M. Seldon, No. 3, Bertaudiere."
"Seldon!" exclaimed Aramis, very naturally. "You said Seldon, I think?"
"I said Seldon, of course. 'Tis the name of the man they set free."
"Oh! You mean to say Marchiali?" said Aramis.
"Marchiali? oh! yes, indeed. No, no, Seldon."
"I think you are making a mistake, Monsieur Baisemeaux."
"I have read the order."
"And I also."
"And I saw 'Seldon' in letters as large as that," and Baisemeaux held up his finger.
"And I read 'Marchiali,' in characters as large as this," said Aramis, also holding up two fingers.
"To the proof; let us throw a light on the matter," said Baisemeaux, confident he was right. "There is the paper, you have only to read it."
"I read 'Marchiali,'" returned Aramis, spreading out the paper. "Look."
Baisemeaux looked, and his arms dropped suddenly. "Yes, yes," he said, quite overwhelmed; "yes, Marchiali. 'Tis plainly written Marchiali! Quite true!"
"Ah!"
"How? the man of whom we have talked so much? The man whom they are every day telling me to take such care of?"
"There is 'Marchiali,'" repeated the inflexible Aramis.
"I must own it, monseigneur. But I understand absolutely nothing about it."
"You believe your eyes, at any rate."
"To tell me very plainly there is 'Marchiali.'"
"And in a good handwriting, too."
"'Tis a wonder! I still see this order and the name of Seldon, Irishman. I see it. Ah! I even recollect that under this name there was a blot of ink."
"No, there is no ink; no, there is no blot."
"Oh! but there was, though; I know it, because I rubbed the powder that was over the blot."
"In a word, be it how it may, dear M. Baisemeaux," said Aramis, "and whatever you may have seen, the order is signed to release Marchiali, blot or no blot."
"The order is signed to release Marchiali!" repeated Baisemeaux, mechanically endeavoring to regain his courage.
"And you are going to release this prisoner. If your heart dictates to you to deliver Seldon also, I declare to you I will not oppose it the least in the world." Aramis accompanied this remark with a smile, the irony of which effectually dispelled Baisemeaux's confusion of mind, and restored his courage.
"Monseigneur," he said, "this Marchiali is the very same prisoner whom the other day a priest, confessor ofour order, came to visit in so imperious and so secret a manner."
"I don't know that, monsieur," replied the bishop.
"'Tis no such long time ago, dear Monsieur d'Herblay."
"It is true. Butwith us, monsieur, it is good that the man of to-day should no longer know what the man of yesterday did."
"In any case," said Baisemeaux, "the visit of the Jesuit confessor must have given happiness to this man."
Aramis made no reply, but recommenced eating and drinking. As for Baisemeaux, no longer touching anything that was on the table, he again took up the order and examined it in every way. This investigation, under ordinary circumstances, would have made the ears of the impatient Aramis burn with anger; but the bishop of Vannes did not become incensed for so little, above all, when he had murmured to himself that to do so was dangerous. "Are you going to release Marchiali?" he said. "What mellow and fragrant sherry this is, my dear governor."
"Monseigneur," replied Baisemeaux, "I shall release the prisoner Marchiali when I have summoned the courier who brought the order, and above all, when, by interrogating him, I have satisfied myself."
"The order is sealed, and the courier is ignorant of the contents. What do you want to satisfy yourself about?"
"Be it so, monseigneur; but I shall send to the ministry, and M. de Lyonne will either confirm or withdraw the order."
"What is the good of all that?" asked Aramis, coldly.
"What good?"
"Yes; what is your object, I ask?"
"The object of never deceiving one's self, monseigneur, nor being wanting in the respect which a subaltern owes to his superior officers, nor infringing the duties of that service which one has voluntarily accepted."
"Very good; you have just spoken so eloquently, that I cannot but admire you. It is true that a subaltern owes respect to his superiors; he is guilty when he deceives himself, and he should be punished if he infringe either the duties or laws of his office." Baisemeaux looked at the bishop with astonishment.
"It follows," pursued Aramis, "that you are going to ask advice, to put your conscience at ease in the matter?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"And if a superior officer gives you orders, you will obey?"
"Never doubt it, monseigneur."
"You know the king's signature well, M. de Baisemeaux?"
"Yes, monseigneur."
"Is it not on this order of release?"
"It is true, but it may—"
"Be forged, you mean?"
"That is evident, monseigneur."
"You are right. And that of M. de Lyonne?"
"I see it plain enough on the order; but for the same reason that the king's signature may have been forged, so also, even more likely, may M. de Lyonne's."
"Your logic has the stride of a giant, M. de Baisemeaux," said Aramis; "and your reasoning is irresistible. But on what special grounds do you base your idea that these signatures are false?"
"On this: the absence of counter-signatures. Nothing checks his majesty's signature; and M. de Lyonne is not there to tell me he has signed."
"Well, Monsieur de Baisemeaux," said Aramis, bending an eagle glance on the governor, "I adopt so frankly your doubts, and your mode of clearing them up, that I will take a pen, if you will give me one."
Baisemeaux gave him a pen.
"And a sheet of white paper," added Aramis.
Baisemeaux handed some paper.
"Now, I—I, also—I, here present—incontestably, I—am going to write an order to which I am certain you will give credence, incredulous as you are!"
Baisemeaux turned pale at this icy assurance of manner. It seemed to him that that voice of the bishop's, but just now so playful and so gay, had become funereal and sad; that the wax-lights changed into the tapers of a mortuary chapel, and the glasses of wine into chalices of blood.
Aramis took a pen and wrote. Baisemeaux, in terror, read over his shoulder.