“To admire the greatest king of all kings round,” continued La Fontaine.
“But the verb, the verb,” obstinately insisted Pelisson. “This second person singular of the present indicative?”
“Well, then; quittest: Oh, nymph, who quittest now this grot profound, To admire the greatest king of all kings round.”
“You would not put ‘who quittest,’ would you?”
“Why not?”
“‘Quittest,’ 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 either; it was Pelisson.”
“Well, Pelisson 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 made her nest upon it, which has rather changed its color.”
Moliere burst out laughing; Pelisson 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 superintendent,” 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 down to work. La Fontaine placed himself at a table, and set his rapid pen an endless dance across the smooth white vellum; Pelisson made a fair copy of his prologue; Moliere contributed fifty fresh verses, with which his visit to Percerin had inspired him; Loret, an article on the marvelous fetes he predicted; and Aramis, laden with his 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 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.”
“‘He loves,’ yes,” replied Moliere, with his sad, sweet smile. “‘He loves,’ that does not mean, they love him.”
“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 craw-fish.”
“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 these 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 superintendent. “Oh, how they are laughing there!” said Fouquet, with a sigh.
“Do you not 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 entree into Vaux.”
Fouquet looked closely at Aramis, and passed the back of his icy hand across his moistened brow. Aramis perceived that the superintendent 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 came you,” said he, “my friend?”
“From Paris—from Percerin.”
“And what have you been doing at Percerin’s, for I suppose you attach no great importance to our poets’ dresses?”
“No; I went to prepare a surprise.”
“Surprise?”
“Yes; which you are going 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 or think 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 monseigneurs
