Part 11

— Well, my dear friend, that does not surprise me on Molière's part.

— Volière, my friend!

— Oh! no, no, indeed! I am quite willing to let you say Volière; but as for me, I shall go on saying Molière. Well, as I was saying, that does not astonish me from Molière, who is an ingenious fellow, and to whom you have inspired that fine idea.

— It will serve him later, I am sure of it.

— How do you mean, if it will serve him! I should think it will serve him, and even a great deal! For, you see, my friend, Molière is, of all our known tailors, the one who dresses our barons, our counts, and our marquises best... to their measure.

Upon this word, whose aptness or depth we shall not discuss, d'Artagnan and Porthos left Master Percerin's and rejoined their carriage. We shall leave them there, if the reader pleases, to return to Molière and Aramis at Saint-Mandé.

Chapter CCXII — The hive, the bees, and the honey

The Bishop of Vannes, much vexed at having met d'Artagnan at Master Percerin's, returned in rather ill humor to Saint-Mandé.

Molière, on the contrary, quite delighted at having found so good a sketch to make, and at knowing where to find the original again, when from the sketch he should wish to make a picture, Molière re-entered in the most joyful of moods.

The whole of the first floor, on the left side, was occupied by the most celebrated epicureans in Paris and the most familiar in the house, each employed in his compartment, like bees in their cells, at producing a honey destined for the royal cake which M. Fouquet counted upon serving to His Majesty Louis XIV during the fête of Vaux.

Pélisson, his head in his hand, was digging the foundations of the prologue of the _Fâcheux_, a comedy in three acts, which was to be performed by Poquelin de Molière, as d'Artagnan said, and Coquelin de Volière, as Porthos said.

Loret, in all the naïveté of his calling as gazetteer — gazetteers have always been naïve — Loret was composing the account of the fêtes of Vaux before those fêtes had taken place.

La Fontaine wandered among the one and the other, a stray shadow, absent-minded, awkward, insufferable, who buzzed and whispered a thousand poetical inanities into each one's ear. He hindered Pélisson so many times, that the latter, raising his head with annoyance,

— At least, La Fontaine, said he, gather me a rhyme, since you say you are walking in the gardens of Parnassus.

— What rhyme do you want? asked the fabulist, as Madame de Sévigné called him.

— I want a rhyme to _lumière_.

— _Ornière_, answered La Fontaine.

— Eh! my dear friend, impossible to speak of ruts when one is praising the delights of Vaux, said Loret.

— Besides, it does not rhyme, answered Pélisson.

— What! it does not rhyme? cried La Fontaine, surprised.

— Yes, you have a detestable habit, my dear; a habit which will always prevent you from being a poet of the first rank. You rhyme basely!

— Oh! oh! you think so, Pélisson?

— Eh! yes, my dear, I think so. Remember that a rhyme is never good so long as a better one can be found.

— Then I shall never write except in prose, said La Fontaine, who had taken Pélisson's reproach seriously. Ah! I had often suspected that I was but a sorry poet! yes, that is the pure truth.

— Do not say that, my dear; you are becoming too exclusive, and you have good stuff in your fables.

— And to begin with, continued La Fontaine, pursuing his idea, I am going to burn some hundred verses that I had just made.

— Where are they, your verses?

— In my head.

— Well, if they are in your head, you cannot burn them?

— That is true, said La Fontaine. If I do not burn them, however...

— Well, what will happen if you do not burn them?

— It will happen that they will remain in my mind, and that I shall never forget them.

— The devil! said Loret, that is dangerous; one goes mad from it!

— The devil, the devil, the devil! what is to be done? repeated La Fontaine.

— I have found a way, said Molière, who had come in upon the last words.

— Which?

— Write them down first, and burn them afterwards.

— How simple that is! Well, I should never have invented that. What wit that devil of a Molière has! said La Fontaine.

Then, striking his forehead:

— Ah! you will never be anything but an ass, Jean de La Fontaine, he added.

— What are you saying there, my friend? interrupted Molière, approaching the poet, whose aside he had overheard.

— I say that I shall never be anything but an ass, my dear colleague, answered La Fontaine with a heavy sigh and eyes all swollen with sadness. Yes, my friend, he continued with growing sadness, it appears that I rhyme basely.

— That is a fault.

— You see! I am a knave!

— Who said that?

— Parbleu! it is Pélisson. Is it not, Pélisson?

Pélisson, plunged again into his composition, took good care not to answer.

— But, if Pélisson said you were a knave, cried Molière, Pélisson has gravely offended you.

— You think so?...

— Ah! my dear, I advise you, since you are a gentleman, not to leave such an insult unpunished.

— Hem! said La Fontaine.

— Have you ever fought?

— Once, my friend, with a lieutenant of light horse.

— What had he done to you?

— It appears he had seduced my wife.

— Ah! ah! said Molière, turning slightly pale.

But as, at La Fontaine's avowal, the others had turned round, Molière kept upon his lips the mocking smile which had nearly faded from them, and, continuing to make La Fontaine speak:

— And what resulted from this duel?

— It resulted that, on the field, my adversary disarmed me, then made me apologies, promising me never to set foot in the house again.

— And you held yourself satisfied? asked Molière.

— Not at all, on the contrary! I picked up my sword: 'Pardon, monsieur,' said I to him, 'I did not fight with you because you were my wife's lover, but because I was told I ought to fight. Now, as I have never been happy except since that time, do me the pleasure of continuing to come to the house, as before, or, zounds! let us begin again.' So that, continued La Fontaine, he was forced to remain my wife's lover, and that I continue to be the happiest husband on earth.

All burst out laughing. Molière alone passed his hand over his eyes. Why? Perhaps to wipe away a tear, perhaps to stifle a sigh. Alas! it is known, Molière was a moralist but Molière was not a philosopher.

— All the same, said he, returning to the starting point of the discussion, Pélisson has offended you.

— Ah! that is true, I had already forgotten it, myself.

— And I am going to call him out on your behalf.

— That may be done, if you judge it indispensable.

— I judge it indispensable, and I am going.

— Wait, said La Fontaine. I want your opinion.

— On what?... On this offense?

— No, tell me if, really, _lumière_ does not rhyme with _ornière_.

— I would make them rhyme.

— Parbleu! I knew it.

— And I have made a hundred thousand such verses in my life.

— A hundred thousand? cried La Fontaine. Four times the _Pucelle_ that M. Chapelain is meditating! Is it also on that subject that you have made a hundred thousand verses, dear friend?

— But, listen, eternal dreamer! said Molière.

— It is certain, continued La Fontaine, that _légume_, for example, rhymes with _posthume_.

— Especially in the plural.

— Yes, especially in the plural; seeing that then it rhymes, not by three letters, but by four; it is like _ornière_ with _lumière_. Put _ornières_ and _lumières_ in the plural, my dear Pélisson, said La Fontaine, going to tap his colleague on the shoulder, whose insult he had completely forgotten, and that will rhyme.

— Eh! said Pélisson.

— Why, Molière says so, and Molière knows about it, he admits himself having made a hundred thousand verses.

— Come, said Molière, laughing, there he goes!

— It is like _rivage_, which rhymes admirably with _herbage_, I would stake my head on it.

— But... said Molière.

— I tell you that, continued La Fontaine, because you are making a diversion for Sceaux, are you not?

— Yes, _the Fâcheux_.

— Ah! _the Fâcheux_, that is it; yes, I remember. Well, I had imagined that a prologue would go very well with your diversion.

— No doubt, that would go marvelously.

— Ah! you are of my opinion?

— I am so much so, that I had asked you to make it, this prologue.

— You asked me to make it, me?

— Yes, you; and even, upon your refusal, I asked you to request it of Pélisson, who is making it at this moment.

— Ah! so that is what Pélisson is doing? My faith! my dear Molière, you might well be right sometimes.

— When is that?

— When you say I am absent-minded. It is a vile fault; I shall correct myself, and I am going to make your prologue for you.

— But since it is Pélisson who is making it!

— That is just! Ah! double brute that I am! Loret was quite right to say I was a knave!

— It is not Loret who said that, my friend.

— Well, whoever said it, little do I care which! So, your diversion is called _the Fâcheux_. Well, would you not make _heureux_ rhyme with _fâcheux_?

— At a pinch, yes.

— And even with _capricieux_?

— Oh! no, this time, no!

— That would be risky, would it not? But, after all, why would it be risky?

— Because the ending is too different.

— I was supposing, said La Fontaine, leaving Molière to go find Loret, I was supposing...

— What were you supposing? said Loret in the middle of a sentence. Come, speak quickly.

— It is you who are making the prologue of _the Fâcheux_, is it not?

— Eh! no, zounds! it is Pélisson!

— Ah! it is Pélisson! cried La Fontaine, who went to find Pélisson. I was supposing, he continued, that the nymph of Vaux...

— Ah! pretty! cried Loret. The nymph of Vaux! Thank you, La Fontaine; you have just given me the last two lines of my gazette:

_And one saw the nymph of Vaux_ _Give the prize to their labors_.

— There, that is rhymed, said Pélisson: if you rhymed like that, La Fontaine, there, that is well!

— But it appears I do rhyme like that, since Loret says it is I who gave him the two lines he has just spoken.

— Well, if you rhyme like that, come, tell me, how would you begin my prologue?

— I would say, for example: _O nymph... who..._ After _who_, I would put a verb in the second person plural of the present indicative, and I would continue thus: _this deep grotto_.

— But the verb, the verb? asked Pélisson.

— _To come admire the greatest king on earth_, continued La Fontaine.

— But the verb, the verb? insisted obstinately Pélisson. This second person plural of the present indicative?

— Well: _quittez_.

_O nymph who quittez this deep grotto_ _To come admire the greatest king on earth_.

— You would put: _who quittez_, you?

— Why not?

— _Who... who!_

— Ah! my dear, said La Fontaine, you are horribly pedantic!

— Not to mention, said Molière, that, in the second verse, _to come admire_ is weak, my dear La Fontaine.

— Then you see plainly that I am a coward, a knave, as you said.

— I never said that.

— As Loret said, then.

— It is not Loret either; it is Pélisson.

— Well, Pélisson was a hundred times right. But what vexes me above all, my dear Molière, is that I believe we shall not have our epicurean clothes.

— You were counting on yours for the fête?

— Yes, for the fête, and then for after the fête. My housekeeper warned me that mine was a little ripe.

— The devil! your housekeeper is right: it is more than ripe!

— Ah! you see, resumed La Fontaine, it is that I forgot it on the floor in my study, and my cat...

— Well, your cat?

— My cat made her cats upon it, which has rather faded it.

Molière burst out laughing. Pélisson and Loret followed his example.

At this moment, the Bishop of Vannes appeared, holding under his arm a roll of plans and parchments.

As if the angel of death had frozen all those mad and laughing imaginations, as if that pale face had frightened away the graces to which Xenocrates sacrificed, silence was at once established in the workshop, and each resumed his composure and his pen.

Aramis distributed invitation cards to those present, and addressed them with thanks on the part of M. Fouquet. The surintendant, he said, detained in his cabinet by work, could not come to see them, but begged them to send him a little of their day's work to make him forget the fatigue of his night's labor.

At these words, every brow was seen to bend. La Fontaine himself sat down at a table and set a rapid pen racing over the vellum; Pélisson made a fair copy of his prologue; Molière gave fifty newly sketched verses that his visit to Percerin had inspired in him; Loret, his article on the marvellous fêtes that he was prophesying; and Aramis, laden with booty like the king of the bees, that great black drone with ornaments of purple and gold, re-entered his apartment, silent and busy. But, before re-entering:

— Bear in mind, said he, dear sirs, that we all set out tomorrow evening.

— In that case, I must let them know at home, said Molière.

— Ah! yes, poor Molière! said Loret, smiling, _he loves_ at home.

— _He loves_, yes, replied Molière with his gentle and sad smile; _he loves_, which does not mean _he is loved_.

— As for me, said La Fontaine, I am loved at Château-Thierry, I am quite sure of it.

At this moment, Aramis re-entered after a disappearance of an instant.

— Is anyone coming with me? he asked. I pass through Paris, after talking with M. Fouquet for a quarter of an hour. I offer my carriage.

— Good, for me! said Molière. I accept; I am in haste.

— As for me, I shall dine here, said Loret. M. de Gourville promised me crayfish.

_He promised me crayfish..._

Find the rhyme, La Fontaine.

Aramis went out laughing as he knew how to laugh. Molière followed him. They were at the foot of the stairs when La Fontaine half-opened the door and cried:

_Provided that you should write it,_ _He promised you crayfish_.

The bursts of laughter of the epicureans redoubled and reached the ears of Fouquet, at the moment when Aramis opened the door of his cabinet.

As for Molière, he had charged himself with ordering the horses, while Aramis went to exchange with the surintendant the few words he had to say to him.

— Oh! how they laugh up there! said Fouquet with a sigh.

— You do not laugh, you, Monseigneur?

— I no longer laugh, Monsieur d'Herblay.

— The fête approaches.

— The money withdraws.

— Did I not tell you that it was my affair?

— You promised me millions.

— You shall have them the day after the king's entry at Vaux.

Fouquet looked deep into Aramis, and passed his cold hand over his damp brow. Aramis understood that the surintendant doubted him, or felt his own powerlessness to have money. How could Fouquet suppose that a poor bishop, ex-abbot, ex-musketeer, would find any?

— Why doubt? said Aramis.

Fouquet smiled and shook his head.

— Man of little faith! added the bishop.

— My dear Monsieur d'Herblay, answered Fouquet, if I fall...

— Well, if you fall...

— I shall at least fall from so high, that I shall break myself in falling.

Then, shaking his head as if to escape himself:

— Where do you come from, said he, dear friend?

— From Paris.

— From Paris? Ah!

— Yes, from Percerin's.

— And what did you go do yourself at Percerin's; for I do not suppose you attach so great an importance to the clothes of our poets?

— No; I went to order a surprise.

— A surprise?

— Yes, which you will give to the king.

— Will it cost dear?

— Oh! a hundred pistoles, which you will give to Le Brun.

— A painting? Ah! so much the better! And what is this painting to represent?

— I shall tell you that; then, at the same stroke, whatever you may say, I visited the clothes of our poets.

— Bah! and they will be elegant, rich?

— Superb! There will not be many great lords who will have the like. One will see the difference between the courtiers of wealth and those of friendship.

— Ever witty and generous, dear prelate!

— At your school.

Fouquet pressed his hand.

— And where are you going? said he.

— I am going to Paris, when you shall have given me a letter.

— A letter for whom?

— A letter for M. de Lyonne.

— And what do you want of Lyonne?

— I want him to sign a lettre de cachet.

— A lettre de cachet! You want to have someone put in the Bastille?

— No, on the contrary, I want to have someone come out of it.

— Ah! And who is that?

— A poor devil, a young man, a child, who has been in the Bastille, going on ten years, for two Latin verses he made against the Jesuits.

— For two Latin verses! And, for two Latin verses, he has been in prison ten years, the unhappy one?

— Yes.

— And he has committed no other crime?

— Apart from those two verses, he is as innocent as you and I.

— Your word?

— Upon my honor!

— And his name is?...

— Seldon.

— Ah! that is too much, indeed! And you knew that, and you did not tell me?

— It was only yesterday that his mother addressed herself to me, Monseigneur.

— And this woman is poor?

— In the deepest misery.

— My God! said Fouquet, you sometimes permit such injustices, that I understand there are unhappy ones who doubt you! Here, Monsieur d'Herblay.

And Fouquet, taking a pen, rapidly wrote a few lines to his colleague Lyonne.

Aramis took the letter and prepared to leave.

— Wait, said Fouquet.

He opened his drawer and handed him ten bank bills that were there. Each bill was for a thousand livres.

— Here, said he, get the son out, and give this to the mother; but above all do not tell her...

— What, Monseigneur?

— That she is ten thousand livres richer than I; she would say I am a sorry surintendant. Go, and I hope that God will bless those who think of his poor.

— That is what I hope also, replied Aramis, kissing Fouquet's hand.

And he went out quickly, carrying the letter for Lyonne, the bank bills for the mother of Seldon, and taking with him Molière, who was beginning to grow impatient.

Chapter CCXIII — Another supper at the Bastille

Seven in the evening was striking upon the great dial of the Bastille, that famous dial which, like all the accessories of the state prison, whose use is a torture, recalled to the prisoners the destination of each of the hours of their torment. The dial of the Bastille, adorned with figures like most clocks of that time, represented Saint Peter in Chains.

It was the hour of supper for the poor captives. The doors, groaning upon their enormous hinges, opened passage to the trays and baskets laden with meats, whose delicacy, as M. Baisemeaux has taught us himself, was suited to the condition of the detainee.

We know on this subject the theories of M. Baisemeaux, sovereign dispenser of gastronomical delights, head cook of the royal fortress, whose full baskets climbed the steep staircases, bearing some consolation to the prisoners, in the bottom of the honestly filled bottles.

This same hour was that of the supper of the governor. He had a guest that day, and the spit turned heavier than usual.

The roasted partridges, flanked by quails and flanking a larded young hare; the fowls in broth, the fried ham sprinkled with white wine, the cardoons of Guipuzcoa and the crayfish bisque; that, besides the soups and the hors d'œuvre, was the menu of the governor.

Baisemeaux, seated at table, rubbed his hands as he looked at the Bishop of Vannes, who, booted like a horseman, dressed in grey, sword at side, never ceased talking of his hunger and testified the liveliest impatience.

M. Baisemeaux de Montlezun was not accustomed to the familiarities of His Grandeur Monseigneur de Vannes, and, that evening, Aramis, grown merry, was making confidence after confidence. The prelate had become a trifle musketeer again. The bishop bordered on gallantry. As for M. Baisemeaux, with the easiness of vulgar folk, he gave himself up entirely at this quarter of abandon of his guest.

— Monsieur, said he, for, in truth, this evening, I dare not call you Monseigneur...

— No indeed, said Aramis, call me monsieur, I have boots.

— Well, monsieur, do you know whom you remind me of this evening?

— No, faith! said Aramis, pouring himself a drink, but I hope I remind you of a good guest.

— You remind me of two. Monsieur François, my friend, close that window: the wind might inconvenience His Grandeur.

— And let him go out! added Aramis. The supper is completely served, we shall eat it well enough without lackeys. I greatly like, when I am in a small committee, when I am with a friend...

Baisemeaux bowed respectfully.

— I greatly like, continued Aramis, to serve myself.

— François, go out! cried Baisemeaux. I was saying, then, that Your Grandeur reminds me of two persons: one very illustrious, it is the late M. the cardinal, the great cardinal, he of La Rochelle, he who had boots like you. Is that true?

— Yes, faith! said Aramis. And the other?

— The other, it is a certain musketeer, very pretty, very brave, very bold, very fortunate, who, from abbot, made himself musketeer, and, from musketeer, abbot.

Aramis deigned to smile.

— From abbot, continued Baisemeaux, emboldened by the smile of His Grandeur, from abbot, bishop, and, from bishop...

— Ah! let us stop, I pray you! said Aramis.

— I tell you, monsieur, that you give me the effect of a cardinal.

— Let us cease, my dear Monsieur Baisemeaux. You said it, I have the boots of a horseman, but I do not wish, even this evening, to quarrel, despite that, with the Church.

— You have bad intentions, however, Monseigneur.

— Oh! I confess it, bad as all that is worldly.

— You run the town, the by-streets, masked?

— As you say, masked.

— And you still play with the sword?

— I believe so, but only when I am forced to it. Do me the pleasure of calling François.

— You have wine there.

— It is not for wine, it is because it is warm here and the window is closed.

— I close the windows at supper so as not to hear the rounds or the arrivals of the couriers.

— Ah! yes... One hears them when the window is open?

— Too well, and that disturbs. You understand.

— Yet one stifles. François!

François entered.

— Open, if you please, master François, said Aramis. You permit, dear Monsieur Baisemeaux?

— Monseigneur is here in his own house, answered the governor.

The window was opened.

— Do you know, said M. Baisemeaux, that you will find yourself quite alone now that M. de La Fère has regained his hearth at Blois? He is a very old friend, is he not?

— You know it as well as I, Baisemeaux, since you were in the musketeers with us.

— Bah! with my friends, I count neither bottles nor years.

— And you are right. But I do more than love M. de La Fère, dear Monsieur Baisemeaux, I venerate him.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”