Molière had no need of encouragement, and his gaze dwelt upon the Baron Porthos. “Monsieur,” he said, “if you will come with me, I will make them take your measure without the measurer touching you.”
“Oh!” said Porthos, “how do you make that out, my friend?”
“I say that they shall apply neither line nor rule to the seams of your dress. It is a new method we have invented for measuring people of quality, who are too sensitive to allow low-born fellows to touch them. We know some susceptible persons who will not put up with being measured,—a process which, as I think, wounds the natural dignity of man; and if perchance Monsieur should be one of these—”
“Corbœuf! I believe I am, too!”
“Well, that is a capital coincidence, and you will have the benefit of our invention.”
“But how in the world can it be done?” asked Porthos, delighted.
“Monsieur,” said Molière, bowing, “if you will deign to follow me, you will see.”
Aramis observed this scene with all his eyes. Perhaps he fancied from d‘Artagnan’s liveliness that he would leave with Porthos, so as not to lose the conclusion of a scene so well begun. But, clear-sighted as he was, Aramis deceived himself. Porthos and Molière left together alone. D’Artagnan remained with Percerin. Why? From curiosity, doubtless; probably to enjoy a little longer the society of his good friend Aramis. As Molière and Porthos disappeared, d’Artagnan drew near the Bishop of Vannes, a proceeding which appeared particularly to disconcert him.
“A dress for you also, is it not, my friend?”
Aramis smiled. “No,” said he.
“You will go to Vaux, however?”
“I shall go, but without a new dress. You forget; dear d’Artagnan, that a poor Bishop of Vannes is not rich enough to have new dresses for every fête.”
“Bah!” said the musketeer, laughing, “and do we write no more poems now, neither?”
“Oh! d’Artagnan,” exclaimed Aramis, “I have long given over all these follies.”
“True,” repeated d’Artagnan, only half convinced. As for Percerin, he had relapsed into his contemplation of the brocades.
“Don’t you perceive,” said Aramis, smiling, “that we are greatly boring this good gentleman, my dear d’Artagnan?”
“Ah! ah!” murmured the musketeer, aside; “that is, I am boring you, my friend.” Then aloud, “Well, then, let us leave; I have no further business here; and if you are as disengaged as I, Aramis—”
“No, not I—Iwished—”
“Ah! you had something particular to say to M. Percerin? Why did you not tell me so at once?”
“Something particular, certainly,” repeated Aramis, “but not for you, d’Artagnan. But, at the same time, I hope you will believe that I can never have anything so particular to say that a friend like you may not hear it.”
“Oh, no, no! I am going,” said d’Artagnan, imparting to his voice an evident tone of curiosity; for Aramis’s annoyance, well dissembled as it was, had not a whit escaped him; and he knew that, in that impenetrable mind, everything, even the most apparently trivial, was designed to some end; an unknown one; but one which, from the knowledge he had of his friend’s character, the musketeer felt must be important.
On his part, Aramis saw that d‘Artagnan was not without suspicion, and pressed him. “Stay, by all means,” he said, “this is what it is.” Then turning towards the tailor, “My dear Percerin,” said he, “I am even very happy that you are here, d’Artagnan.”
“Oh, indeed,” exclaimed the Gascon, for the third time, even less deceived this time than before.
Percerin never moved. Aramis roused him violently by snatching from his hands the stuff upon which he was engaged. “My dear Percerin,” said he, “I have near at hand, M. Lebrun, one of M. Fouquet’s painters.”
“Ah, very good,” thought d‘Artagnan; “but why ‘Lebrun’?”
Aramis looked at d’Artagnan, who seemed to be occupied with an engraving of Mark Antony. “And you wish to have made for him a dress, similar to those of the Epicureans?” answered Percerin. And while saying this in an absent manner, the worthy tailor endeavoured to recapture his piece of brocade.
“An Epicurean’s dress?” asked d’Artagnan, in a tone of inquiry.
“I see,” said Aramis, with a most engaging smile, “it is written that our dear d’Artagnan shall know all our secrets this evening. Yes, my friend, you have surely heard speak of M. Fouquet’s Epicureans, have you not?”
“Undoubtedly. Is it not a kind of poetical society, of which La Fontaine, Loret, Pélisson, and Molière are members, and which holds its sittings at St Mandé?”
“Exactly so. Well, we are going to put our poets in uniform, and enroll them in a regiment for the King.”
“Oh, very well; I understand; a surprise M. Fouquet is getting up for the King. Be at ease; if that is the secret about M. Lebrun, I will not mention it.”
“Always agreeable, my friend. No; Monsieur Lebrun has nothing to do with this part of it; the secret which concerns him is far more important than the other.”
“Then, if it is so important as all that, I prefer not to know it,” said d’Artagnan, making a show of departure.
“Come in, M. Lebrun, come in,” said Aramis, opening a side-door with his right hand, and holding d’Artagnan with his left.
“I’faith, I, too, am quite in the dark,” quoth Percerin.
Aramis took an “opportunity,” as is said in theatrical matters. —“My dear M. Percerin,” Aramis continued, “you are making fine dresses for the King, are you not? One in brocade, one in hunting-cloth, one in velvet, one in satin, and one in Florentine stuffs?”
“Yes; but how—do you know all that, monseigneur?” said Percerin, astounded.
“It is all very simple, my dear monsieur; there will be a hunt, a banquet, concert, promenade, and reception. These five kinds of dress are required by etiquette.”
“You know everything, monseigneur!”
“And a great many more things, too,” murmured d’Artagnan.
“But,” cried the tailor, in triumph, “what you do not know, monseigneur—prince of the church though you are—what nobody will know—what only the King, Mademoiselle de la Vallière, and myself do know, is the colour of the materials, and the nature of the ornaments, and the cut, the ensemble, the finish of it all!”
“Well,” said Aramis, “that is precisely what I have come to ask you, dear Percerin.”
“Ah, bah!” exclaimed the tailor, terrified, though Aramis had pronounced these words in his sweetest and most honeyed voice. The request appeared, on reflection, so exaggerated, so ridiculous, so monstrous, to M. Percerin, that, first he laughed to himself, then aloud, and finished with a shout. D’Artagnan followed his example, not because he found the matter so “very funny,” but in order not to allow Aramis to cool.
“At the outset I appear to be hazarding an absurd question, do I not?” said Aramis. “But d’Artagnan, who is incarnate wisdom itself, will tell you that I could not do otherwise than ask you this.”
“Let us see,” said the attentive musketeer, perceiving with his wonderful instinct that they had only been skirmishing till now, and that the hour of battle was approaching.
“Let us see,” said Percerin incredulously.
“Why, now,” continued Aramis, “does M. Fouquet give the King a fête?-Is it not to please him?”
“Assuredly,” said Percerin. D’Artagnan nodded assent.
“By delicate attentions? by some happy device? by a succession of surprises, like that of which we were talking of?—the enrolment of our Epicureans.”
“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 backwards, 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, for you understand, 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 poor tailor, terrified at the responsibility which would weigh upon him; “I 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 meantime 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 masterpieces 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 colours 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 colours.”
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,” said Aramis; “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.
33
Where, Probably, Molière Formed His First Idea of the Bourgeois Gentilhomme14
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 Molière, 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 Molière.
“Well, monsieur,” said he, “will you come with me to Saint-Mandé?”
“I will go anywhere you like, monseigneur,” answered Molière.
“To Saint-Mandé!” cried Porthos, surprised at seeing the proud Bishop of Vannes fraternising 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. Molière 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 Molière.
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Come, then, my dear M. Molière,” said Aramis, “that is, if you have done with M. du Vallon.”
“We have finished,” replied Porthos.
“And you are satisfied?” asked d’Artagnan.
“Completely so,” replied Porthos.
Molière took his leave of Porthos with much ceremony, and grasped the hand which the captain of the musketeers furtively offered h
im.
“Pray, monsieur,” concluded Porthos, mincingly, “above all, be exact.”
“You will have your dress after to-morrow, Monsieur le Baron,” answered Molière. And he left with Aramis.
Then d’Artagnan, taking Porthos’s 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 he has 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. Molière. 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, come, tell me M. Molière’s plan.”
“Molière? 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 Molière best. When I wish to recollect his name, I shall think of Volière (an aviary); and as I have one at Pierrefonds—”
“Capital!” returned d’Artagnan; “and M. Molière’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 dishonourable practices—”
Man in the Iron Mask (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 31
