“But the verb, the verb?” asked Pélisson.
“To admire the greatest king of all kings round,” continued La Fontaine.
“But the verb, the verb,” obstinately insisted Pélisson. “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 Molière, “that the second line, ‘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 Pélisson.”
“Well, Pélisson was right a hundred times over. But what annoys me more than anything, my dear Molière, is that I fear we shall not have our Epicurean dresses.”
“You expected yours, then, for the fête?”
“Yes, for the fête, and then for after the fête. 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 of my room, and my cat—”
“Well; your cat—”
“She kittened upon it, which has rather altered its colour.”
Molière burst out laughing; Pélisson 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 labour 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; Pélisson made a fair copy of his prologue; Molière gave fifty fresh verses, with which his visit to Percerin had inspired him; Loret, his article on the marvellous fêtes 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 Molière.
“Yes; poor Molière,” said Loret, smiling; “he loves his home.”
“‘He loves,‘ yes,” replied Molière, with his sad, sweet smile. “ ‘He loves,’ that does not mean, they love him.”
“As for me,” said La Fontaine, “they love me at Château 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 Molière, “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 Molière 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 Molière, 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.
“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 poet’s dresses.”
“No.—I went to prepare a surprise.”
“Surprise! ”
“Yes; which you are to give 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 monseigneurs 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 me 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.”16
“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 honour.”
“And his name is—?”
“Seldon.”
“Yes.—But it is too bad. You knew this, and 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 unjustice 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 Molière, who was beginning to lose patience.
35
Another Supper at the Bastille
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; cardons of Guipuzcoa and la bisque écrevisses: these together with the soups and hors-d’oeuvres, 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 grey, 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 licence 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. François, 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 tête-à-tête when I am with a friend.” Baisemeaux bowed respectfully. “I like extremely,” continued Aramis, “to help myself.”
“Retire, François,” 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 abbé, turned musketeer, and from musketeer turned abbé.” Aramis condescended to smile. “From abbé,” continued Baisemeaux, encouraged by Aramis’s smile—“from abbé, bishop—and from bishop—”
“Ah! stay there, I beg,” exclaimed Aramis.
“I say, monsieur, that you gave 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 François.”
“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. François,” François entered. “Open the windows, I pray you, Master François,” 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 Fère 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 do right; but I do more than love M. de la Fère, 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 misdemeanour. 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 François 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 honour, you delight me. François, wine!”
François 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 François, 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, tête-à-tête with a friend—Ah! I beg your pardon, m
onsieur; 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 François.”
“Well, and what has François done?”
“He has demurred.”
“He was wrong, then?”
“However, he has demurred, you see; ’tis because there is something extraordinary in this matter. It is very possible that it was not François who was wrong in demurring, but you, who will be wrong in not listening to him.”
“Wrong? I to be wrong before François? 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. Mordieux! 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. François 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 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.”
Man in the Iron Mask (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 33
