The Man in the Iron Mask
The Bee-Hive, the Bees, and the Honey.
The of Vannes, much at having met D’Artagnan at M. Percerin’s, returned to Saint-Mande in no very good humor. Moliere, on the other hand, at having such a sketch, and at where to his original again, he should to his sketch into a picture, Moliere in the of moods. All the of the left was by the most Epicureans in Paris, and those on the in the house—every one in his compartment, like the in their cells, in producing the for that cake which M. Fouquet to offer his Louis XIV. the at Vaux. Pelisson, his on his hand, was in out the plan of the to the “Facheux,” a 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 him. Loret, with all the of a gazetteer,—the of all have always been so artless!—Loret was an account of the at Vaux, those had taken place. La Fontaine about from one to the other, a peripatetic, absent-minded, boring, dreamer, who and at everybody’s a thousand abstractions. He so often Pelisson, that the latter, his head, said, “At least, La Fontaine, supply me with a rhyme, since you have the of the gardens at Parnassus.”
“What do you want?” asked the Fabler as Madame de Sevigne used to call him.
“I want a to lumiere.”
“Orniere,” answered La Fontaine.
“Ah, but, my good friend, one cannot talk of wheel-ruts when the of Vaux,” said Loret.
“Besides, it doesn’t rhyme,” answered Pelisson.
“What! doesn’t rhyme!” La Fontaine, in surprise.
“Yes; you have an habit, my friend,—a which will prevent your a of the order. You in a manner.”
“Oh, oh, you think so, do you, Pelisson?”
“Yes, I do, indeed. Remember that a is good so long as one can a better.”
“Then I will anything again save in prose,” said La Fontaine, who had taken up Pelisson’s in earnest. “Ah! I often I was nothing but a poet! Yes, ‘tis the very truth.”
“Do not say so; your is too sweeping, and there is much that is good in your ‘Fables.’”
“And to begin,” La Fontaine, up his idea, “I will go and a hundred I have just made.”
“Where are your verses?”
“In my head.”
“Well, if they are in your you cannot them.”
“True,” said La Fontaine; “but if I do not them—”
“Well, what will if you do not them?”
“They will in my mind, and I shall them!”
“The deuce!” Loret; “what a thing! One would go with it!”
“The deuce! the deuce!” La Fontaine; “what can I do?”
“I have the way,” said Moliere, who had entered just at this point of the conversation.
“What way?”
“Write them and them afterwards.”
“How simple! Well, I should have that. What a mind that of a Moliere has!” said La Fontaine. Then, his forehead, “Oh, be but an ass, Jean La Fontaine!” he added.
“What are you saying there, my friend?” in Moliere, the poet, he had heard.
“I say I shall be but an ass,” answered La Fontaine, with a and eyes. “Yes, my friend,” he added, with grief, “it that I in a manner.”
“Oh, ‘tis to say so.”
“Nay, I am a creature!”
“Who said so?”
“Parbleu! ‘twas Pelisson; did you not, Pelisson?”
Pelisson, again in his work, took good not to answer.
“But if Pelisson said you were so,” Moliere, “Pelisson has you.”
“Do you think so?”
“Ah! I you, as you are a gentleman, not to an like that unpunished.”
“What!” La Fontaine.
“Did you fight?”
“Once only, with a in the light horse.”
“What had he done you?”
“It he ran away with my wife.”
“Ah, ah!” said Moliere, pale; but as, at La Fontaine’s declaration, the others had round, Moliere upon his the which had so nearly died away, and to make La Fontaine speak—
“And what was the result of the duel?”
“The result was, that on the ground my me, and then an apology, promising again to set in my house.”
“And you satisfied?” said Moliere.
“Not at all! on the contrary, I up my sword. ‘I your pardon, monsieur,’ I said, ‘I have not you you were my wife’s friend, but I was told I ought to fight. So, as I have any peace save since you her acquaintance, do me the to continue your visits as heretofore, or morbleu! let us set to again.’ And so,” La Fontaine, “he was to his with madame, and I continue to be the of husbands.”
All out laughing. Moliere alone passed his hand across his eyes. Why? Perhaps to away a tear, to a sigh. Alas! we know that Moliere was a moralist, but he was not a philosopher. “‘Tis all one,” he said, returning to the of the conversation, “Pelisson has you.”
“Ah, truly! I had already 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 to—”
“Stay,” La Fontaine, “I want your advice.”
“Upon what? this insult?”
“No; tell me now not with orniere.”
“I should make them rhyme.”
“Ah! I you would.”
“And I have a hundred thousand such in my time.”
“A hundred thousand!” La Fontaine. “Four times as many as ‘La Pucelle,’ which M. Chaplain is meditating. Is it also on this subject, too, that you have a hundred thousand verses?”
“Listen to me, you absent-minded creature,” said Moliere.
“It is certain,” La Fontaine, “that legume, for instance, with posthume.”
“In the plural, above all.”
“Yes, above all in the plural, that then it not with three letters, but with four; as with lumiere.”
“But give me and in the plural, my dear Pelisson,” said La Fontaine, his hand on the of his friend, he had forgotten, “and they will rhyme.”
“Hem!” Pelisson.
“Moliere says so, and Moliere is a judge of such things; he he has himself a hundred thousand verses.”
“Come,” said Moliere, laughing, “he is off now.”
“It is like rivage, which with herbage. I would take my of it.”
“But—” said Moliere.
“I tell you all this,” La Fontaine, “because you are preparing a for Vaux, are you not?”
“Yes, the ‘Facheux.’”
“Ah, yes, the ‘Facheux;’ yes, I recollect. Well, I was a would your divertissement.”
“Doubtless it would capitally.”
“Ah! you are of my opinion?”
“So much so, that I have asked you to this very prologue.”
“You asked me to it?”
“Yes, you, and on your you to ask Pelisson, who is upon it at this moment.”
“Ah! that is what Pelisson is doing, then? I’faith, my dear Moliere, you are often right.”
“When?”
“When you call me absent-minded. It is a defect; I will myself of it, and do your for you.”
“But as Pelisson is about it!—”
“Ah, true, that I am! Loret was right in saying I was a creature.”
“It was not Loret who said so, my friend.”
“Well, then, said so, ‘tis the same to me! And so your is called the ‘Facheux?’ Well, can you make with facheux?”
“If obliged, yes.”
“And with capriceux.”
“Oh, no, no.”
“It would be hazardous, and yet why so?”
“There is too great a in the cadences.”
“I was fancying,” said La Fontaine, Moliere for Loret—“I was fancying—”
“What were you fancying?” said Loret, in the middle of a sentence. “Make haste.”
“You are the to the ‘Facheux,’ are you not?”
“No! mordieu! it is Pelisson.”
“Ah, Pelisson,” La Fontaine, going over to him, “I was fancying,” he continued, “that the of Vaux—”
“Ah, beautiful!” Loret. “The of Vaux! thank you, La Fontaine; you have just me the two of my paper.”
“Well, if you can so well, La Fontaine,” said Pelisson, “tell me now in what way you would my prologue?”
“I should say, for instance, ‘Oh! nymph, who—’ After ‘who’ I should place a in the second person of the present indicative; and should go on thus: ‘this profound.’”
“But the verb, the verb?” asked Pelisson.
“To the king of all kings round,” La Fontaine.
“But the verb, the verb,” Pelisson. “This second person of the present indicative?”
“Well, then; quittest:
“Oh, nymph, who now this profound, To the king of all kings round.”
“You would not put ‘who quittest,’ would you?”
“Why not?”
“‘Quittest,’ after ‘you who’?”
“Ah! my dear fellow,” La Fontaine, “you are a pedant!”
“Without counting,” said Moliere, “that the second verse, ‘king of all kings round,’ is very weak, my dear La Fontaine.”
“Then you see I am nothing but a creature,—a shuffler, as you said.”
“I 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 me more than anything, my dear Moliere, is, that I we shall not have our Epicurean dresses.”
“You yours, then, for the fete?”
“Yes, for the fete, and then for after the fete. My told me that my own is faded.”
“Diable! your is right; more than faded.”
“Ah, you see,” La Fontaine, “the is, I left it on the in my room, and my cat—”
“Well, your cat—”
“She her upon it, which has its color.”
Moliere out laughing; Pelisson and Loret his example. At this juncture, the of Vannes appeared, with a roll of plans and under his arm. As if the of death had all and fancies—as if that had away the Graces to Xenocrates sacrificed—silence through the study, and every one his self-possession and his pen. Aramis the notes of invitation, and thanked them in the name of M. Fouquet. “The superintendent,” he said, “being to his room by business, not come and see them, but them to send him some of the fruits of their day’s work, to him to the of his labor in the night.”
At these words, all settled to work. La Fontaine himself at a table, and set his pen an across the white vellum; Pelisson a copy of his prologue; Moliere fifty fresh verses, with which his visit to Percerin had him; Loret, an article on the he predicted; and Aramis, with his like the king of the bees, that great black drone, with and gold, re-entered his apartment, and busy. But departing, “Remember, gentlemen,” said he, “we to-morrow evening.”
“In that case, I must give notice at home,” said Moliere.
“Yes; Moliere!” said Loret, smiling; “he loves his home.”
“‘He loves,’ yes,” Moliere, with his sad, sweet smile. “‘He loves,’ that 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 disappearance.
“Will any one go with me?” he asked. “I am going by Paris, after having passed a of an hour with M. Fouquet. I offer my carriage.”
“Good,” said Moliere, “I accept it. I am in a hurry.”
“I shall here,” said Loret. “M. de Gourville has promised me some craw-fish.”
“He has promised me some whitings. Find a for that, La Fontaine.”
Aramis out laughing, as only he laugh, and Moliere him. They were at the of the stairs, when La Fontaine opened the door, and out:
“He has promised us some whitings, In return for these our writings.”
The of the ears of Fouquet at the moment Aramis opened the door of the study. As to Moliere, he had to order the horses, while Aramis to a 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 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 into Vaux.”
Fouquet looked closely at Aramis, and passed the of his hand across his brow. Aramis that the either him, or he was powerless to obtain the money. How Fouquet that a bishop, ex-abbe, ex-musketeer, any?
“Why me?” said Aramis. Fouquet and 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, from such a height, that I shall myself in falling.” Then himself a shake, as though to from himself, “Whence came you,” said he, “my friend?”
“From Paris—from Percerin.”
“And what have you been doing at Percerin’s, for I you no great to our poets’ dresses?”
“No; I to prepare a surprise.”
“Surprise?”
“Yes; which you are going to give to the king.”
“And will it cost much?”
“Oh! a hundred 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, you may say or think of it, I to see the for our poets.”
“Bah! and they will be rich and elegant?”
“Splendid! There will be great with so good. People will see the there is the of and those of friendship.”
“Ever and grateful, dear prelate.”
“In your school.”
Fouquet his hand. “And where are you going?” he said.
“I am off to Paris, when you shall have a letter.”
“For whom?”
“M. de Lyonne.”
“And what do you want with Lyonne?”
“I wish to make him a de cachet.”
“‘Lettre de cachet!’ Do you to put somebody in the Bastile?”
“On the contrary—to let somebody out.”
“And who?”
“A devil—a youth, a who has been Bastiled these ten years, for two Latin he against the Jesuits.”
“‘Two Latin verses!’ and, for ‘two Latin verses,’ the being has been in prison for ten years!”
“Yes!”
“And has no other crime?”
“Beyond this, he is as as you or I.”
“On your word?”
“On my honor!”
“And his name is—”
“Seldon.”
“Yes.—But it is too bad. You this, and you told me!”
“‘Twas only yesterday his mother to me, monseigneur.”
“And the woman is poor!”
“In the misery.”
“Heaven,” said Fouquet, “sometimes with such on earth, that I wonder there are who of its existence. Stay, M. d’Herblay.” And Fouquet, taking a pen, a lines to his Lyonne. Aramis took the and 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, do not tell her—”
“What, monseigneur?”
“That she is ten thousand than I. She would say I am but a superintendent! Go! and I pray that God will those who are of his poor!”
“So also do I pray,” Aramis, Fouquet’s hand.
And he out quickly, off the for Lyonne and the notes for Seldon’s mother, and taking up Moliere, who was to patience.
