“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 way of 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 crawfish,-
Il m’a promis des ecrevisses- 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,-
“Moyennant que tu l’ecrevisses,
Il t’a promis des ecrevisses.”
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.
“And 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 his icy hand across his moistened brow. Aramis perceived that the superintendent either doubted him, or felt that he was powerless to obtain the money. How could Fouquet suppose that a poor bishop, ex-abbe, ex-musketeer, could procure it?
“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 great importance to our poets’ dresses?”
“No; I went to prepare a surprise.”
“Surprise?”
“Yes; which you are 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 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 dresses so good. People will see the difference 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.”
“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 imprisoned 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 honor!”
“And his name is-”
“Seldon.”
“Oh, that is too cruel! You knew this, and you never told me!”
“‘Twas only yesterday his mother applied to me, Monseigneur.”
“And the woman is poor?”
“In the deepest misery.”
“Oh, God!” said Fouquet, “thou dost sometimes bear with such injustice on earth that I understand why there are wretches who doubt thy existence! Stay, M. d’Herblay!” and Fouquet, taking his pen, wrote a few rapid lines to his colleague Lyonne.