“Good!” said the superintendent, laughing.
“Well, what next?” said La Fontaine, much more interested in the apologue than in its moral.
“The tortoise sold his shell, and remained naked and defenceless. A vulture happened to see him, and being hungry broke the tortoise’s back with a blow of his beak and devoured it. The moral is that M. Fouquet should take very good care to keep his gown.”
La Fontaine understood the moral seriously. “You forget AEschylus,” he said to his adversary.
“What do you mean?”
“AEschylus was bald-headed; and a vulture- your vulture probably- who was a great lover of tortoises mistook at a distance his head for a block of stone, and let a tortoise which was shrunk up in his shell fall upon it.”
“Yes, yes, La Fontaine is right,” resumed Fouquet, who had become very thoughtful. “Whenever a vulture wishes to devour a tortoise, he well knows how to break his shell; and but too happy is that tortoise to which a snake pays a million and a half for his envelope. If any one were to bring me a generous-hearted snake like the one in your fable, Pellisson, I would give him my shell.”
“Rara avis in terris!” cried Conrart.
“And like a black swan, is he not?” added La Fontaine; “well, then, the bird in question, black and very rare, is already found.”
“Do you mean to say that you have found a purchaser for my post of procureur-general?” exclaimed Fouquet.
“I have, Monsieur.”
“But the superintendent has never said that he wished to sell,” resumed Pellisson.
“I beg your pardon,” said Conrart; “you yourself spoke about it-”
“Yes, I am a witness to that,” said Gourville.
“He seems very tenacious about his brilliant idea,” said Fouquet, laughing. “Well, La Fontaine, who is the purchaser?”
“A perfect black bird, a counsellor belonging to the parliament, an excellent fellow.”
“What is his name?”
“Vanel.”
“Vanel!” exclaimed Fouquet,- “Vanel, the husband of-”
“Precisely,- her husband; yes, Monsieur.”
“Poor fellow!” said Fouquet, with an expression of great interest; “he wishes to be procureur-general?”
“He wishes to be everything that you have been, Monsieur,” said Gourville, “and to do everything that you have done.”
“It is very agreeable; tell us all about it, La Fontaine.”
“It is very simple. I see him occasionally; and a short time ago I met him walking about on the Place de la Bastille, at the very moment when I was about to take the small carriage to come down here to St. Mande.”
“He must have been watching his wife,” interrupted Loret.
“Oh, no!” said La Fontaine; “he is far from being jealous. He accosted me, embraced me, and took me to the inn called L’Image-Saint-Fiacre, and told me all about his troubles.”
“He has his troubles, then?”
“Yes; his wife wants to make him ambitious.”
“Well, and he told you-”
“That some one had spoken to him about a post in parliament; that M. Fouquet’s name had been mentioned; that ever since, Madame Vanel dreams of nothing else but being called Madame the Procureuse-Generale, and that she is dying of it every night she is not dreaming of it.”
“The deuce!”
“Poor woman!” said Fouquet.
“Wait a moment! Conrart is always telling me that I do not know how to conduct matters of business; you will see how I manage this one.”
“Well, go on!”
“‘I suppose you know’ said I to Vanel, ‘that the value of a post such as that which M. Fouquet holds is by no means trifling.’ ‘How much do you imagine it to be?’ he said. ‘M. Fouquet, I know, has refused seventeen hundred thousand livres.’ ‘My wife,’ replied Vanel, ‘had estimated it at about fourteen hundred thousand.’ ‘Ready money?’ I asked. ‘Yes; she has sold some property of hers in Guienne, and has received the purchase-money.'”
“That’s a pretty sum to touch all at once,” said the Abbe Fouquet, who had not hitherto said a word.
“Poor Madame Vanel!” murmured Fouquet.
Pellisson shrugged his shoulders. “A fiend!” he said in a low voice to Fouquet.
“That may be; it would be delightful to make use of this fiend’s money to repair the injury which an angel has done herself for me.”