“What can he have been doing at the sign of
L’Image-de-Notre-Dame?”
“Buying wine, no doubt.”
“What! buy wine for me, at a cabaret?” said Fouquet. “My
cellar, then, must be in a miserable condition!” and he
advanced towards the maitre d’hotel who was arranging his
bottles in the carriage with the most minute care.
“Hola! Vatel,” said he, in the voice of a master.
“Take care, monseigneur!” said Gourville, “you will be
recognized.”
“Very well! Of what consequence? — Vatel!
The man dressed in black and violet turned round. He had a
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good and mild countenance, without expression — a
mathematician minus the pride. A certain fire sparkled in
the eyes of this personage, a rather sly smile played round
his lips; but the observer might soon have remarked that
this fire and this smile applied to nothing, enlightened
nothing. Vatel laughed like an absent man, and amused
himself like a child. At the sound of his master’s voice he
turned round, exclaiming: “Oh! monseigneur!”
“Yes, it is I. What the devil are you doing here, Vatel?
Wine! You are buying wine at a cabaret in the Place de
Greve!”
“But, monseigneur,” said Vatel, quietly, after having darted
a hostile glance at Gourville, “why am I interfered with
here? Is my cellar kept in bad order?”
“No, certes, Vatel, no, but —- ”
“But what?” replied Vatel. Gourville touched Fouquet’s
elbow.
“Don’t be angry, Vatel, I thought my cellar — your cellar
— sufficiently well stocked for us to be able to dispense
with recourse to the cellar of L’Image de-Notre-Dame.”
“Eh, monsieur,” said Vatel, shrinking from monseigneur to
monsieur with a degree of disdain: “your cellar is so well
stocked that when certain of your guests dine with you they
have nothing to drink.”
Fouquet, in great surprise, looked at Gourville. “What do
you mean by that?”
“I mean that your butler had not wine for all tastes,
monsieur; and that M. de la Fontaine, M. Pellisson, and M.
Conrart, do not drink when they come to the house — these
gentlemen do not like strong wine. What is to be done,
then?”
“Well, and therefore?”
“Well, then, I have found here a vin de Joigny, which they
like. I know they come once a week to drink at the
Image-de-Notre-Dame. That is the reason I am making this
provision.”
Fouquet had no more to say; he was convinced. Vatel, on his
part, had much more to say, without doubt, and it was plain
he was getting warm. “It is just as if you would reproach
me, monseigneur, for going to the Rue Planche Milbray, to
fetch, myself, the cider M. Loret drinks when he comes to
dine at your house.”
“Loret drinks cider at my house!” cried Fouquet, laughing.
“Certainly he does, monsieur, and that is the reason why he
dines there with pleasure.”
“Vatel,” cried Fouquet, pressing the hand of his maitre
d’hotel, “you are a man! I thank you, Vatel, for having
understood that at my house M. de la Fontaine, M. Conrart,
and M. Loret, are as great as dukes and peers, as great as
princes, greater than myself. Vatel, you are a good servant,
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and I double your salary.”
Vatel did not even thank his master, he merely shrugged his
shoulders a little, murmuring this superb sentiment: “To be
thanked for having done one’s duty is humiliating.”
“He is right,” said Gourville, as he drew Fouquet’s
attention, by a gesture, to another point. He showed him a
low-built tumbrel, drawn by two horses, upon which rocked
two strong gibbets, bound together, back to back, by chains,
whilst an archer, seated upon the cross-beam, suffered, as
well as he could, with his head cast down, the comments of a
hundred vagabonds, who guessed the destination of the
gibbets, and were escorting them to the Hotel de Ville.
Fouquet started. “It is decided, you see,” said Gourville.
“But it is not done,” replied Fouquet.
“Oh, do not flatter yourself, monseigneur; if they have thus
lulled your friendship and suspicions — if things have gone
so far, you will be able to undo nothing.”