“Well?” said Fouquet.
“Well, Monsieur, my Menneville spitted the joker, to the great astonishment of the spectators, and said to the cook:—‘Take this goose, my friend, for it is fatter than your fowl.’ That is the way, Monsieur,” ended the abbé, triumphantly, “in which I spend my revenues; I maintain the honor of the family, Monsieur.” Fouquet hung his head. “And I have a hundred as good as he,” continued the abbé.
“Very well,” said Fouquet, “give the account to Gourville, and remain here this evening.”
“Shall we have supper?”
“Yes, there will be supper.”
“But the chest is closed.”
“Gourville will open it for you. Leave us, Monsieur l’Abbé, leave us.”
“Then we are friends?” said the abbé, with a bow.
“Oh, yes, friends. Come, Gourville.”
“Are you going out? You will not stay to supper, then?”
“I shall be back in an hour; rest easy, abbé.” Then aside to Gourville—“Let them put to my English horses,” said he, “and direct the coachman to stop at the Hôtel de Ville de Paris.”
56
M. de La Fontaine’s Wine
Carriages were already bringing the guests of Fouquet to Saint-Mandé; already the whole house was getting warm with the preparations for supper, when the superintendent launched his fleet horses upon the roads to Paris, and going by the quays, in order to meet fewer people on the way, soon reached the Hôtel de Ville. It wanted a quarter to eight. Fouquet alighted at the corner of the Rue de Long-Pont, and, on foot, directed his course towards the Place de Grève, accompanied by Gourville. At the turning of the Place they saw a man dressed in black and violet, of dignified mien, who was preparing to get into a hired carriage, and told the coachman to stop at Vincennes. He had before him a large hamper filled with bottles, which he had just purchased at the cabaret with the sign of “L’Image-de-Notre-Dame.”
“Eh, but! that is Vatel! my maître d’hôtel!” said Fouquet to Gourville.
“Yes, Monseigneur,” replied the latter.
“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 maître d’hôtel, who was arranging his bottles in the carriage with the most minute care.
“Holà! 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 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 Grève!”
“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. Pélisson, 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 here 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 maître d’hôtel, “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, 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 crossbeam, suffered, as well as he could, with his head cast down, the comments of a hundred vagabonds, who guessed the
