“I confess that he said it, and even perhaps too often.”
“Like Epicurus, my friend, still like Epicurus; I repeat, we are Epicureans, and that is very amusing.”
“Yes; but I am afraid there will rise up, by the side of us, a sect like that of Epictetus; you know him well; the philosopher of Hierapolis, he who called bread luxury, vegetables prodigality, and clear water drunkenness; he who, being beaten by his master, said to him, grumbling a little it is true, but without being angry, ‘I will lay a wager you have broken my leg!’—and who won his wager.”
“He was a goose, that fellow Epictetus.”
“Granted, but he might easily become the fashion by only changing his name into that of Colbert.”
“Bah!” replied La Fontaine, “that is impossible. Never will you find Colbert in Epictetus.”
“You are right, I shall find—Coluber there, at the most.”
“Ah! you are beaten, Conrart; you are reduced to a play upon words. M. Arnaud pretends that I have no logic; I have more than M. Nicole.”
“Yes,” replied Conrart, “you have logic, but you are a Jansenist.”
This peroration was hailed with a boisterous shout of laughter; by degrees the promenaders had been attracted by the exclamations of the two disputants around the arbor under which they were arguing. The discussion had been religiously listened to, and Fouquet himself, scarcely able to suppress his laughter, had given an example of moderation. But with the denouement of the scene he threw off all restraint, and laughed aloud. Everybody laughed as he did, and the two philosophers were saluted with unanimous felicitations. La Fontaine, however, was declared conqueror, on account of his profound erudition and his irrefragable logic. Conrart obtained the compensation due to an unsuccessful combatant; he was praised for the loyalty of his intentions, and the purity of his conscience.
At the moment when this jollity was manifesting itself by the most lively demonstrations, when the ladies were reproaching the two adversaries with not having admitted women into the system of Epicurean happiness, Gourville was seen hastening from the other end of the garden, approaching Fouquet, and detaching him, by his presence alone, from the group. The superintendent preserved on his face the smile and character of carelessness; but scarcely was he out of sight than he threw off the mask.
“Well!” said he, eagerly, “where is Pélisson! What is he doing?”
“Pélisson has returned from Paris.”
“Has he brought back the prisoners?”
“He has not even seen the concierge of the prison.”
“What! did he not tell him he came from me?”
“He told him so, but the concierge sent him this reply: ‘If anyone came to me from M. Fouquet, he would have a letter from M. Fouquet.’ ”
“Oh!” cried the latter, “if a letter is all he wants—”
“It is useless, Monsieur!” said Pélisson, showing himself at the corner of the little wood, “useless! Go yourself, and speak in your own name.”
“You are right. I will go in, as if to work; let the horses remain harnessed, Pélisson. Entertain my friends, Gourville.”
“One last word of advice, Monseigneur,” replied the latter.
“Speak, Gourville.”
“Do not go to the concierge save at the last minute; it is brave, but it is not wise. Excuse me, Monsieur Pélisson, if I am not of the same opinion as you; but take my advice, Monseigneur, send again a message to this concierge—he is a worthy man, but do not carry it yourself.”
“I will think of it,” said Fouquet; “besides, we have all the night before us.”
“Do not reckon too much on time; were the hours we have twice as many as they are, they would not be too much,” replied Pélisson; “it is never a fault to arrive too soon.”
“Adieu!” said the superintendent; “come with me, Pélisson. Gourville, I commend my guests to your care.” And he set off. The Epicureans did not perceive that the head of the school had left them; the violins continued playing all night long.
59
A Quarter of an Hour’s Delay
Fouquet, on leaving his house for the second time that day, felt himself less heavy and less disturbed than might have been expected. He turned towards Pélisson, who was meditating in the corner of the carriage some good arguments against the violent proceedings of Colbert.
“My dear Pélisson,” said Fouquet, “it is a great pity you are not a woman.”
“I think, on the contrary, it is very fortunate,” replied Pélisson, “for, Monseigneur, I am excessively ugly.”
“Pélisson! Pélisson!” said the superintendent, laughing: “You repeat too often, you are ‘ugly,’ not to leave people to believe that it gives you much pain.”
“In fact it does, Monseigneur, much pain; there is no man more unfortunate than I: I was handsome, the smallpox rendered me hideous; I am deprived of a great means of attraction; now, I am your principal clerk, or something of that sort; I take great interest in your affairs, and if, at this moment, I were a pretty woman, I could render you an important service.”
“What?”
“I would go and find the concierge of the Palais. I would seduce him, for he is a gallant man, extravagantly partial to women; then I would get away our two prisoners.”
“I hope to be able to do so myself, although I am not a pretty woman,” replied Fouquet.
“Granted, Monseigneur; but you are compromising yourself very much.”
“Oh!” cried Fouquet, suddenly, with one of those secret transports which the generous blood of youth, or the remembrance of some sweet emotion, infuses into the heart. “Oh! I know a woman who will enact the personage we stand in need of, with the lieutenant-governor of the conciergerie.”
“And, on my part, I know fifty, Monseigneur; fifty trumpets, which will inform the universe of your generosity, of your devotion to your friends, and, consequently, will ruin you sooner or later in ruining themselves.”
“I do not speak of such women, Pélisson; I speak of a noble and beautiful creature who joins to the intelligence and wit of her sex
