“In reality,” said d’Artagnan, “that is an excellent maxim, which is, unfortunately, seldom carried out in practice.”
“That is why I found it all the more astonishing, when he expatiated upon it.”
“Ah! he expatiated?”
“Parbleu!”
“Let me hear his theory.”
“ ‘Seeing that,’ he continued, ‘one may, in awkward circumstances, or in a troublesome position, have one’s doublet on one’s shoulder, and not desire to take one’s doublet off—’ ”
“True,” said d’Artagnan.
“ ‘And so,’ continued M. Volière—”
“Molière.”
“Molière, yes. ‘And so,’ went on M. Molière, ‘you want to draw your sword, Monsieur, and you have your doublet on your back. What do you do?’
“ ‘I take it off,’ I answered.
“ ‘Well, no,’ he replied.
“ ‘How no?’
“ ‘I say that the dress should be so well made, that it will in no way encumber you, even in drawing your sword.’
“ ‘Ah, ah!’
“ ‘Throw yourself on guard,’ pursued he.
“I did it with such wondrous firmness, that two panes of glass burst out of the window.
“ ’Tis nothing, nothing,’ said he. ‘Keep your position.’
“I raised my left arm in the air, the forearm gracefully bent, the ruffle drooping, and my wrist curved, while my right arm, half extended, securely covered my wrist with the elbow, and my breast with the wrist.”
“Yes,” said d’Artagnan, “ ’tis the true guard—the academic guard.”
“You have said the very word, dear friend. In the meanwhile, Volière—”
“Molière.”
“Hold! I should certainly, after all, prefer to call him—what did you say his other name was?”
“Poquelin.”
“I prefer to call him Poquelin.”
“And how will you remember this name better than the other?”
“You understand, he calls himself Poquelin, does he not?”
“Yes.”
“If I were to call to mind Madame Coquenard.”
“Good.”
“And change Coc into Poc, nard into lin; and instead of Coquenard I shall have Poquelin.”
“ ’Tis wonderful,” cried d’Artagnan, astounded. “Go on, my friend, I am listening to you with admiration.”
“This Coquelin sketched my arm on the glass.”
“I beg your pardon—Poquelin.”
“What did I say, then?”
“You said Coquelin.”
“Ah! true. This Poquelin, then, sketched my arm on the glass; but he took his time over it; he kept looking at me a good deal. The fact is, that I must have been looking particularly handsome.”
“ ‘Does it weary you?’ he asked.
“ ‘A little,’ I replied, bending a little in my hands, ‘but I could hold out for an hour or so longer.’
“ ‘No, no, I will not allow it; the willing fellows will make it a duty to support your arms, as of old, men supported those of the prophet.’
“ ‘Very good,’ I answered.
“ ‘That will not be humiliating to you?’
“ ‘My friend,’ said I, ‘there is, I think, a great difference between being supported and being measured.’ ”
“The distinction is full of the soundest sense,” interrupted d’Artagnan.
“Then,” continued Porthos, “he made a sign: two lads approached; one supported my left arm, while the other, with infinite address, supported my right.”
“ ‘Another, my man,’ cried he. A third approached. ‘Support Monsieur by the waist,’ said he. The garçon complied.”
“So that you were at rest?” asked d’Artagnan.
“Perfectly; and Pocquenard drew me on the glass.”
“Poquelin, my friend.”
“Poquelin—you are right. Stay, decidedly I prefer calling him Volière.”
“Yes; and then it was over, wasn’t it?”
“During that time Volière drew me as I appeared in the mirror.”
“ ’Twas delicate in him.”
“I much like the plan; it is respectful, and keeps everyone in his place.”
“And there it ended?”
“Without a soul having touched me, my friend.”
“Except the three garçons who supported you.”
“Doubtless; but I have, I think, already explained to you the difference there is between supporting and measuring.”
“ ’Tis true,” answered d’Artagnan; who said afterwards to himself, I’faith, I greatly deceive myself, or I have been the means of a good windfall to that rascal Molière, and we shall assuredly see the scene hit off to the life in some comedy or other.
Porthos smiled.
“What are you laughing at?” asked d’Artagnan.
“Must I confess? Well, I was laughing over my good fortune.”
“Oh, that is true; I don’t know a happier man than you. But what is this last piece of luck that has befallen you?’
“Well, my dear fellow, congratulate me.”
“I desire nothing better.”
“It seems that I am the first who has had his measure taken in that manner.”
“Are you sure of it?”
“Nearly so. Certain signs of intelligence which passed between Volière and the other garçons showed me the fact.”
“Well, my friend, that does not surprise me from Molière,” said d’Artagnan.
“Volière, my friend.”
“Oh, no, no, indeed! I am very willing to leave you to go on saying Volière; but, as for me, I shall continued to say Molière. Well, this, I was saying, does not surprise me, coming from Molière, who is a very ingenious fellow, and inspired you with this grand idea.”
“It will be of great use to him by and by, I am sure.”
“Won’t it be of use to him, indeed? I believe you, it will, and that in the highest degree;—for you see my friend Molière is of all known tailors the man who best clothes our barons, comtes, and marquises—according to their measure.”
On this observation, neither the application nor depth of which we shall discuss, d’Artagnan and Porthos quitted M. de Percerin’s house and rejoined their carriages, wherein we will leave them, in order to look after Molière and Aramis at Saint-Mandé.
213
The Beehive, the Bees, and the Honey
The bishop of Vannes, much annoyed at having met d’Artagnan at M. Percerin’s, returned to Saint-Mandé in no very good humor. Molière, on the other hand, quite delighted at having made such a capital rough sketch, and at knowing where to find his original again, whenever he should desire to convert his sketch into a picture, Molière arrived in the merriest of moods. All the first story of the left wing was occupied by the most celebrated Epicureans in Paris, and those on the freest footing in the house—everyone in his compartment, like the bees in their cells, employed in producing the honey intended for that royal cake which M. Fouquet proposed to offer His Majesty Louis XIV during the fête
