"Are you so sure of it?'
"Nearly so. Certain signs of intelligence which passed between Voliere and the other garcons showed me the fact." "Well, my friend, that does not surprise me from Moliere," said D'Artagnan.
"Voliere, my friend."
"Oh, no, no, indeed! I am very willing to leave you to go on saying Voliere; but, as for me, I shall continued to say Moliere. Well, this, I was saying, does not surprise me, coming from Moliere, 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 Moliere 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 Moliere and Aramis at Saint-Mande.
Chapter VI. The Bee-Hive, the Bees, and the Honey.
The bishop of Vannes, much annoyed at having met D'Artagnan at M. Percerin's, returned to Saint-Mande in no very good humor. Moliere, 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, Moliere 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--every one 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 fete at Vaux. Pelisson, his head leaning on his hand, was engaged in drawing out the plan
of the prologue to the "Facheux," a comedy in three acts, which was to be put on the stage by Poquelin de Moliere, as D'Artagnan called him, or Coquelin de Voliere, as Porthos styled him. Loret, with all the charming innocence of a gazetteer,--the gazetteers of all ages have always been so artless!--Loret was composing an account of the fetes at Vaux, before those fetes had taken place. La Fontaine sauntered about from one to the other, a peripatetic, absent-minded, boring, unbearable dreamer, who kept buzzing and
humming at everybody's elbow a thousand poetic abstractions. He so often disturbed Pelisson, that the latter, raising his head, crossly said, "At least, La Fontaine, supply me with a rhyme, since you have the run of the gardens at Parnassus."
"What rhyme do you want?" asked the Fabler as Madame de Sevigne used to call him. "I want a rhyme to lumiere."
"Orniere," answered La Fontaine.
"Ah, but, my good friend, one cannot talk of wheel-ruts when celebrating the delights of Vaux," said Loret. "Besides, it doesn't rhyme," answered Pelisson.
"What! doesn't rhyme!" cried La Fontaine, in surprise.
"Yes; you have an abominable habit, my friend,--a habit which will ever prevent your becoming a poet of the first order. You rhyme
in a slovenly manner."
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"Oh, oh, you think so, do you, Pelisson?"
"Yes, I do, indeed. Remember that a rhyme is never good so long as one can find a better."
"Then I will never write anything again save in prose," said La Fontaine, who had taken up Pelisson's reproach in earnest. "Ah! I
often suspected I was nothing but a rascally poet! Yes, 'tis the very truth."
"Do not say so; your remark is too sweeping, and there is much that is good in your 'Fables.'"
"And to begin," continued La Fontaine, following up his idea, "I will go and burn a hundred verses I have just made." "Where are your verses?"
"In my head."
"Well, if they are in your head you cannot burn them." "True," said La Fontaine; "but if I do not burn them--" "Well, what will happen if you do not burn them?"
"They will remain in my mind, and I shall never forget them!"
"The deuce!" cried Loret; "what a dangerous thing! One would go mad with it!" "The deuce! the deuce!" repeated La Fontaine; "what can I do?"
"I have discovered the way," said Moliere, who had entered just at this point of the conversation. "What way?"
"Write them first and burn them afterwards."
"How simple! Well, I should never have discovered that. What a mind that devil of a Moliere has!" said La Fontaine. Then, striking his forehead, "Oh, thou wilt never be aught but an ass, Jean La Fontaine!" he added.
"What are you saying there, my friend?" broke in Moliere, approaching the poet, whose aside he had heard.
"I say I shall never be aught but an ass," answered La Fontaine, with a heavy sigh and swimming eyes. "Yes, my friend," he added, with increasing grief, "it seems that I rhyme in a slovenly manner."
"Oh, 'tis wrong to say so." "Nay, I am a poor creature!" "Who said so?"
"Parbleu! 'twas Pelisson; did you not, Pelisson?"
Pelisson, again absorbed in his work, took good care not to answer.
"But if Pelisson said you were so," cried Moliere, "Pelisson has seriously offended you." "Do you think so?"
"Ah! I advise you, as you are a gentleman, not to leave an insult like that unpunished."
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"What!" exclaimed La Fontaine.
"Did you ever fight?"
"Once only, with a lieutenant in the light horse." "What wrong had he done you?"
"It seems he ran away with my wife."
"Ah, ah!" said Moliere, becoming slightly pale; but as, at La Fontaine's declaration, the others had turned round, Moliere kept upon his lips the rallying smile which had so nearly died away, and continuing to make La Fontaine speak--
"And what was the result of the duel?"
"The result was, that on the ground my opponent disarmed me, and then made an apology, promising never again to set foot in my house."
"And you considered yourself satisfied?" said Moliere.
"Not at all! on the contrary, I picked up my sword. 'I beg your pardon, monsieur,' I said, 'I have not fought you because you were
my wife's friend, but because I was told I ought to fight. So, as I have never known any peace save since you made her acquaintance, do me the pleasure to continue your visits as heretofore, or morbleu! let us set to again.' And so," continued La Fontaine, "he was compelled to resume his friendship with madame, and I continue to be the happiest of husbands."
All burst out laughing. Moliere alone passed his hand across his eyes. Why? Perhaps to wipe away a tear, perhaps to smother a sigh. Alas! we know that Moliere was a moralist, but he was not a philosopher. "'Tis all one," he said, returning to the topic of the conversation, "Pelisson has insulted you."
"Ah, truly! I had already forgotten it."
"And I am going to challenge him on your behalf." "Well, you can do so, if you think it indispensable." "I do think it indispensable, and I am going to--" "Stay," exclaimed La Fontaine, "I want your advice." "Upon what? this insult?"
"No; tell me really now whether lumiere does not rhyme with orniere." "I should make them rhyme."
"Ah! I knew you would."
"And I have made a hundred thousand such rhymes in my time."
"A hundred thousand!" cried La Fontaine. "Four times as many as 'La Pucelle,' which M. Chaplain is meditating. Is it also on this subject, too, that you have composed a hundred thousand verses?"
"Listen to me, you eternally absent-minded creature," said Moliere.
"It is certain," continued La Fontaine, "that legume, for instance, rhymes with posthume." "In the plural,