“No, not I—I wished—”
“Ah! you had something particular to say to M. Percerin? Why did you not tell me so at once?”
“Something particular, certainly,” repeated Aramis, “but not for you, D’Artagnan. But, at the same time, I hope you will believe that I can never have anything so particular to say that a friend like you may not hear it.”
“Oh, no, no! I am going,” said D’Artagnan, imparting to his voice an evident tone of curiosity; for Aramis’s annoyance, well dissembled as it was, had not a whit escaped him; and he knew that, in that impenetrable mind, every thing, even the most apparently trivial, was designed to some end; an unknown one, but an end that, from the knowledge he had of his friend’s character, the musketeer felt must be important.
On his part, Aramis saw that D’Artagnan was not without suspicion, and pressed him. “Stay, by all means,” he said, “this is what it is.” Then turning towards the tailor, “My dear Percerin,” said he,—“I am even very happy that you are here, D’Artagnan.”
“Oh, indeed,” exclaimed the Gascon, for the third time, even less deceived this time than before.
Percerin never moved. Aramis roused him violently, by snatching from his hands the stuff upon which he was engaged. “My dear Percerin,” said he, “I have, near hand, M. Lebrun, one of M. Fouquet’s painters.”
“Ah, very good,” thought D’Artagnan; “but why Lebrun?”
Aramis looked at D’Artagnan, who seemed to be occupied with an engraving of Mark Antony. “And you wish that I should make him a dress, similar to those of the Epicureans?” answered Percerin. And while saying this, in an absent manner, the worthy tailor endeavored to recapture his piece of brocade.
“An Epicurean’s dress?” asked D’Artagnan, in a tone of inquiry.
“I see,” said Aramis, with a most engaging smile, “it is written that our dear D’Artagnan shall know all our secrets this evening. Yes, friend, you have surely heard speak of M. Fouquet’s Epicureans, have you not?”
“Undoubtedly. Is it not a kind of poetical society, of which La Fontaine, Loret, Pelisson, and Moliere are members, and which holds its sittings at Saint-Mande?”
“Exactly so. Well, we are going to put our poets in uniform, and enroll them in a regiment for the king.”
“Oh, very well, I understand; a surprise M. Fouquet is getting up for the king. Be at ease; if that is the secret about M. Lebrun, I will not mention it.”
“Always agreeable, my friend. No, Monsieur Lebrun has nothing to do with this part of it; the secret which concerns him is far more important than the other.”
“Then, if it is so important as all that, I prefer not to know it,” said D’Artagnan, making a show of departure.
“Come in, M. Lebrun, come in,” said Aramis, opening a side-door with his right hand, and holding back D’Artagnan with his left.
“I’faith, I too, am quite in the dark,” quoth Percerin.
Aramis took an “opportunity,” as is said in theatrical matters.
“My dear M. de Percerin,” Aramis continued, “you are making five dresses for the king, are you not? One in brocade; one in hunting-cloth; one in velvet; one in satin; and one in Florentine stuffs.”
“Yes; but how—do you know all that, monseigneur?” said Percerin, astounded.
“It is all very simple, my dear monsieur; there will be a hunt, a banquet, concert, promenade and reception; these five kinds of dress are required by etiquette.”
“You know everything, monseigneur!”
“And a thing or two in addition,” muttered D’Artagnan.
“But,” cried the tailor, in triumph, “what you do not know, monseigneur—prince of the church though you are—what nobody will know—what only the king, Mademoiselle de la Valliere, and myself do know, is the color of the materials and nature of the ornaments, and the cut, the ensemble, the finish of it all!”
“Well,” said Aramis, “that is precisely what I have come to ask you, dear Percerin.”
“Ah, bah!” exclaimed the tailor, terrified, though Aramis had pronounced these words in his softest and most honeyed tones. The request appeared, on reflection, so exaggerated, so ridiculous, so monstrous to M. Percerin that first he laughed to himself, then aloud, and finished with a shout. D’Artagnan followed his example, not because he found the matter so “very funny,” but in order not to allow Aramis to cool.
“At the outset, I appear to be hazarding an absurd question, do I not?” said Aramis. “But D’Artagnan, who is incarnate wisdom itself, will tell you that I could not do otherwise than ask you this.”
“Let us see,” said the attentive musketeer; perceiving with his wonderful instinct that they had only been skirmishing till now, and that the hour of battle was approaching.
“Let us see,” said Percerin, incredulously.
“Why, now,” continued Aramis, “does M. Fouquet give the king a fete?—Is it not to please him?”
“Assuredly,” said Percerin. D’Artagnan nodded assent.
“By delicate attentions? by some happy device? by a succession of surprises, like that of which we were talking?—the enrolment of our Epicureans.”
“Admirable.”
“Well, then; this is the surprise we intend. M. Lebrun here is a man who draws most excellently.”
“Yes,” said Percerin; “I have seen his pictures, and observed that his dresses were highly elaborated. That is why I at once agreed to make him a costume—whether to agree with those of the Epicureans, or an original one.”
“My dear monsieur, we accept your offer, and shall presently avail ourselves of it; but just now, M. Lebrun is not in want of the dresses you will make for himself, but of those you are making for the king.”
Percerin made a bound backwards, which D’Artagnan—calmest and most appreciative of men, did not consider overdone, so many strange and startling aspects wore the proposal which Aramis had just hazarded. “The king’s dresses! Give the king’s dresses to any mortal whatever! Oh! for once, monseigneur, your grace is mad!” cried the poor tailor in extremity.
“Help me now, D’Artagnan,” said Aramis, more and more calm and smiling. “Help me now to persuade monsieur, for you understand; do you not?”
“Eh! eh!—not exactly, I declare.”
“What! you do not understand that M. Fouquet wishes to afford the king the surprise of finding his portrait on his arrival at Vaux; and that the portrait, which be a striking resemblance, ought to be dressed exactly as the king will be on the day it is shown?”
“Oh! yes, yes,” said the musketeer, nearly convinced, so plausible was this reasoning. “Yes, my dear Aramis, you are right; it is a happy idea. I will wager it is one of your own, Aramis.”
“Well, I don’t know,” replied the bishop; “either mine or M. Fouquet’s.” Then scanning Percerin, after noticing D’Artagnan’s hesitation, “Well, Monsieur Percerin,” he asked, “what do you say to this?”
“I say, that—”
“That you are, doubtless, free to refuse. I know well—and I by no means count upon compelling you, my dear monsieur. I will say more, I even understand all the delicacy you feel in taking up with M. Fouquet’s idea; you dread appearing to flatter the king. A noble spirit, M. Percerin, a noble spirit!” The tailor stammered. “It would, indeed, be a very