"'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 gar?on 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 every one in his place.""And there it ended?""Without a soul having touched me, my friend.""Except the three gar?ons 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 so sure of it?'
"Nearly so. Certain signs of intelligence which passed between Volière and the other gar?ons 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.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-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 - 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 fête at Vaux. Pélisson, 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 Molière, as D'Artagnan called him, or Coquelin de Volière, 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 fêtes at Vaux, before those fêtes 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 Pélisson, 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 Sévigné used to call him.
"I want a rhyme to lumière."
"Ornière," 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 Pélisson.
"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."
"Oh, oh, you think so, do you, Pélisson?"
"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 Pélisson'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 Molière, 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 Molière 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 Molière, 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 Pélisson; did you not, Pélisson?"
Pélisson, again absorbed in his work, took good care not to answer.
"But if Pélisson said you were so," cried Molière, "Pélisson 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."
"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 Molière, becoming slightly pale; but as, at La Fontaine's declaration, the others had turned round, Molière 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 Molière.
"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. Molière alone passed his hand across his eyes. Why? Perhaps to wipe away a tear, perhaps to smother a sigh. Alas! we know that Molière was a moralist, but he was not a philosopher. "'Tis all one," he said, returning to the topic of the conversation, "Pélisson 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 lumière does not rhyme with ornière."
"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 Molière.
"It is certain," continued La Fontaine, "that légume, for instance, rhymes with posthume."
"In the plural, above all."
"Yes, above all in the plural, seeing that then it rhymes not with three letters, but with four; as ornière does with lumière."
"But give me ornières and lumières in the plural, my dear Pélisson," said La Fontaine, clapping his hand on the shoulder of his friend, whose insult he had quite forgotten, "and they will rhyme."
"Hem!" coughed Pélisson.
"Molière says so, and Molière is a judge of such things; he declares he has himself made a hundred thousand verses."
"Come," said Molière, laughing, "he is off now."
"It is like rivage, which rhymes admirably with herbage. I would take my oath of it."
"But - " said Molière.
"I tell you all this," continued La Fontaine, "because you are preparing a divertissement for Vaux, are you not?"
"Yes, the 'Facheux.'"
"Ah, yes, the 'Facheux;' yes, I recollect. Well, I was thinking a prologue would admirably suit your divertissement."
"Doubtless it would suit capitally."
"Ah! you are of my opinion?"
"So much so, that I have asked you to write this very prologue."
"You asked me to write it?"
"Yes, you, and on your refusal begged you to ask Pélisson, who is engaged upon it at this moment."
"Ah! that is what Pélisson is doing, then? I'faith, my dear Molière, you are indeed often right."
"When?"
"When you call me absent-minded. It is a monstrous defect; I will cure myself of it, and do your prologue for you."
"But inasmuch as Pélisson is about it! - "
"Ah, true, miserable rascal that I am! Loret was indeed right in saying I was a poor creature."
"It was not Loret who said so, my friend."
"Well, then, whoever said so, 'tis the same to me! And so your divertissement is called the 'Facheux?' Well, can you make heureux rhyme with facheux?"
"If obliged, yes."
"And even with capriceux."
"Oh, no, no."
"It would be hazardous, and yet why so?"
"There is too great a difference in the cadences."
"I was fancying," said La Fontaine, leaving Molière for Loret - "I was fancying - "
"What were you fancying?" said Loret, in the middle of a sentence. "Make haste."
"You are writing the prologue to the 'Facheux,' are you not?"
"No! mordieu! it is Pélisson."
"Ah, Pélisson," cried La Fontaine, going over to him, "I was fancying," he continued, "that the nymph of Vaux - "
"Ah, beautiful!" cried Loret. "The nymph of Vaux! thank you, La Fontaine; you have just given me the two concluding verses of my paper."
"Well, if you can rhyme so well, La Fontaine," said Pélisson, "tell me now in what way you would begin my prologue?"
"I should say, for instance, 'Oh! nymph, who - ' After 'who' I should place a verb in the second person singular of the present indicative; and should go on thus: 'this grot profound.'"
