Chapter VI. The Bee-Hive, the Bees, and the Honey.

by Alexandre Dumas

　　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, onthe other hand, quite delighted at having made such a capital roughsketch, and at knowing where to find his original again, whenever heshould desire to convert his sketch into a picture, Moliere arrived inthe merriest of moods. All the first story of the left wing was occupiedby the most celebrated Epicureans in Paris, and those on the freestfooting in the house - every one in his compartment, like the bees intheir cells, employed in producing the honey intended for that royal cakewhich M. Fouquet proposed to offer his majesty Louis XIV. during thefete at Vaux. Pelisson, his head leaning on his hand, was engaged indrawing out the plan of the prologue to the "Facheux," a comedy in threeacts, which was to be put on the stage by Poquelin de Moliere, asD'Artagnan called him, or Coquelin de Voliere, as Porthos styled him.Loret, with all the charming innocence of a gazetteer, - the gazetteersof all ages have always been so artless! - Loret was composing an accountof the fetes at Vaux, before those fetes had taken place. LaFontaine sauntered about from one to the other, a peripatetic, absent-minded, boring, unbearable dreamer, who kept buzzing and humming ateverybody's elbow a thousand poetic abstractions. He so often disturbedPelisson, that the latter, raising his head, crossly said, "At least, LaFontaine, supply me with a rhyme, since you have the run of the gardensat Parnassus.""What rhyme do you want?" asked the Fabler as Madame de Sevigne used tocall him."I want a rhyme to lumiere.""Orniere," answered La Fontaine."Ah, but, my good friend, one cannot talk of wheel-ruts whencelebrating 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 everprevent your becoming a poet of the first order. You rhyme in a slovenlymanner.""Oh, oh, you think so, do you, Pelisson?""Yes, I do, indeed. Remember that a rhyme is never good so long as onecan 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 suspectedI 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 isgood in your 'Fables.'""And to begin," continued La Fontaine, following up his idea, "I will goand 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 thispoint of the conversation."What way?""Write them first and burn them afterwards.""How simple! Well, I should never have discovered that. What a mindthat devil of a Moliere has!" said La Fontaine. Then, striking hisforehead, "Oh, thou wilt never be aught but an ass, Jean La Fontaine!" headded."What are you saying there, my friend?" broke in Moliere, approachingthe poet, whose aside he had heard."I say I shall never be aught but an ass," answered La Fontaine, with aheavy sigh and swimming eyes. "Yes, my friend," he added, withincreasing 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 hasseriously offended you.""Do you think so?""Ah! I advise you, as you are a gentleman, not to leave an insult likethat 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 Moliere, becoming slightly pale; but as, at La Fontaine'sdeclaration, the others had turned round, Moliere kept upon his lips therallying smile which had so nearly died away, and continuing to make LaFontaine speak -"And what was the result of the duel?""The result was, that on the ground my opponent disarmed me, and thenmade 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'sfriend, but because I was told I ought to fight. So, as I have neverknown any peace save since you made her acquaintance, do me the pleasureto continue your visits as heretofore, or morbleu! let us set toagain.' And so," continued La Fontaine, "he was compelled to resume hisfriendship 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! weknow that Moliere was a moralist, but he was not a philosopher. "'Tisall one," he said, returning to the topic of the conversation, "Pelissonhas 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 'LaPucelle,' 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, above all.""Yes, above all in the plural, seeing that then it rhymes not with threeletters, but with four; as orniere does with lumiere.""But give me ornieres and lumieres in the plural, my dear Pelisson,"said La Fontaine, clapping his hand on the shoulder of his friend, whoseinsult he had quite forgotten, "and they will rhyme.""Hem!" coughed Pelisson."Moliere says so, and Moliere is a judge of such things; he declares hehas himself made a hundred thousand verses.""Come," said Moliere, laughing, "he is off now.""It is like rivage, which rhymes admirably with herbage. I wouldtake my oath of it.""But - " said Moliere."I tell you all this," continued La Fontaine, "because you are preparinga divertissement for Vaux, are you not?""Yes, the 'Facheux.'""Ah, yes, the 'Facheux;' yes, I recollect. Well, I was thinking aprologue 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 Pelisson, who is engagedupon it at this moment.""Ah! that is what Pelisson is doing, then? I'faith, my dear Moliere, youare indeed often right.""When?""When you call me absent-minded. It is a monstrous defect; I will curemyself of it, and do your prologue for you.""But inasmuch as Pelisson is about it! - ""Ah, true, miserable rascal that I am! Loret was indeed right in sayingI 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 yourdivertissement is called the 'Facheux?' Well, can you make heureuxrhyme 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 Moliere for Loret - "I wasfancying - ""What were you fancying?" said Loret, in the middle of a sentence. "Makehaste.""You are writing the prologue to the 'Facheux,' are you not?""No! mordieu! it is Pelisson.""Ah, Pelisson," 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, LaFontaine; you have just given me the two concluding verses of my paper.""Well, if you can rhyme so well, La Fontaine," said Pelisson, "tell menow in what way you would begin my prologue?""I should say, for instance, 'Oh! nymph, who - ' After 'who' I shouldplace a verb in the second person singular of the present indicative; andshould go on thus: 'this grot profound.'""But the verb, the verb?" asked Pelisson."To admire the greatest king of all kings round," continued La Fontaine."But the verb, the verb," obstinately insisted Pelisson. "This secondperson singular of the present indicative?""Well, then; quittest:"Oh, nymph, who quittest now this grot profound,To admire the greatest king of all kings round.""You would not put 'who quittest,' would you?""Why not?""'Quittest,' after 'you who'?""Ah! my dear fellow," exclaimed La Fontaine, "you are a shocking pedant!""Without counting," said Moliere, "that the second verse, 'king of allkings round,' is very weak, my dear La Fontaine.""Then you see clearly I am nothing but a poor creature, - a shuffler, asyou said.""I never said so.""Then, as Loret said.""And it was not Loret either; it was Pelisson.""Well, Pelisson was right a hundred times over. But what annoys me morethan anything, my dear Moliere, is, that I fear we shall not have ourEpicurean dresses.""You expected yours, then, for the fete?""Yes, for the fete, and then for after the fete. My housekeeper toldme that my own is rather faded.""Diable! your housekeeper is right; rather more than faded.""Ah, you see," resumed La Fontaine, "the fact is, I left it on the floorin my room, and my cat - ""Well, your cat - ""She made her nest upon it, which has rather changed its color."Moliere burst out laughing; Pelisson and Loret followed his example. Atthis juncture, the bishop of Vannes appeared, with a roll of plans andparchments under his arm. As if the angel of death had chilled all gayand sprightly fancies - as if that wan form had scared away the Graces towhom Xenocrates sacrificed - silence immediately reigned through thestudy, and every one resumed his self-possession and his pen. Aramisdistributed the notes of invitation, and thanked them in the name of M.Fouquet. "The superintendent," he said, "being kept to his room bybusiness, could not come and see them, but begged them to send him someof the fruits of their day's work, to enable him to forget the fatigue ofhis labor in the night."At these words, all settled down to work. La Fontaine placed himself ata table, and set his rapid pen an endless dance across the smooth whitevellum; Pelisson made a fair copy of his prologue; Moliere contributedfifty fresh verses, with which his visit to Percerin had inspired him;Loret, an article on the marvelous fetes he predicted; and Aramis,laden with his booty like the king of the bees, that great black drone,decked with purple and gold, re-entered his apartment, silent and busy.But before departing, "Remember, gentlemen," said he, "we leave to-morrowevening.""In that case, I must give notice at home," said Moliere."Yes; poor Moliere!" said Loret, smiling; "he loves his home.""'He loves,' yes," replied Moliere, with his sad, sweet smile. "'Heloves,' that does not mean, they love him.""As for me," said La Fontaine, "they love me at Chateau Thierry, I amvery sure."Aramis here re-entered after a brief disappearance."Will any one go with me?" he asked. "I am going by Paris, after havingpassed a quarter of an hour with M. Fouquet. I offer my carriage.""Good," said Moliere, "I accept it. I am in a hurry.""I shall dine here," said Loret. "M. de Gourville has promised me somecraw-fish.""He has promised me some whitings. Find a rhyme for that, La Fontaine."Aramis went out laughing, as only he could laugh, and Moliere followedhim. They were at the bottom of the stairs, when La Fontaine opened thedoor, and shouted out:"He has promised us some whitings,In return for these our writings."The shouts of laughter reached the ears of Fouquet at the moment Aramisopened the door of the study. As to Moliere, he had undertaken to orderthe horses, while Aramis went to exchange a parting word with thesuperintendent. "Oh, how they are laughing there!" said Fouquet, with asigh."Do you not laugh, monseigneur?""I laugh no longer now, M. d'Herblay. The fete is approaching; moneyis departing.""Have I not told you that was my business?""Yes, you promised me millions.""You shall have them the day after the king's entree into Vaux."Fouquet looked closely at Aramis, and passed the back of his icy handacross his moistened brow. Aramis perceived that the superintendenteither doubted him, or felt he was powerless to obtain the money. Howcould Fouquet suppose that a poor bishop, ex-abbe, ex-musketeer, couldfind any?"Why doubt me?" said Aramis. Fouquet smiled and shook his head."Man of little faith!" added the bishop."My dear M. d'Herblay," answered Fouquet, "if I fall - ""Well; if you 'fall'?""I shall, at least, fall from such a height, that I shall shatter myselfin falling." Then giving himself a shake, as though to escape fromhimself, "Whence came you," said he, "my friend?""From Paris - from Percerin.""And what have you been doing at Percerin's, for I suppose you attach nogreat importance to our poets' dresses?""No; I went to prepare a surprise.""Surprise?""Yes; which you are going to give to the king.""And will it cost much?""Oh! a hundred pistoles you will give Lebrun.""A painting? - Ah! all the better! And what is this painting torepresent?""I will tell you; then at the same time, whatever you may say or think ofit, I went to see the dresses for our poets.""Bah! and they will be rich and elegant?""Splendid! There will be few great monseigneurs with so good. Peoplewill see the difference there is between the courtiers of wealth andthose of friendship.""Ever generous and grateful, dear prelate.""In your school."Fouquet grasped his hand. "And where are you going?" he said."I am off to Paris, when you shall have given a certain letter.""For whom?""M. de Lyonne.""And what do you want with Lyonne?""I wish to make him sign a lettre de cachet.""'Lettre de cachet!' Do you desire to put somebody in the Bastile?""On the contrary - to let somebody out.""And who?""A poor devil - a youth, a lad who has been Bastiled these ten years, fortwo Latin verses he made against the Jesuits.""'Two Latin verses!' and, for 'two Latin verses,' the miserable being hasbeen in prison for ten years!""Yes!""And has committed no other crime?""Beyond this, he is as innocent as you or I.""On your word?""On my honor!""And his name is - ""Seldon.""Yes. - But it is too bad. You knew this, and you never told me!""'Twas only yesterday his mother applied to me, monseigneur.""And the woman is poor!""In the deepest misery.""Heaven," said Fouquet, "sometimes bears with such injustice on earth,that I hardly wonder there are wretches who doubt of its existence.Stay, M. d'Herblay." And Fouquet, taking a pen, wrote a few rapid linesto his colleague Lyonne. Aramis took the letter and made ready to go."Wait," said Fouquet. He opened his drawer, and took out ten governmentnotes which were there, each for a thousand francs. "Stay," he said;"set the son at liberty, and give this to the mother; but, above all, donot tell her - ""What, monseigneur?""That she is ten thousand livres richer than I. She would say I am but apoor superintendent! Go! and I pray that God will bless those who aremindful of his poor!""So also do I pray," replied Aramis, kissing Fouquet's hand.And he went out quickly, carrying off the letter for Lyonne and the notesfor Seldon's mother, and taking up Moliere, who was beginning to losepatience.