During all this time the noble mob was slowly heaving away, leaving at
every angle of the counter either a murmur or a menace, as the waves
leave foam or scattered seaweed on the sands, when they retire with the
ebbing tide. In about ten minutes Moliere reappeared, making another
sign to D’Artagnan from under the hangings. The latter hurried after
him, with Porthos in the rear, and after threading a labyrinth of
corridors, introduced him to M. Percerin’s room. The old man, with his
sleeves turned up, was gathering up in folds a piece of gold-flowered
brocade, so as the better to exhibit its luster. Perceiving D’Artagnan,
he put the silk aside, and came to meet him, by no means radiant with
joy, and by no means courteous, but, take it altogether, in a tolerably
civil manner.
“The captain of the king’s musketeers will excuse me, I am sure, for I
am engaged.”
“Eh! yes, on the king’s costumes; I know that, my dear Monsieur
Percerin. You are making three, they tell me.”
“Five, my dear sir, five.”
“Three or five, ‘tis all the same to me, my dear monsieur; and I know
that you will make them most exquisitely.”
“Yes, I know. Once made they will be the most beautiful in the world,
I do not deny it; but that they may be the most beautiful in the word,
they must first be made; and to do this, captain, I am pressed for
time.”
“Oh, bah! there are two days yet; ‘tis much more than you require,
Monsieur Percerin,” said D’Artagnan, in the coolest possible manner.
Percerin raised his head with the air of a man little accustomed to be
contradicted, even in his whims; but D’Artagnan did not pay the least
attention to the airs which the illustrious tailor began to assume.
“My dear M. Percerin,” he continued, “I bring you a customer.”
“Ah! ah!” exclaimed Percerin, crossly.
“M. le Baron du Vallon de Bracieux de Pierrefonds,” continued
D’Artagnan. Percerin attempted a bow, which found no favor in the eyes
of the terrible Porthos, who, from his first entry into the room, had
been regarding the tailor askance.
“A very good friend of mine,” concluded D’Artagnan.
“I will attend to monsieur,” said Percerin, “but later.”
“Later? but when?”
“When I have time.”
“You have already told my valet as much,” broke in Porthos,
discontentedly.
“Very likely,” said Percerin; “I am nearly always pushed for time.”
“My friend,” returned Porthos, sententiously, “there is always time to
be found when one chooses to seek it.”
Percerin turned crimson; an ominous sign indeed in old men blanched by
age.
“Monsieur is quite at liberty to confer his custom elsewhere.”
“Come, come, Percerin,” interposed D’Artagnan, “you are not in a good
temper to-day. Well, I will say one more word to you, which will bring
you on your knees; monsieur is not only a friend of mine, but more, a
friend of M. Fouquet’s.”
“Ah! ah!” exclaimed the tailor, “that is another thing.” Then turning
to Porthos, “Monsieur le baron is attached to the superintendent?” he
inquired.
“I am attached to myself,” shouted Porthos, at the very moment that the
tapestry was raised to introduce a new speaker in the dialogue. Moliere
was all observation, D’Artagnan laughed, Porthos swore.
“My dear Percerin,” said D’Artagnan, “you will make a dress for the
baron. ‘Tis I who ask you.”
“To you I will not say nay, captain.”
“But that is not all; you will make it for him at once.”
“‘Tis impossible within eight days.”
“That, then, is as much as to refuse, because the dress is wanted for
the _fete_ at Vaux.”
“I repeat that it is impossible,” returned the obstinate old man.
“By no means, dear Monsieur Percerin, above all if _I_ ask you,” said a
mild voice at the door, a silvery voice which made D’Artagnan prick up
his ears. It was the voice of Aramis.
“Monsieur d’Herblay!” cried the tailor.
“Aramis,” murmured D’Artagnan.
“Ah! our bishop!” said Porthos.
“Good morning, D’Artagnan; good morning, Porthos; good-morning, my dear
friends,” said Aramis. “Come, come, M. Percerin, make the baron’s
dress; and I will answer for it you will gratify M. Fouquet.” And he
accompanied the words with a sign, which seemed to say, “Agree, and
dismiss them.”
It appeared that Aramis had over Master Percerin an influence superior
even to D’Artagnan’s, for the tailor bowed in assent, and turning round
upon Porthos, said, “Go and get measured on the other side.”
Porthos colored in a formidable manner. D’Artagnan saw the storm coming,
and addressing Moliere, said to him, in an undertone, “You see before
you, my dear monsieur, a man who considers himself disgraced, if you
measure the flesh and bones that Heaven has given him; study this type
for me, Master Aristophanes, and profit by it.”
Moliere had no need of encouragement, and his gaze dwelt long and keenly
on the Baron Porthos. “Monsieur,” he said, “if you will come with me, I
will make them take your measure without touching you.”
“Oh!” said Porthos, “how do you make that out, my friend?”
“I say that they shall apply neither line nor rule to the seams of
your dress. It is a new method we have invented for measuring people of
quality, who are too sensitive to allow low-born fellows to touch
them. We know some susceptible persons who will not put up with being
measured, a process which, as I think, wounds the natural dignity of a
man; and if perchance monsieur should be one of these--”
“_Corboeuf!_ I believe I am too!”
“Well, that is a capital and most consolatory coincidence, and you shall
have the benefit of our invention.”
“But how in the world can it be done?” asked Porthos, delighted.
“Monsieur,” said Moliere, bowing, “if you will deign to follow me, you
will see.”
Aramis observed this scene with all his eyes. Perhaps he fancied from
D’Artagnan’s liveliness that he would leave with Porthos, so as not to
lose the conclusion of a scene well begun. But, clear-sighted as he was,
Aramis deceived himself. Porthos and Moliere left together: D’Artagnan
remained with Percerin. Why? From curiosity, doubtless; probably to
enjoy a little longer the society of his good friend Aramis. As Moliere
and Porthos disappeared, D’Artagnan drew near the bishop of Vannes, a
proceeding which appeared particularly to disconcert him.
“A dress for you, also, is it not, my friend?”
Aramis smiled. “No,” said he.
“You will go to Vaux, however?”
“I shall go, but without a new dress. You forget, dear D’Artagnan, that
a poor bishop of Vannes is not rich enough to have new dresses for every
_fete_.”
“Bah!” said the musketeer, laughing, “and do we write no more poems now,
either?”
“Oh! D’Artagnan,” exclaimed Aramis, “I have long ago given up all such
tomfoolery.”
“True,” repeated D’Artagnan, only half convinced. As for Percerin, he
was once more absorbed in contemplation of the brocades.
“Don’t you perceive,” said Aramis, smiling, “that we are greatly boring
this good gentleman, my dear D’Artagnan?”
“Ah! ah!” murmured the musketeer, aside; “that is, I am boring you,
my friend.” Then aloud, “Well, then, let us leave; I have no further
business here, and if you are as disengaged as I, Aramis--”
“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 Vallière, 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 pretty compliment to pay the young prince,” continued Aramis; “but
as the surintendant told me, ‘if Percerin refuse, tell him that it
will not at all lower him in my opinion, and I shall always esteem him,
only--’”
“‘Only?’” repeated Percerin, rather troubled.
“‘Only,’” continued Aramis, “‘I shall be compelled to say to the
king,’--you understand, my dear Monsieur Percerin, that these are M.
Fouquet’s words,--‘I shall be constrained to say to the king, “Sire, I
had intended to present your majesty with your portrait, but owing to a
feeling of delicacy, slightly exaggerated perhaps, although creditable,
M. Percerin opposed the project.”’”
“Opposed!” cried the tailor, terrified at the responsibility which would
weigh upon him; “I to oppose the desire, the will of M. Fouquet when he
is seeking to please the king! Oh, what a hateful word you have uttered,
monseigneur. Oppose! Oh, ‘tis not I who said it, Heaven have mercy on
me. I call the captain of the musketeers to witness it! Is it not true,
Monsieur d’Artagnan, that I have opposed nothing?”
D’Artagnan made a sign indicating that he wished to remain neutral. He
felt that there was an intrigue at the bottom of it, whether comedy or
tragedy; he was at his wit’s end at not being able to fathom it, but in
the meanwhile wished to keep clear.
But already Percerin, goaded by the idea that the king was to be told he
stood in the way of a pleasant surprise, had offered Lebrun a chair, and
proceeded to bring from a wardrobe four magnificent dresses, the
fifth being still in the workmen’s hands; and these masterpieces he
successively fitted upon four lay figures, which, imported into France
in the time of Concini, had been given to Percerin II. by Marshal
d’Onore, after the discomfiture of the Italian tailors ruined in their
competition. The painter set to work to draw and then to paint the
dresses. But Aramis, who was closely watching all the phases of his
toil, suddenly stopped him.
“I think you have not quite got it, my dear Lebrun,” he said; “your
colors will deceive you, and on canvas we shall lack that exact
resemblance which is absolutely requisite. Time is necessary for
attentively observing the finer shades.”
“Quite true,” said Percerin, “but time is wanting, and on that head, you
will agree with me, monseigneur, I can do nothing.”
“Then the affair will fail,” said Aramis, quietly, “and that because of
a want of precision in the colors.”
Nevertheless Lebrun went on copying the materials and ornaments with
the closest fidelity--a process which Aramis watched with ill-concealed
impatience.
“What in the world, now, is the meaning of this imbroglio?” the
musketeer kept saying to himself.
“That will never do,” said Aramis: “M. Lebrun, close your box, and roll
up your canvas.”
“But, monsieur,” cried the vexed painter, “the light is abominable
here.”
“An idea, M. Lebrun, an idea! If we had a pattern of the materials, for
example, and with time, and a better light--”
“Oh, then,” cried Lebrun, “I would answer for the effect.”
“Good!” said D’Artagnan, “this ought to be the knotty point of the whole
thing; they want a pattern of each of the materials. _Mordioux!_ Will
this Percerin give in now?”
Percerin, beaten from his last retreat, and duped, moreover, by the
feigned good-nature of Aramis, cut out five patterns and handed them to
the bishop of Vannes.
“I like this better. That is your opinion, is it not?” said Aramis to
D’Artagnan.
“My dear Aramis,” said D’Artagnan, “my opinion is that you are always
the same.”
“And, consequently, always your friend,” said the bishop in a charming
tone.
“Yes, yes,” said D’Artagnan, aloud; then, in a low voice, “If I am your
dupe, double Jesuit that you are, I will not be your accomplice; and
to prevent it, ‘tis time I left this place.--Adieu, Aramis,” he added
aloud, “adieu; I am going to rejoin Porthos.”
“Then wait for me,” said Aramis, pocketing the patterns, “for I have
done, and shall be glad to say a parting word to our dear old friend.”
Lebrun packed up his paints and brushes, Percerin put back the dresses
into the closet, Aramis put his hand on his pocket to assure himself the
patterns were secure,--and they all left the study.