Epicureans
As Fouquet was giving, or appearing to give, all his attention to the
brilliant illuminations, the languishing music of the violins and
hautboys, the sparkling sheaves of the artificial fires, which,
inflaming the heavens with glowing reflections, marked behind the trees
the dark profile of the donjon of Vincennes; as, we say, the
superintendent was smiling on the ladies and the poets the fete was
every whit as gay as usual; and Vatel, whose restless, even jealous
look, earnestly consulted the aspect of Fouquet, did not appear
dissatisfied with the welcome given to the ordering of the evening’s
entertainment. The fireworks over, the company dispersed about the
gardens and beneath the marble porticoes with the delightful liberty
which reveals in the master of the house so much forgetfulness of
greatness, so much courteous hospitality, so much magnificent
carelessness. The poets wandered about, arm in arm, through the groves;
some reclined upon beds of moss, to the great damage of velvet clothes
and curled heads, into which little dried leaves and blades of grass
insinuated themselves. The ladies, in small numbers, listened to the
songs of the singers and the verses of the poets; others listened to
the prose, spoken with much art, by men who were neither actors nor
poets, but to whom youth and solitude gave an unaccustomed eloquence,
which appeared to them better than everything else in the world. “Why,”
said La Fontaine, “does not our master Epicurus descend into the
garden? Epicurus never abandoned his pupils, the master is wrong.”
“Monsieur,” said Conrart, “you yourself are in the wrong persisting in
decorating yourself with the name of an Epicurean; indeed, nothing here
reminds me of the doctrine of the philosopher of Gargetta.”
“Bah!” said La Fontaine, “is it not written that Epicurus purchased a
large garden and lived in it tranquilly with his friends?”
“That is true.”
“Well, has not M. Fouquet purchased a large garden at Saint-Mande, and
do we not live here very tranquilly with him and his friends?”
“Yes, without doubt; unfortunately it is neither the garden nor the
friends which constitute the resemblance. Now, what likeness is there
between the doctrine of Epicurus and that of M. Fouquet?”
“This—pleasure gives happiness.”
“Next?”
“Well, I do not think we ought to consider ourselves unfortunate, for
my part, at least. A good repast—vin de Foigny, which they have the
delicacy to go and fetch for me from my favorite cabaret—not one
impertinence heard during a supper an hour long, in spite of the
presence of ten millionaires and twenty poets.”
“I stop you there. You mentioned vin de Foigny, and a good repast, do
you persist in that?”
“I persist,—anteco, as they say at Port Royal.”
“Then please to recollect that the great Epicurus lived, and made his
pupils live, upon bread, vegetables, and water.”
“That is not certain,” said La Fontaine; “and you appear to me to be
confounding Epicurus with Pythagoras, my dear Conrart.”
“Remember, likewise, that the ancient philosopher was rather a bad
friend of the gods and the magistrates.”
“Oh! that is what I will not admit,” replied La Fontaine. “Epicurus was
like M. Fouquet.”
“Do not compare him to monsieur le surintendant,” said Conrart, in an
agitated voice, “or you would accredit the reports which are circulated
concerning him and us.”
“What reports?”
“That we are bad Frenchmen, lukewarm with regard to the king, deaf to
the law.”
“I return, then, to my text,” said La Fontaine. “Listen, Conrart, this
is the morality of Epicurus, whom, besides, I consider, if I must tell
you so, as a myth. Antiquity is mostly mythical. Jupiter, if we give a
little attention to it, is life. Alcides is strength. The words are
there to bear me out; Zeus, that is, zen, to live. Alcides, that is,
alce, vigor. Well, Epicurus, that is mild watchfulness, that is
protection; now who watches better over the state, or who protects
individuals better than M. Fouquet does?”
“You talk etymology and not morality; I say that we modern Epicureans
are indifferent citizens.”
“Oh!” cried La Fontaine, “if we become bad citizens, it is not through
following the maxims of our master. Listen to one of his principal
aphorisms.”
“I—will.”
“Pray for good leaders.”
“Well?”
“Well! what does M. Fouquet say to us every day? ‘When shall we be
governed?’ Does he say so? Come, Conrart, be frank.”
“He says so, that is true.”
“Well, that is a doctrine of Epicurus.”
“Yes; but that is a little seditious, observe.”
“What! seditious to wish to be governed by good heads or leaders?”
“Certainly, when those who govern are bad.”
“Patience, I have a reply for all.”
“Even for what I have just said to you?”
“Listen! would you submit to those who govern ill? Oh! it is written:
Cacos politeuousi. You grant me the text?”
“Pardieu! I think so. Do you know, you speak Greek as well as AEsop
did, my dear La Fontaine.”
“Is there any wickedness in that, my dear Conrart?”
“God forbid I should say so.”
“Then let us return to M. Fouquet. What did he repeat to us all the
day? Was it not this? ‘What a cuistre is that Mazarin! what an ass!
what a leech! We must, however, submit to the fellow.’ Now, Conrart,
did he say so, or did he not?”
“I confess that he said it, and even perhaps too often.”
“Like Epicurus, my friend, still like Epicurus; I repeat, we are
Epicureans, and that is very amusing.”
“Yes, but I am afraid there will rise up, by the side of us, a sect
like that of Epictetus, you know him well; the philosopher of
Hieropolis, he who called bread luxury, vegetables prodigality, and
clear water drunkenness; he who, being beaten by his master, said to
him, grumbling a little it is true, but without being angry, ‘I will
lay a wager you have broken my leg!’—and who won his wager.”
“He was a goose, that fellow Epictetus.”
“Granted, but he might easily become the fashion by only changing his
name into that of Colbert.”
“Bah!” replied La Fontaine, “that is impossible. Never will you find
Colbert in Epictetus.”
“You are right, I shall find—Coluber there, at the most.”
“Ah! you are beaten, Conrart; you are reduced to a play upon words. M.
Arnaud pretends that I have no logic; I have more than M. Nicolle.”
“Yes,” replied Conrart, “you have logic, but you are a Jansenist.”
This peroration was hailed with a boisterous shout of laughter; by
degrees the promenaders had been attracted by the exclamations of the
two disputants around the arbor under which they were arguing. The
discussion had been religiously listened to, and Fouquet himself,
scarcely able to suppress his laughter, had given an example of
moderation. But with the denouement of the scene he threw off all
restraint, and laughed aloud. Everybody laughed as he did, and the two
philosophers were saluted with unanimous felicitations. La Fontaine,
however, was declared conqueror, on account of his profound erudition
and his irrefragable logic. Conrart obtained the compensation due to an
unsuccessful combatant; he was praised for the loyalty of his
intentions, and the purity of his conscience.
At the moment when this jollity was manifesting itself by the most
lively demonstrations, when the ladies were reproaching the two
adversaries with not having admitted women into the system of Epicurean
happiness, Gourville was seen hastening from the other end of the
garden, approaching Fouquet, and detaching him, by his presence alone,
from the group. The superintendent preserved on his face the smile and
character of carelessness; but scarcely was he out of sight than he
threw off the mask.
“Well!” said he, eagerly, “where is Pellisson! What is he doing?”
“Pellisson has returned from Paris.”
“Has he brought back the prisoners?”
“He has not even seen the concierge of the prison.”
“What! did he not tell him he came from me?”
“He told him so, but the concierge sent him this reply: ‘If any one
came to me from M. Fouquet, he would have a letter from M. Fouquet.’”
“Oh!” cried the latter, “if a letter is all he wants——”
“It is useless, monsieur!” said Pellisson, showing himself at the
corner of the little wood, “useless! Go yourself, and speak in your own
name.”
“You are right. I will go in, as if to work; let the horses remain
harnessed, Pellisson. Entertain my friends, Gourville.”
“One last word of advice, monseigneur,” replied the latter.
“Speak, Gourville.”
“Do not go to the concierge save at the last minute; it is brave, but
it is not wise. Excuse me, Monsieur Pellisson, if I am not of the same
opinion as you; but take my advice, monseigneur, send again a message
to this concierge,—he is a worthy man, but do not carry it yourself.”
“I will think of it,” said Fouquet; “besides, we have all the night
before us.”
“Do not reckon too much on time; were the hours we have twice as many
as they are, they would not be too much,” replied Pellisson; “it is
never a fault to arrive too soon.”
“Adieu!” said the superintendent; “come with me, Pellisson. Gourville,
I commend my guests to your care.” And he set off. The Epicureans did
not perceive that the head of the school had left them; the violins
continued playing all night long.