Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Vicomte De Bragelonne by Alexandre Dumas (mini ebook reader txt) 📖
- Author: Alexandre Dumas
Book online «The Vicomte De Bragelonne by Alexandre Dumas (mini ebook reader txt) 📖». Author Alexandre Dumas
"Ah! I did not know you were my champion to such an extent, monsieur le abbe."
"You doubt it!" cried the abbe. "Listen, then, to what happened, no longer ago than yesterday, in the Rue de la Hochette. A man was cheapening a fowl."
"Well, how could that injure me, abbe?"
"This way. The fowl was not fat. The purchaser refused to give eighteen sous for it, saying that he could not afford eighteen sous for the skin of a fowl from which M. Fouquet had sucked all the fat."
"Go on."
"The joke caused a deal of laughter," continued the abbe; "laughter at your expense, death to the devils! and the canaille were delighted. The joker added, 'Give me a fowl fed by M. Colbert, if you like! and I will pay all you ask.' And immediately there was a clapping of hands. A frightful scandal! you understand; a scandal which forces a brother to hide his face."
Fouquet colored. "And you veiled it?" said the superintendent.
"No, for so it happened I had one of my men in the crowd; a new recruit from the provinces, one M. Menneville, whom I like very much. He made his way through the press, saying to the joker: 'Mille barbes! Monsieur the false joker, here's a thrust for Colbert!' 'And one for Fouquet,' replied the joker. Upon which they drew in front of the cook's shop, with a hedge of the curious round them, and five hundred as curious at the windows."
"Well?" said Fouquet.
"Well, monsieur, my Menneville spitted the joker, to the great astonishment of the spectators, and said to the cook:--'Take this goose, my friend, for it is fatter than your fowl.' That is the way, monsieur," ended the abbe, triumphantly, "in which I spend my revenues; I maintain the honor of the family, monsieur." Fouquet hung his head. "And I have a hundred as good as he," continued the abbe.
"Very well," said Fouquet, "give the account to Gourville, and remain here this evening."
"Shall we have supper?"
"Yes, there will be supper."
"But the chest is closed."
"Gourville will open it for you. Leave us, monsieur l'abbe, leave us."
"Then we are friends?" said the abbe, with a bow.
"Oh, yes, friends. Come, Gourville."
"Are you going out? You will not stay to supper, then?"
"I shall be back in an hour; rest easy, abbe." Then aside to Gourville,--"Let them put to my English horses," said he, "and direct the coachman to stop at the Hotel de Ville de Paris."
Carriages were already bringing the guests of Fouquet to Saint-Mande; already the whole house was getting warm with the preparations for supper, when the superintendent launched his fleet horses upon the roads to Paris, and going by the quays, in order to meet fewer people on the way, soon reached the Hotel de Ville. It wanted a quarter to eight. Fouquet alighted at the corner of the Rue de Long-Pont, and, on foot, directed his course towards the Place de Greve, accompanied by Gourville. At the turning of the Place they saw a man dressed in black and violet, of dignified mien, who was preparing to stop at Vincennes. He had before him a large hamper filled with bottles, which he had just purchased at the cabaret with the sign of "L'Image-de-Notre-Dame."
"Eh, but! that is Vatel! my maitre d'hotel!" said Fouquet to Gourville.
"Yes, monseigneur," replied the latter.
"What can he have been doing at the sign of L'Image-de-Notre-Dame?"
"Buying wine, no doubt."
"What! buy wine for me, at a cabaret?" said Fouquet. "My cellar, then, must be in a miserable condition!" and he advanced towards the maitre d'hotel, who was arranging his bottles in the carriage with the most minute care.
"Hola! Vatel," said he, in the voice of a master.
"Take care, monseigneur!" said Gourville, "you will be recognized."
"Very well! Of what consequence?--Vatel!"
The man dressed in black and violet turned round. He had a good and mild countenance, without expression--a mathematician minus the pride. A certain fire sparkled in the eyes of this personage, a rather sly smile played round his lips; but the observer might soon have remarked that this fire and this smile applied to nothing, enlightened nothing. Vatel laughed like an absent man, and amused himself like a child. At the sound of his master's voice he turned round, exclaiming: "Oh! monseigneur!"
"Yes, it is I. What the devil are you doing here, Vatel? Wine! You are buying wine at a cabaret in the Place de Greve!"
"But, monseigneur," said Vatel, quietly after having darted a hostile glance at Gourville, "why am I interfered with here? Is my cellar kept in bad order?"
"No, certes, Vatel, no; but--"
"But what?" replied Vatel. Gourville touched Fouquet's elbow.
"Don't be angry, Vatel; I thought my cellar--your cellar--sufficiently well stocked for us to be able to dispense with recourse to the cellar of L'Image-de-Notre-Dame."
"Eh, monsieur," said Vatel, shrinking from monseigneur to monsieur with a degree of disdain: "your cellar is so well stocked that when certain of your guests dine with you they have nothing to drink."
Fouquet, in great surprise, looked at Gourville. "What do you mean by that?"
"I mean that your butler had not wine for all tastes, monsieur; and that M. de la Fontaine, M. Pelisson, and M. Conrart, do not drink when they come to the house--these gentlemen do not like strong wine. What is to be done, then?"
"Well, and therefore?"
"Well, then, I have found here a vin de Joigny, which they like. I know they come here once a week to drink at the Image-de-Notre-Dame. That is the reason I am making this provision."
Fouquet had no more to say; he was convinced. Vatel, on his part, had much more to say, without doubt, and it was plain he was getting warm. "It is just as if you would reproach me, monseigneur, for going to the Rue Planche Milbray, to fetch, myself, the cider M. Loret drinks when he comes to dine at your house."
"Loret drinks cider at my house!" cried Fouquet, laughing.
"Certainly he does, monsieur, and that is the reason why he dines there with pleasure."
"Vatel," cried Fouquet, pressing the hand of his maitre d'hotel, "you are a man! I thank you, Vatel, for having understood that at my house M. de la Fontaine, M. Conrart, and M. Loret are as great as dukes and peers, as great as princes, greater than myself. Vatel, you are a good servant, and I double your salary."
Vatel did not even thank his master, he merely shrugged his shoulders a little, murmuring this superb sentiment: "To be thanked for having done one's duty is humiliating."
"He is right," said Gourville, as he drew Fouquet's attention, by a gesture, to another point. He showed him a low-built tumbrel, drawn by two horses, upon which rocked two strong gibbets, bound together, back to back, by chains, whilst an archer, seated upon the cross-beam, suffered, as well as he could, with his head cast down, the comments of a hundred vagabonds, who guessed the destination of the gibbets, and were escorting them to the Hotel de Ville. Fouquet started. "It is decided, you see," said Gourville.
"But it is not done," replied Fouquet.
"Oh, do not flatter yourself, monseigneur; if they have thus lulled your friendship and suspicions--if things have gone so far, you will be able to undo nothing."
"But I have not given my sanction."
"M. de Lyonne has ratified for you."
"I will go to the Louvre."
"Oh, no, you will not."
"Would you advise such baseness?" cried Fouquet, "would you advise me to abandon my friends? would you advise me, whilst able to fight, to throw the arms I hold in my hand to the ground?"
"I do not advise you to do anything of the kind, monseigneur. Are you in a position to quit the post of superintendent at this moment?"
"No."
"Well, if the king wishes to displace you--"
"He will displace me absent as well as present."
"Yes, but you will not have insulted him."
"Yes, but I shall have been base; now I am not willing that my friends should die; and they shall not die!"
"For that it is necessary you should go to the Louvre, is it not?"
"Gourville!"
"Beware! once at the Louvre, you will be forced to defend your friends openly, that is to say, to make a profession of faith; or you will be forced to abandon them irrevocably."
"Never!"
"Pardon me;--the king will propose the alternative to you, rigorously, or else you will propose it to him yourself."
"That is true."
"That is the reason why conflict must be avoided. Let us return to Saint-Mande, monseigneur."
"Gourville, I will not stir from this place, where the crime is to be carried out, where my disgrace is to be accomplished; I will not stir, I say, till I have found some means of combating my enemies."
"Monseigneur," replied Gourville, "you would excite my pity, if I did not know you for one of the great spirits of this world. You possess a hundred and fifty millions, you are equal to the king in position, and a hundred and fifty millions his superior in money. M. Colbert has not even had the wit to have the will of Mazarin accepted. Now, when a man is the richest person in a kingdom, and will take the trouble to spend the money, if things are done he does not like, it is because he is a poor man. Let us return to Saint-Mande, I say."
"To consult with Pelisson?--we will."
"No, monseigneur, to count your money."
"So be it," said Fouquet, with angry eyes;--"yes, yes, to Saint-Mande!" He got into his carriage again, and Gourville with him. Upon their road, at the end of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, they overtook the humble equipage of Vatel, who was quietly conveying home his vin de Joigny. The black horses, going at a swift pace, alarmed, as they passed, the timid hack of the maitre d'hotel, who, putting his head out at the window, cried, in a fright, "Take care of my bottles!"*
Fifty persons were waiting for the superintendent. He did not even take the time to place himself in the hands of his valet de chambre for a minute, but from the perron went straight into the premier salon. There his friends were assembled in full chat. The intendant was about to order supper to be served, but, above all, the Abbe Fouquet watched for the return of his brother, and was endeavoring to do the honors of the house in his absence. Upon the arrival of the superintendent, a murmur of joy and affection was heard; Fouquet, full of affability, good humor, and munificence, was beloved by his poets, his artists, and his men of business. His brow, upon which his little court read, as upon that of a god, all the movements of his soul, and thence drew rules of conduct,--his brow, upon which affairs of state never impressed a wrinkle, was this evening paler
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