Furetière, in his vengeance, revealed the secrets of the learned assembly. If his account maybe relied on, the process by which the academy proposed its famous dictionary was truly laughable. "He only is right," says Furetière, "who talks loudest: one makes a long speech upon some trifle; another echoes the nonsense of his predecessor; sometimes three or four talk at the same time. When five or six are in close committee, one reads, another delivers his opinion, two are chatting together, a fifth looks over some dictionary which may happen to be on the table, and the sixth is sleeping." The treachery of the disclosure was condemned, but its truth generally admitted; and the private sittings of the academy were the theme of public ridicule and amusement, like the consultations of physicians, so pleasantly treated by Molière. Whatever excuse there may have been for Furetière's bitterness against his adversaries and the academy, there was none for his attack on La Fontaine. The blunder was provoking, but committed most innocently. La Fontaine's character placed his good faith beyond all doubt. His singularities were so well known that his mistakes and eccentricities were chartered in society, and excused even by Louis XIV. Having been introduced to the royal presence to present one of his works, he searched, and searched in vain, for the votive volume, and then frankly told the king that he had forgotten it! "Let it be another time, M. de la Fontaine," said the monarch, with a graciousness and good humour which did him honour, and dismissing the poet with a purse of gold. This misadventure did not quicken his attention even for the moment: he left his purse of gold behind him in the carriage.