The humour and fancy which abound in his tales, and his reputation among the men of genius of his time, made him an object of curiosity. He was sought and shown in company as "a lion," if one may use that ephemeral term. A farmer-general invited a large party "to meet the celebrated La Fontaine." They came prepared to hear him talk like "Joconde," or tell such stories as "The Matron of Ephesus." Poor La Fontaine eat, drank, never opened his mouth for any other purpose, and soon rose, to attend, he said, a meeting of the academy. "The distance is short: you will be too early," said the host. "I'll take the longest way," replied La Fontaine. Madame de la Sablière at one time discharged her whole establishment whilst La Fontaine was residing in her house. "What!" said somebody, "have you kept none?" "None," replied the lady, "except _mes trois bêtes_[50],--my cat, my dog, and La Fontaine." Such was her idea of his thoughtless and more than childish simplicity. It will hardly cause surprise that such a man never had a study or a library. He read and wrote when and where he felt disposed; and never thought of being provided with any other books than those he was immediately using. After twenty years of unwearied kindness, he was deprived of the society and care of his benefactress, and soon after of the home which he had enjoyed in her house. The circumstances present one of the most curious views of French manners and character at the time. Madame de la Sablière, a married woman, with an independent fortune, lived on terms of civility with her husband, who scarcely merited even this, and maintained with the anacreontic poet. La Fare, that ambiguous but recognised relation of tender friendship, into which no one looked beyond its decorous exterior, and which created neither scandal nor surprise. La Fare, after an attachment of some years, deserted his "friend" for the gaming table and the actress Champmélé, who turned so many heads in her day. This desertion so preyed upon the mind of madame de la Sablière that she sought refuge in devotion and a convent. Her husband, a rhyming marquis, who passed his life in writing madrigals upon his frivolous amours, was deserted about the same time by a mistress, and took it so to heart that he poisoned himself--at the romantic age of sixty-five! This event had such an effect upon madame de la Sablière, joined with her own private sorrows, that she did not long survive him, and La Fontaine was once more thrown helpless and homeless upon the world.