“Why, monsieur the superintendent, I only want one valet de chambre, for my part, and even if I were alone, could help myself very well; but you, you who have so many enemies—a hundred men are not enough for me to defend you with. A hundred men!—you ought to have ten thousand. I maintain, then, these men in order that in public places, in assemblies, no voice may be raised against you, and without them, monsieur, you would be loaded with imprecations, you would be torn to pieces, you would not last a week; no, not a week, do you understand?” “Ah! I did not know you were my champion to such an extent, monsieur l’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 it so 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, 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.” CHAPTER 56. M. de la Fontaine’s Wine