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 road 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 get into a hired carriage, and told the coachman 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. Pellisson, 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?”