“Remember, likewise, that the ancient philosopher was rather a bad friend of the gods and the magistrates.” “Oh! that is what I will not admit,” replied La Fontaine. “Epicurus was like M. Fouquet.” “Do not compare him to monsieur le surintendant,” said Conrart, in an agitated voice, “or you would accredit the reports which are circulated concerning him and us.” “What reports?” “That we are bad Frenchmen, lukewarm with regard to the king, deaf to the law.” “I return, then, to my text,” said La Fontaine. “Listen, Conrart, this is the morality of Epicurus, whom, besides, I consider, if I must tell you so, as a myth. Antiquity is mostly mythical. Jupiter, if we give a little attention to it, is life. Alcides is strength. The words are there to bear me out; Zeus, that is, zen, to live. Alcides, that is, alce, vigor. Well, Epicurus, that is mild watchfulness, that is protection; now who watches better over the state, or who protects individuals better than M. Fouquet does?” “You talk etymology and not morality; I say that we modern Epicureans are indifferent citizens.” “Oh!” cried La Fontaine, “if we become bad citizens, it is not through following the maxims of our master. Listen to one of his principal aphorisms.” “I—will.” “Pray for good leaders.” “Well?” “Well! what does M. Fouquet say to us every day? ‘When shall we be governed?’ Does he say so? Come, Conrart, be frank.” “He says so, that is true.” “Well, that is a doctrine of Epicurus.” “Yes; but that is a little seditious, observe.” “What! seditious to wish to be governed by good heads or leaders?” “Certainly, when those who govern are bad.” “Patience, I have a reply for all.” “Even for what I have just said to you?” “Listen! would you submit to those who govern ill? Oh! it is written: Cacos politeuousi. You grant me the text?” “Pardieu! I think so. Do you know, you speak Greek as well as AEsop did, my dear La Fontaine.” “Is there any wickedness in that, my dear Conrart?” “God forbid I should say so.” “Then let us return to M. Fouquet. What did he repeat to us all the day? Was it not this? ‘What a cuistre is that Mazarin! what an ass! what a leech! We must, however, submit to the fellow.’ Now, Conrart, did he say so, or did he not?” “I confess that he said it, and even perhaps too often.” “Like Epicurus, my friend, still like Epicurus; I repeat, we are Epicureans, and that is very amusing.” “Yes, but I am afraid there will rise up, by the side of us, a sect like that of Epictetus, you know him well; the philosopher of Hieropolis, he who called bread luxury, vegetables prodigality, and clear water drunkenness; he who, being beaten by his master, said to him, grumbling a little it is true, but without being angry, ‘I will lay a wager you have broken my leg!’—and who won his wager.” “He was a goose, that fellow Epictetus.” “Granted, but he might easily become the fashion by only changing his name into that of Colbert.”