“Bah!” replied La Fontaine, “that is impossible. Never will you find Colbert in Epictetus.” “You are right, I shall find—Coluber there, at the most.” “Ah! you are beaten, Conrart; you are reduced to a play upon words. M. Arnaud pretends that I have no logic; I have more than M. Nicolle.” “Yes,” replied Conrart, “you have logic, but you are a Jansenist.” This peroration was hailed with a boisterous shout of laughter; by degrees the promenaders had been attracted by the exclamations of the two disputants around the arbor under which they were arguing. The discussion had been religiously listened to, and Fouquet himself, scarcely able to suppress his laughter, had given an example of moderation. But with the denouement of the scene he threw off all restraint, and laughed aloud. Everybody laughed as he did, and the two philosophers were saluted with unanimous felicitations. La Fontaine, however, was declared conqueror, on account of his profound erudition and his irrefragable logic. Conrart obtained the compensation due to an unsuccessful combatant; he was praised for the loyalty of his intentions, and the purity of his conscience. At the moment when this jollity was manifesting itself by the most lively demonstrations, when the ladies were reproaching the two adversaries with not having admitted women into the system of Epicurean happiness, Gourville was seen hastening from the other end of the garden, approaching Fouquet, and detaching him, by his presence alone, from the group. The superintendent preserved on his face the smile and character of carelessness; but scarcely was he out of sight than he threw off the mask. “Well!” said he, eagerly, “where is Pellisson! What is he doing?” “Pellisson has returned from Paris.” “Has he brought back the prisoners?” “He has not even seen the concierge of the prison.” “What! did he not tell him he came from me?” “He told him so, but the concierge sent him this reply: ‘If any one came to me from M. Fouquet, he would have a letter from M. Fouquet.’” “Oh!” cried the latter, “if a letter is all he wants——” “It is useless, monsieur!” said Pellisson, showing himself at the corner of the little wood, “useless! Go yourself, and speak in your own name.” “You are right. I will go in, as if to work; let the horses remain harnessed, Pellisson. Entertain my friends, Gourville.” “One last word of advice, monseigneur,” replied the latter. “Speak, Gourville.” “Do not go to the concierge save at the last minute; it is brave, but it is not wise. Excuse me, Monsieur Pellisson, if I am not of the same opinion as you; but take my advice, monseigneur, send again a message to this concierge,—he is a worthy man, but do not carry it yourself.” “I will think of it,” said Fouquet; “besides, we have all the night before us.” “Do not reckon too much on time; were the hours we have twice as many as they are, they would not be too much,” replied Pellisson; “it is never a fault to arrive too soon.”