The Man in the Iron Mask. Александр ДюмаЧитать онлайн книгу.
my opponent disarmed me, and then made an apology, promising never again to set foot in my house.”
“And you considered yourself satisfied?” said Moliere.
“Not at all! on the contrary, I picked up my sword. ‘I beg your pardon, monsieur,’ I said, ‘I have not fought you because you were my wife’s friend, but because I was told I ought to fight. So, as I have never known any peace save since you made her acquaintance, do me the pleasure to continue your visits as heretofore, or morbleu! let us set to again.’ And so,” continued La Fontaine, “he was compelled to resume his friendship with madame, and I continue to be the happiest of husbands.”
All burst out laughing. Moliere alone passed his hand across his eyes. Why? Perhaps to wipe away a tear, perhaps to smother a sigh. Alas! we know that Moliere was a moralist, but he was not a philosopher. “’Tis all one,” he said, returning to the topic of the conversation, “Pelisson has insulted you.”
“Ah, truly! I had already forgotten it.”
“And I am going to challenge him on your behalf.”
“Well, you can do so, if you think it indispensable.”
“I do think it indispensable, and I am going to—”
“Stay,” exclaimed La Fontaine, “I want your advice.”
“Upon what? this insult?”
“No; tell me really now whether lumiere does not rhyme with orniere.”
“I should make them rhyme.”
“Ah! I knew you would.”
“And I have made a hundred thousand such rhymes in my time.”
“A hundred thousand!” cried La Fontaine. “Four times as many as ‘La Pucelle,’ which M. Chaplain is meditating. Is it also on this subject, too, that you have composed a hundred thousand verses?”
“Listen to me, you eternally absent-minded creature,” said Moliere.
“It is certain,” continued La Fontaine, “that legume, for instance, rhymes with posthume.”
“In the plural, above all.”
“Yes, above all in the plural, seeing that then it rhymes not with three letters, but with four; as orniere does with lumiere.”
“But give me ornieres and lumieres in the plural, my dear Pelisson,” said La Fontaine, clapping his hand on the shoulder of his friend, whose insult he had quite forgotten, “and they will rhyme.”
“Hem!” coughed Pelisson.
“Moliere says so, and Moliere is a judge of such things; he declares he has himself made a hundred thousand verses.”
“Come,” said Moliere, laughing, “he is off now.”
“It is like rivage, which rhymes admirably with herbage. I would take my oath of it.”
“But—” said Moliere.
“I tell you all this,” continued La Fontaine, “because you are preparing a divertissement for Vaux, are you not?”
“Yes, the ‘Facheux.’”
“Ah, yes, the ‘Facheux;’ yes, I recollect. Well, I was thinking a prologue would admirably suit your divertissement.”
“Doubtless it would suit capitally.”
“Ah! you are of my opinion?”
“So much so, that I have asked you to write this very prologue.”
“You asked me to write it?”
“Yes, you, and on your refusal begged you to ask Pelisson, who is engaged upon it at this moment.”
“Ah! that is what Pelisson is doing, then? I’faith, my dear Moliere, you are indeed often right.”
“When?”
“When you call me absent-minded. It is a monstrous defect; I will cure myself of it, and do your prologue for you.”
“But inasmuch as Pelisson is about it!—”
“Ah, true, miserable rascal that I am! Loret was indeed right in saying I was a poor creature.”
“It was not Loret who said so, my friend.”
“Well, then, whoever said so, ’tis the same to me! And so your divertissement is called the ‘Facheux?’ Well, can you make heureux rhyme with facheux?”
“If obliged, yes.”
“And even with capriceux.”
“Oh, no, no.”
“It would be hazardous, and yet why so?”
“There is too great a difference in the cadences.”
“I was fancying,” said La Fontaine, leaving Moliere for Loret—“I was fancying—”
“What were you fancying?” said Loret, in the middle of a sentence. “Make haste.”
“You are writing the prologue to the ‘Facheux,’ are you not?”
“No! mordieu! it is Pelisson.”
“Ah, Pelisson,” cried La Fontaine, going over to him, “I was fancying,” he continued, “that the nymph of Vaux—”
“Ah, beautiful!” cried Loret. “The nymph of Vaux! thank you, La Fontaine; you have just given me the two concluding verses of my paper.”
“Well, if you can rhyme so well, La Fontaine,” said Pelisson, “tell me now in what way you would begin my prologue?”
“I should say, for instance, ‘Oh! nymph, who—’ After ‘who’ I should place a verb in the second person singular of the present indicative; and should go on thus: ‘this grot profound.’”
“But the verb, the verb?” asked Pelisson.
“To admire the greatest king of all kings round,” continued La Fontaine.
“But the verb, the verb,” obstinately insisted Pelisson. “This second person singular of the present indicative?”
“Well, then; quittest: Oh, nymph, who quittest now this grot profound, To admire the greatest king of all kings round.”
“You would not put ‘who quittest,’ would you?”
“Why not?”
“‘Quittest,’ after ‘you who’?”
“Ah! my dear fellow,” exclaimed La Fontaine, “you are a shocking pedant!”
“Without counting,” said Moliere, “that the second verse, ‘king of all kings round,’ is very weak, my dear La Fontaine.”
“Then you see clearly I am nothing but a poor creature,—a shuffler, as you said.”
“I never said so.”
“Then, as Loret said.”
“And it was not Loret either; it was Pelisson.”
“Well, Pelisson was right a hundred times over. But what annoys me more than anything, my dear Moliere, is, that I fear we shall not have our Epicurean dresses.”
“You expected yours, then, for the fete?”
“Yes, for the fete, and then for after the fete. My housekeeper told me that my own is rather faded.”
“Diable! your housekeeper is right; rather more than faded.”
“Ah, you see,” resumed La Fontaine, “the fact is, I left it on the