“Take care,” said Pelisson in La Fontaine’s ear; “you have had a most brilliant success up to the present moment; do not go beyond your depth.”
“Not at all, Monsieur Pelisson; and you, who are a man of decided taste, will be the first to approve of what I have done.”
“We are talking of millions, remember,” said Gourville.
“I have fifteen hundred thousand francs here, Monsieur Gourville,” he replied, striking himself on the chest.
“The deuce take this Gascon from Chateau-Thierry!” cried Loret.
“It is not the pocket you must tap—but the brain,” said Fouquet.
“Stay a moment, monsieur le surintendant,” added La Fontaine; “you are not procureur-general—you are a poet.”
“True, true!” cried Loret, Conrart, and every person present connected with literature.
“You are, I repeat, a poet and a painter, a sculptor, a friend of the arts and sciences; but, acknowledge that you are no lawyer.”
“Oh! I do acknowledge it,” replied M. Fouquet, smiling.