“Well, has not M. Fouquet purchased a large garden at Saint-Mande, and do we not live here very tranquilly with him and his friends?”
“Yes, without doubt; unfortunately it is neither the garden nor the friends which constitute the resemblance. Now, what likeness is there between the doctrine of Epicurus and that of M. Fouquet?”
“This—pleasure gives happiness.”
“Next?”
“Well, I do not think we ought to consider ourselves unfortunate, for my part, at least. A good repast—vin de Foigny, which they have the delicacy to go and fetch for me from my favorite cabaret—not one impertinence heard during a supper an hour long, in spite of the presence of ten millionaires and twenty poets.”
“I stop you there. You mentioned vin de Foigny, and a good repast, do you persist in that?”
“I persist,—anteco, as they say at Port Royal.”
“Then please to recollect that the great Epicurus lived, and made his pupils live, upon bread, vegetables, and water.”
“That is not certain,” said La Fontaine; “and you appear to me to be confounding Epicurus with Pythagoras, my dear Conrart.”
“Remember, likewise, that the ancient philosopher was rather a bad friend of the gods and the magistrates.”