“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.”
“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.”