“Oh, indeed,” exclaimed the Gascon, for the third time, even less deceived this time than before.
Percerin never moved. Aramis roused him violently, by snatching from his hands the stuff upon which he was engaged. “My dear Percerin,” said he, “I have, near hand, M. Lebrun, one of M. Fouquet’s painters.”
“Ah, very good,” thought D’Artagnan; “but why Lebrun?”
Aramis looked at D’Artagnan, who seemed to be occupied with an engraving of Mark Antony. “And you wish that I should make him a dress, similar to those of the Epicureans?” answered Percerin. And while saying this, in an absent manner, the worthy tailor endeavored to recapture his piece of brocade.
“An Epicurean’s dress?” asked D’Artagnan, in a tone of inquiry.
“I see,” said Aramis, with a most engaging smile, “it is written that our dear D’Artagnan shall know all our secrets this evening. Yes, friend, you have surely heard speak of M. Fouquet’s Epicureans, have you not?”
“Undoubtedly. Is it not a kind of poetical society, of which La Fontaine, Loret, Pelisson, and Moliere are members, and which holds its sittings at Saint-Mande?”
“Exactly so. Well, we are going to put our poets in uniform, and enroll them in a regiment for the king.”
“Oh, very well, I understand; a surprise M. Fouquet is getting up for the king. Be at ease; if that is the secret about M. Lebrun, I will not mention it.”
“Always agreeable, my friend. No, Monsieur Lebrun has nothing to do with this part of it; the secret which concerns him is far more important than the other.”