"Will you run me mad, Tripot? What has the court mourning to do with the queen's soiree?"
"Gracious sir, the explanation is very simple. When the court is in mourning, no one can appear there in embroidered clothes; you must wear a plain black coat."
"I have no plain black coat," said Voltaire, with a frowning brow.
"It is necessary, then, for you to order one, and I have sent
Monsieur Pilleneure to come and take your measure."
"Are you insane, Tripot?" cried Voltaire. "Do you regard me as so vile a spendthrift, so brainless a fool, as to order a new coat for the sake of one evening's amusement—a coat which will cost an immense sum of money, and must then hang in the wardrobe to be destroyed by moths? In eight days this mourning will be over, and I would be several hundred francs poorer, and possess a black coat I could never wear! I will not go this evening to the soiree of the queen-mother; this is decided. I will announce myself sick. Go and countermand the tailor."
He turned to leave the room, but paused suddenly. "I cannot decline this invitation," murmured he. "It is widely known that I have promised to improvise. The world is looking on eagerly. If I do not go, or if I announce myself sick, they will say I shrink from this ordeal. My enemies will triumph!—Tripot, I am obliged to go to the soiree of the queen."
"Then the tailor must come to take your measure?"
"Fool!" cried Voltaire, stamping furiously. "I have told you I have no gold for such follies. Gather up your small amount of understanding, and think of some other expedient."
"Well, your excellency. I know a mode of escape from this embarrassment, but I scarcely dare propose it."
"Speak out—any means are good which attain their object."