The duchess of Bouillon, on the expiration or remission of her exile, took La Fontaine with her to Paris. He now became known to the persons most distinguished in the capital for rank and genius in the circles of his patroness, and of her sister, the celebrated duchess of Mazarin, so well known for her wit, graces, gallantries, and conjugal disputes. Both sisters continued the friends of La Fontaine through life, and exercised great influence over his writings. Their characters may be illustrated, in passing, by a single anecdote. It is related in the memoirs of the duchess of Mazarin,—written by herself, or under her immediate direction.
Their breaches of court discipline subjected them frequently to mitigated imprisonments,—sometimes at their own seats, sometimes in a convent, where the offence demanded a more serious lesson of penance and reform. Having been on one occasion consigned to the same convent they amused themselves by putting ink into the holy water. The nuns, who on their way to matins and vespers dipped their fingers in the font, and crossed their foreheads with the sacred lymph, on meeting in the chapel, beheld upon each other's brows, with surprise and terror, the dark signs of reprobation.
La Fontaine doubtless owed that finesse of expression which sometimes palliates, if it does not redeem, the freedom of his pleasantries, to his intercourse with two persons so witty, accomplished, and unconstrained.
Soon after his arrival in Paris he formed that union of friendship between him, Molière, Boileau, and Racine, which death only interrupted. These celebrated men appreciated his genius, before it yet received the stamp of public admiration, and always regarded him with affection. Boileau and Racine, indeed, amused themselves with his simplicity, and treated him sometimes with a certain air of protection. The conversation happening to turn one evening, at a supper party where they were, upon the dramatic probability of what are called stage whispers or "asides," La Fontaine said it was absurd to suppose that what was heard by the whole audience could escape a person on the stage. A discussion ensued, as it commonly happened when any question of art or literature was started, even in the highest circles,—so different from modern fashionable life. "Don't you think La Fontaine a great rogue?" said Boileau, to his nearest neighbour, aside, but loud enough to be heard, and laughed at by everybody except La Fontaine, who was thinking of something else. The argument, as well as the laugh, was immediately turned against him; but most illogically, for the fact proved not the reasonableness of "asides;" it was evidence only of La Fontaine's distractions. "Let them laugh," said Molière, "le bon homme will take a flight beyond them—(le bon homme ira plus loin qu'eux)." This prediction has been verified; La Fontaine's reputation has been uniformly spreading and rising, in spite of the disposition, even in France, during and since the latter half of the last century, to detract from the age of Louis XIV. It is worth remarking, with reference to this anecdote, that, of all the poets of that age, he and Molière alone have maintained their pre-eminence undisputed through every change of taste and time.
La Fontaine now passed his life in the coteries of the duchesses of Bouillon and Mazarin, Boileau and Racine, without giving a thought to his home or family. Boileau and Racine, both strictly religious moralists, were scandalised by his complete separation from his wife, and pointed out to him its indecency. Simple and docile, as usual, he admitted the justice of their remonstrance; said the impropriety of his conduct had never occurred to him; and, to make amends, he said he should go and see his wife without delay. He set out for Château Thierry the next morning, and came back the succeeding day. His friends made their inquiries respecting madame La Fontaine. "I did not see her," said he. "How," said they, "not see her? was she from home?" "Yes; she was gone to prayers; and the servant, not knowing me, would not let me stay in the house till she returned." In this extremity the poor poet, shut out of his own house, went to that of a friend, where he dined, supped, and slept; and from which he started for Paris next morning, without seeing his wife, or making his house a second visit.
The most imperative of all motives, however, the want of money, sometimes sent him to Château Thierry, for the purpose of selling part of his estate, to provide for his expenses at Paris. His improvident practice, of consuming the principal after the interest was gone, "mangant son fonds aprez son revenu," as he himself expressed it, together with his wife's want of economy—for in this at least they perfectly agreed,—would have soon left him destitute, if he had not become known to the celebrated and unfortunate Foucquet. That prodigal financier and magnificent patron, upon being made acquainted with the genius, character, and wants of La Fontaine, settled on him a liberal pension, to be paid quarterly, on the condition of a quarterly quittance in verse; and this condition he religiously fulfilled. His pension, or rather his gratitude, dictated to him some of the most beautiful of his smaller pieces. He celebrated and ministered to the fêtes and gallantries, and sang the groves, gardens, and fountains, of Vaux,—that princely residence, which Foucquet adorned with all that wealth, prodigality, and the arts could produce; and which, it has been supposed, contributed not a little to his ruin, by provoking the jealous or envious pride of Louis XIV.
Though La Fontaine's acknowledgments are grateful, they are not servile. Whatever appears exaggerated at the present day fell far short of the tone of his contemporaries, and is moreover nobly borne out by his fidelity in his patron's memorable disgrace.
Foucquet provoked, not only the displeasure, but the personal jealousy and vengeance of Louis XIV., by rivalling him in princely magnificence at Vaux; and in gallantry, it has been said, by making pretensions to the royal mistress La Vallière[48]; yet had La Fontaine not only the generosity to adhere to him, but the courage, for such it was, to solicit his pardon of Louis XIV., in an elegy full of touching pathos and philosophy. Alluding to the fickleness of fortune and court favour, he says:—
"On n'y connait que trop les jeux de la fortune,
Ses trompeuses faveurs, ses appas inconstans,
Mais on ne les connait que quand il n'est plus temps."
To move Louis he brings before him the example of Henry IV.—