de Lorine. And thus
Percerin the third had attained the summit of his glory when his father
died. This same Percerin III., old, famous, and wealthy, yet further
dressed Louis XIV.; and having no son, which was a great cause of sorrow
to him, seeing that with himself his dynasty would end, he had brought
up several hopeful pupils. He possessed a carriage, a country-house,
menservants the tallest in Paris; and by special authority from Louis
XIV., a pack of hounds. He worked for MM. de Lyonne and Letellier, under
a sort of patronage; but, politic man as he was, and versed in state
secrets, he never succeeded in fitting M. Colbert. This is beyond
explanation; it is matter for intuition. Great geniuses of every kind
live upon unseen, intangible ideas; they act without themselves knowing
why. The great Percerin (for, contrary to the rule of dynasties, it was,
above all, the last of the Percerins who deserved the name of Great),
the great Percerin was inspired when he cut a robe for the queen, or a
coat for the king; he could mount a mantle for Monsieur, the clock of a
stocking for Madame; but, in spite of his supreme talent, he could never
hit the measure of M. Colbert. "That man," he used often to say, "is
beyond my art; my needle never can hit him off." We need scarcely say,
that Percerin was M. Fouquet's tailor, and that the surintendant highly
esteemed him. M. Percerin was nearly eighty years old, nevertheless,
still fresh, and at the same time so dry, the courtiers used to say,
that he was positively brittle. His renown and his fortune were great
enough for M. le Prince, that king of fops, to take his arm when talking
over the fashions; and for those least eager to pay never to dare to
leave their accounts in arrear with him; for Master Percerin would for
the first time make clothes upon credit, but the second never, unless
paid for the former order.

It is easy to see at once that a tailor of such standing, instead of
running after customers, made difficulties about obliging any fresh
ones. And so Percerin declined to fit bourgeois, or those who had but
recently obtained patents of nobility. A story used to circulate that
even M. de Mazarin, in exchange for Percerin supplying him with a full
suit of ceremonial vestments as cardinal, one fine day slipped letters
of nobility into his pocket.

It was to the house of this great lord of tailors that D'Artagnan took
the despairing Porthos; who, as they were going along, sai