e fete, and then for after the fete. My housekeeper told me
that my own is rather faded."

"_Diable!_ Your housekeeper is right; rather more than faded!"

"Ah, you see," resumed La Fontaine, "the fact is, I left it on the floor
in my room, and my cat--"

"Well; your cat--"

"She kittened upon it, which has rather altered its color."

Moliere burst out laughing; Pellisson and Loret followed his example. At
this juncture, the bishop of Vannes appeared, with a roll of plans and
parchments under his arm. As if the angel of death had chilled all gay
and sprightly fancies--as if that wan form had scared away the Graces to
whom Xenocrates sacrificed--silence immediately reigned through the
study, and every one resumed his self-possession and his pen. Aramis
distributed the notes of invitation, and thanked them in the name of M.
Fouquet. "The surintendant," he said, "being kept to his room by
business, could not come and see them, but begged them to send him some
of the fruits of their day's work, to enable him to forget the fatigue
of his labor in the night."

At these words, all settled to work. La Fontaine placed himself at a
table, and set his rapid pen running over the vellum; Pellisson made a
fair copy of his prologue; Moliere gave fifty fresh verses, with which
his visit to Percerin had inspired him; Loret, his article on the
marvelous fetes he predicted; and Aramis, laden with booty like the king
of the bees, that great black drone, decked with purple and gold,
re-entered his apartment, silent and busy. But before departing,
"Remember, gentlemen," said he, "we all leave to-morrow evening."

"In that case, I must give notice at home," said Moliere.

"Yes; poor Moliere!" said Loret, smiling; "he loves his home."

"'_He_ loves,' yes," replied Moliere, with his sad, sweet smile. "'He
loves,' that does not mean, they love _him_."

"As for me," said La Fontaine, "they love me at Chateau Thierry, I am
very sure."

Aramis here re-entered after a brief disappearance. "Will any one go
with me?" he asked. "I am going by Paris, after having passed a quarter
of an hour with M. Fouquet. I offer my carriage."

"Good," said Moliere, "I accept it. I am in a hurry."

"I shall dine here," said Loret. "M. de Gourville has promised me some
crawfish."

"He has promised me some whitings. Find a rhyme for that, La Fontaine."

Aramis went out laughing, as only he could laugh, and Moliere followed
him. They were at the bottom o