chair.
The disdain of Juno and the sulky fits of temper of Jupiter could not
resist this excess of kindly feeling and polite attention. The queen ate
a biscuit dipped in a glass of San-Lucar wine; and the king ate of
everything, saying to M. Fouquet: "It is impossible, Monsieur le
Surintendant, to dine better anywhere." Whereupon the whole court began,
on all sides, to devour the dishes spread before them, with such
enthusiasm that it looked like a cloud of Egyptian locusts settling down
upon the uncut crops.

As soon, however, as his hunger was appeased, the king became dull and
gloomy again; the more so in proportion to the satisfaction he fancied
he had manifested, and particularly on account of the deferential manner
which his courtiers had shown toward Fouquet. D'Artagnan, who ate a good
deal and drank but little, without allowing it to be noticed, did not
lose a single opportunity, but made a great number of observations which
he turned to good profit.

When the supper was finished, the king expressed a wish not to lose the
promenade. The park was illuminated; the moon, too as if she had placed
herself at the orders of the Lord of Vaux, silvered the trees and lakes
with her bright phosphoric light. The air was soft and balmy; the
graveled walks through the thickly set avenues yielded luxuriously to
the feet. The fete was complete in every respect, for the king, having
met La Valliere in one of the winding paths of the wood, was able to
press her by the hand and say, "I love you," without any one overhearing
him except M. d'Artagnan who followed, and M. Fouquet who preceded him.

The night of magical enchantments stole on. The king having requested to
be shown his room, there was immediately a movement in every direction.
The queens passed to their own apartments, accompanied by the music of
theorbos and lutes; the king found his musketeers awaiting him on the
grand flight of steps, for M. Fouquet had brought them on from Melun,
and had invited them to supper. D'Artagnan's suspicions at once
disappeared. He was weary, he had supped well, and wished, for once in
his life, thoroughly to enjoy a fete given by a man who was in every
sense of the word a king. "M. Fouquet," he said, "is the man for me."

The king was conducted with the greatest ceremony to the chamber of
Morpheus, of which we owe some slight description to our readers. It was
the handsomest and the largest in the palace. Lebrun had painted on the
vau