At last, La Fontaine saw himself at ten steps stifled voice, "withdraw! You will soon learn the from his Majesty. fate of M. Fouquet."

La Fontaine rose, uttering in his turn a heartrending cry.

"Oh! it is impossible! Is there no more justice, no more humanity on the earth? What is to be done, my God, what is to be done? Where are the judges? where is the executioner? I will drag myself to their knees, I will offer them my blood instead of that of La Fouquet!"

"You forget, my father, that a last resource remains to you; the letter of the Superintendent to Mademoiselle de La Vallière."

"Ah! that is true!" exclaimed La Fontaine, recovering his energy with his reason; "I should have commenced by delivering that, instead of irritating the pride of the King. She, at least, is a woman; she has not affairs of state instead of a heart. Where is she? conduct me to her, hasten!"

"Come," said Cavoie, continuing his role of devotion. "A friend has just informed me that Mademoiselle de La Vallière is with Madame Henriette. She is prepared, and will receive you immediately."

A few moments afterwards, the fabulist was in the presence of the favourite.

| anger of his majesty. It is I who have killed M. Fouquet! It is I! it is I!' miserable madman!"

And without staying to listen to Mademoiselle de La Vallière, who was tremblingly asking a thousand questions, he left her half fainting, and darted through the palaces bare-headed, striking his breast, and exclaiming to everybody:

"It is I! it is I who have killed Fouquet! I wish to die also! Where is the King? where is the King? let him take my head!"

Dominique and Molière vainly ran after him, demanding an explanation of this enigma. He constantly ran from gallery to gallery, repeating:

"It is I! it is I who have killed him! For he is condemned to death, is he not?" asked he suddenly of a magistrate whom he met on his pas sage, and whom he seized by his red robe.

"Of whom do you speak, Monsieur?" asked the affrighted man of law.

"Of M. Fouquet. Do you know his sentence?"
"It is indeed said that it is pronounced."
"And it is death?"

"I have been so assured."

"Ah! I am his assassin!" exclaimed La Fontaine, throwing himself exhausted into the arms of He had never seen her so near. Her beauty his son, who had at last come to rejoin him, with dazzled him, and bewildered his soul.

"Oh, Mademoiselle!" said he, clasping his hands, as in the presence of an idol, “ you are too beautiful not to be good. You resemble the angels, be the angel of mercy and of pardon!" "Of whom are you speaking? pray!" demanded Mademoiselle La Vallière, already moved with compassion.

"Of the most unfortunate of men, of M. Fouquet. Read and save him!"

He presented to the favourite a letter which she opened tremblingly, and read attentively from one end to the other.

Three times he saw her wipe away her tears; at last a smile, whose charm was equalled only by its sweetness, hovered on her lips as a signal of hope.

"Monsieur de La Fontaine," said she, giving him her hand, "I recognise here your talents and your heart. It is impossible that such verses should not disarm his majesty."

"Verses, Mademoiselle! what say you?" exclaimed the good man, struck with surprise; "it was a letter from M. Fouquet which I placed in your hands; a letter written by him, soon after he was arrested."

"Pardon me, these are verses written and signed by you; admirable verses, like all which come from your pen; an elegy to the Nymphs of Vaux, with an envoi to his majesty, to whom you undoubtedly desire that I should submit it."

La Fontaine heard no more;-he had thrown his hat on one side, his cane on the other; he was searching and ransacking his pockets; he was agitated like a man who fears the loss of his reason; he uttered the strangest and most unintelligible exclamations.

In short, he fell into an arm-chair, raising his hands to heaven, and exclaiming despairingly:

"Wretch that I am! I have confounded the two despatches; instead of placing my verses in the hands of the King, I have given him the letter of M. Fouquet to Mademoiselle de La Vallière." "Great God! is it possible?" said the favourite, who was ready to swoon in her turn.

"I comprehend now the disturbance and the

Molière.

They re-conducted him, more dead than alive, to the house of a friend of M. de Cavoie. There he was at last relieved by a torrent of

tears.

Then he explained the fatal mistake which had kindled the anger of Louis XIV., and decided the fate of Fouquet.

His son and his friend were in consternation, and could only mingle their tears with his sobs. Meanwhile the fabulist having recovered his strength, began again to repeat:

"Where is the King? I wish to speak to the King!"

They were vainly attempting to dissuade him from this project, when an officer of the guards entered, and demanded M. de La Fontaine. "I am here!" replied the poet rising. "His majesty commands your presence," resumed the officer; "follow me."

"God be praised!" said the good man with exultation, "I am now to hear my sentence; but at least I shall be able to speak to the King once more."

And he eagerly obeyed, while Molière and Dominique were lost in conjectures, each more terrible than the last.

CHAPTER X.

THE KING'S JUSTICE.

La Fontaine was conducted into the cabinet Des Pendules, where Louis XIV. was walking backwards and forwards, in the midst of his ministers and some great officers.

His blood froze in his veins at the thought that he was about to lose even the doubt which survived his hope.

"Pardon, sire, pardon!" said he, kneeling with a lamentable groan; "let your justice fall only on me!"

"Silence!" replied Louis XIV. in a low tone, while his ministers stood respectfully at a distance; "rise, Monsieur La Fontaine; I have de sired myself to announce to you the fate of M. Fouquet."

The poet felt a mist pass over his eyes, and pulsed my homage, you know better than any one prepared to receive a mortal blow.

He essayed to speak once more;-the words died on his lips before a new gesture of the King. "An hour since," resumed Louis XIV., "M. Fouquet was condemned to death."

La Fontaine, annihilated, leaned or rather fell against the back of a fauteuil.

"But I have granted him his life," added the King; "he will submit only to prison or to banishment; and it is to you, Monsieur La Fontaine, that he owes this favour."

The good man rose like a dead man resuscitated. He could not restrain an exclamation of joy, of delight, of gratitude. He began to laugh and weep at the same time; and seizing with a sort of frenzy the hand of Louis XIV., he covered it with tears and convulsive kisses.

He was obliged to confine himself to this energetic mode of thanks, for it was impossible for him, notwithstanding all his efforts, to articulate a single word.

After having enjoyed his happiness for some time, the King resumed, pointing to a table:

"Write yourself this happy intelligence to your friend; I wish that he should receive it from you."

La Fontaine summoned his strength, traced two lines and signed them.

A secretary put them under an evelope and placed upon it the royal seal.

"This letter to the Bastile!" said the King. "Au revoir, Monsieur de La Fontaine; my son expects a new volume of fables."

And he disappeared with his ministers.

The good man was two minutes in recovering himself. He thought it all a dream; he groped, he looked around him.

At last, he uttered a cry, and darted through the apartments, throwing his arms around everybody as he passed.

He lost himself twenty times in his precipitation-went and came to the right and left, descended and remounted the stairways, and at last rejoined his son, M. de Cavoie, and Moliere.

"Saved! and saved by me!" said he, pressing Dominique to his heart.

Then, amid a thousand confused words, a thousand interrupted parentheses, he related what had happened to him, and ended by dancing with oy in a fit of real delirium.

His three friends almost did as much.

But they trembled for the reason of La Fontaine, and calmed him, while they controlled themselves.

All four returned to the carriage, and hastened to Paris, amid the incessant cries of the good

man:

"Saved! saved by me!"

Let us hasten to explain this dénouement, so fortunate and so unexpected, by placing before the eyes of the reader the letter of M. Fouquet to Mademoiselle de La Vallière:

"Mademoiselle,-My enemies have seized me. I am arrested, ruined, lost, threatened with death. The King has been told that I am his rival, perhaps a successful one; what does not calumny dare? You alone can save me, by telling his majesty the truth. You, who have so proudly re

where it stopped,-by what surprise I obtained a copy of your portrait,-how you recalled me to my duties, and how faithful your own heart has been to the King, who possesses it for ever. Pardon me and you will obtain my pardon.

"FOUQUET,

"Vicomte de Belle-Isle."

The enemies of the Superintendent had, indeed, persuaded Louis XIV. that he had won from him the heart of Mademoiselle de La Vallière.

This was the true cause of his ruin, and not his pretended frauds.

By giving to the King the letter of Fouquet, instead of the elegy to the Nymphs of Vaux, La Fontaine had defeated, without knowing it and without intending it, the plans of calumny. The singular manner in which this testimony reached Louis XIV. had proved to him its truth. Convinced thus of what interested him above every thing else, the perfect constancy of Mademoiselle de La Vallière, he no longer had the happiness of a preferred rival to punish, but the error of an unsuccessful one.

The man, consoled, had soon inspired clemency in the king; and the fabulist had saved the head of Fouquet by the very absence of mind which had nearly ruined him.

The royal punishment was undoubtedly very grave and very terrible; but we can imagine the joy of La Fontaine, who had believed his benefactor delivered by himself to death, and who flattered himself that the favour of liberty would sooner or later be added to the favour of life.

tined to be realized.
We shall soon see whether this hope was des

CHAPTER XI.

THE FAMILY DINNER.

After having borne the good news to Madame de La Sablière, to Maucroix, to Boileau, to all his friends, the fabulist wished to carry it also to his wife; and rested by twelve or fifteen hours' sleep, he prepared to set out for Château-Thierry.

He wished to exclaim to everybody: "It is I who have saved Fouquet!" Maucroix, from Chapelle, and some other friends, He exacted from Molière, from Boileau, from that they should come and celebrate with him, en famille, the safety of their benefactor.

He also, very imprudently, invited Dominique to accompany him: but the young man excused himself by pleading important business, and promised to come and embrace him at the expiration of a few days.

"Whatever may happen to me, my father," said he to him with emotion, "rely upon it that you will see me again."

La Fontaine had recovered his affection for his son, amidst their mutual trials, and after the heroic devotion of the latter.

"What is the matter then, my child?" asked he on remarking his pre-occupation; "does your wound still trouble you? or do you fear evil results from the expedition of Chartres?"

Neither, my father,” replied Dominique. “Be not anxious concerning me. A good journey and au revoir."

The fabulist was reassured and went on his way.
The next day, there was rejoicing in the house

of Madame de La Fontaine. The pardon of Fouquet, obtained and announced by her husband, had caused joy to take the place of anxiety. All Chateau-Thierry seemed to share in the triumph of its poet. A deputation from the Beau-Richard came solemnly to congratulate him, and the gardener, William, repented his having involved the great man (he no longer said the good man) in a quarrel with his old friend Poignan.

He was tempted to lay aside his ill-will, and to ask pardon of the Captain; but pride which finds a lodging in the heart of all, restrained the vindictive peasant.

A few days after, La Fontaine invited his family and his friends to a great dinner. The guests were to drink the health of Fouquet and his approaching liberty. Molière had promised a scene from the Misanthrope; Boileau, a new satire; Chapelle, a song; and the fabulist was to crown the whole by his Epistle to the Salmons of Vaux, to which he constantly recurred.

The portrait of the Superintendent, surrounded with verdure, the symbol of hope, figured in a fauteuil at the centre of the table.

They were about to take their places, when La Fontaine, in reckoning his guests, remarked the absence of Poignan.

He was the only one who had not accepted the

invitation.

"How," exclaimed the fabulist, "is he still vexed with me! I will speak two words to him, and bring him dead or alive."

At the same time he took his sword, and ran to the house of the captain.

"Well!" said he, on entering, "what does all this signify? Are you still angry with me, Poignan?"

The officer replied with icy coldness.

CHAPTER XII.

THE TRUE FRIEND.

They were rising to leave the saloon, when a knock was heard at the door, and Dominique entered.

Madame de La Fontaine was again disturbed by the sight of this unknown, who had so alarmed her; but the good man, as absent-minded in joy as in trouble, exclaimed with the most naïve abandon: "Parbleu! you could not have arrived more seasonably, my child!"

Then turning towards his wife and his guests: "Madame de La Fontaine, my friends," said he, "I present to you my son."

"His son!" exclaimed the relatives, scanda

lized, looking at each other.

And Madame de La Fontaine, uttering a cry at this unexpected revelation, fell swooning into the arms of her relatives.

Then only, did the fabulist comprehend the blunder he had just made, in revealing, so mal à propos, and by the strangest forgetfulness, a secret concealed for twenty years.

Dominique turned red and pale, and would have sunk into the earth. The spectators knew not what part to take; and La Fontaine, at the feet of his wife, was recalling her at once to life and clemency.

His supplications would have been vain, and this happy day would have ended unhappily, had not the involuntary author of this fatal dénouement, Dominique, been careful to repair the consequences.

"Madame de La Fontaine," said he with the most respectful dignity, "the painful mystery which a moment of forgetfulness has unveiled to you, belongs neither to your present nor your future. A heart like yours should be generous for the past; and you will perhaps pardon my father and myself, when you know why I am here. I had promised M. de La Fontaine to come and

La Fontaine prayed, supplicated, scolded, jested, and amicably ordered him to follow him. Poignan remained firm and declared that he embrace him before I left Paris. I have fulfilled would not go.

"Ah! is it so," resumed the good man, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword. "You refuse to go home with me and drink with us to the health of M. Fouquet! You will no longer be my friend and lend your arm to my wife! Then, I summon you to embrace me this very instant, to accompany me to the house of Madame de La Fontaine, to go there every day, to be more ariable and more gallant than ever; do you hear? or you shall render me a reason for this ridiculous obstinacy; and we shall fight in earnest, this time, Monsieur, not for public opinion, but for private satisfaction. A duel to the death or a reconciliation! Choose!"

The Captain looked at him, rose, smiled through a tear, and, being unable to hold out longer, threw himself into his arms.

"Well!" exclaimed the fabulist.

And he carried rather than led the officer to his house, where even the gossips of Beau-Richard themselves offered to drink to their reconciliation. One individual only did not share in the common joy: this was the gardener William, to whom Poignan administered a correction which the organ of public opinion long remembered.

The guests seated themselves at table, dined gaily, read verses, especially talked of Fouquet; and the feast was prolonged until evening.

my promise the more scrupulously, because I am about to quit, not only Paris, but the world."

The sad gravity of these words had already relieved the general embarrassment, and Madame de La Fontaine herself turned a look of interest towards Dominique.

"What say you?" asked the fabulist, "are you about to enter a convent?"

The young man made a sign in the negative, and continued thus:

"You have restored life to M. Fouquet, our common benefactor, but you have not been able to restore him to liberty. He is about to be imprisoned in the Château de Pignerol, for a long time, perhaps for ever. I have requested the honour of seeing him, the happiness of embracing him; I have been unable to attain them. The reply I received was that no one could be allowed to communicate with the captive who had the misfortune to possess so many state secrets, and that the only favour which would be granted him, would be to receive one of his friends in this prison, if that friend would, on entering there, be condemned never to leave it. This condition has been known in Paris two days by all the men whom M. Fouquet loaded with his favours in the days of his power; no one of them has offered to share his sorrows in the days of his captivity. I am not surprised; such devotion is above courtiers. I, who have never been a courtier,-I, to whom M.