93 THE MAK IN THE IRON MASK.
squandered thirty millions of francs in the fountains of his
gardens, in the crucibles of his sculptors, in the writing- desks of his literary friends, in the portfolios of his painters; vainly had he fancied that thereby he might be remembered. A peach — a blushing, rich-flavored fruit, nestling in the trellis-work on the garden-wall, hidden beneath its long, green leaves — this small vegetable production, that a dor- mouse would nibble up without a thought, was sufficient to recall to the memory of this great monarch the mournful shade of the last surintendant of France.
With a perfect reliance that Aramis had made arrange- ments fairly to distribute the vast number of guests through- out the palace, and that he had not omitted to attend to any of the internal regulations for their comfort, Fouquet devoted his entire attention to the ensemble alone. In one direction De Gourville showed him the preparations which had been made for the fireworks; in another, Moli^re led him over the theater; at last, after he had visited the chapel, the salons, and the galleries, and was again going down- stairs, exhausted with fatigue, Fouquet saw Aramis on the staircase. The prelate beckoned to him. The surintendant joined his friend, and, with him, paused before a large pic- ture scarcely finished. Applying himself, heart and soul, to his work, the painter, Lebrun, covered with perspiration, stained with paint, pale from fatigue and inspiration of genius, was putting the last finishing touches with his rapid brush. It was the portrait of the king, whom they were ex- pecting, dressed in the court suit which Percerin had con- descended to show beforehand to the bishop of Vannes. Fouquet placed himself before this portrait, which seemed to live, as one might say, in the cool freshness of its flesh and in its warmth of color. He gazed upon it long and fixedly, esti- mated the prodigious labor that had been bestowed upon it, and, not being able to find any recompense sufficiently great for this Herculean effort, he passed his arm round thepainter's neck, and embraced him. The surintendant, by this action, had utterly ruined a suit of clothes worth a thousand pistoles, but he had satisfied, more than satisfied, Lebrun. It was a happy moment for the artist; it was an unhappy one for M. Percerin, who was walking behind Fouquet, and was engaged in admiring in Lebrun^s painting the suit that he had had made for his majesty, a perfect objet d'art, as he called it, which was not to be matched except in the wardrobe of the surintendant. His distress and his ex- clamations were interrupted by a signal which had been
