concerned--he
who had swept into his coffers the inheritance of Nicholas Fouquet, who
had robbed him of Lenotre and Lebrun, and had sent him to rot for the
remainder of his life in one of the state prisons--merely remembered the
peaches of that vanquished, crushed, forgotten enemy! It was to little
purpose that Fouquet had 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 little
vegetable production, that a dormouse 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 arrangements fairly to
distribute the vast number of guests throughout 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 Gourville showed him the preparations which had been
made for the fireworks; in another, Moliere led him over the theater; at
last, after he had visited the chapel, the _salons_, and the galleries,
and was again going downstairs, 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 picture scarcely
finished. Applying himself, heart and soul, to his work, the painter
Lebrun, covered with perspiration, stained with paint, pale from fatigue
and the inspiration of genius, was putting the last finishing touches
with his rapid brush. It was the portrait of the king, whom they were
expecting, dressed in the court suit which Percerin had condescended 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, estimated 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 the painter's neck
and embraced him. The surintendant, by this action, had utterly ruined
a suit