there, the Queen-Mother, Monsieur, brother to the King, and Madame, daughter of Charles I. of England, attended by Princes, Dukes, Marquises, and Counts, with their quick-witted, sharp-tongued, and independent spouses.  The highest and noblest of France came to stare at Fouquet’s magnificence, to wonder at the strange birds and beasts, and to admire the fountains and cascades.  After a walk about the grounds, the august company were served with supper in the chateau.  Vatel was the maitre d’hotel.  The King could not conceal his astonishment at the taste and luxury of the Surintendant, nor his annoyance when he recognized the portrait of La Valliere in a mythological panel.  Over doors and windows were carved and painted Fouquet’s arms,—­a squirrel, with the motto, “Quo non ascendam?” The King asked a chamberlain for the translation.  When the device was interpreted, the measure of his wrath was full.  He was on the point of ordering Fouquet’s instant arrest; but the Queen-Mother persuaded him to wait until every precaution had been taken.

After supper, the guests were conducted to the play.  The theatre was at the end of an alley of pines, almost al fresco.  The stage represented a garden decorated with fountains and with statues of Terminus.  Scenery by Le Brun; machinery and transmutations by Torelli; stage-manager, Moliere; the comedy, “Les Facheux,” “The Bores,” composed, written, and rehearsed expressly for this occasion, in the short space of fifteen days.  This piece was put upon the stage in a new way.  The ballet, introduced by Mazarin a few years before, was the fashion, and indispensable.  As Moliere had only a few good dancers, he placed the scenes of the ballet between the acts of the comedy, in order to give his artists time to change their dresses and to take three or four different parts.  To avoid awkwardness in these transitions, the plot of the comedy was carried over into the pantomime.  This arrangement proved so successful that Moliere made use of it in many of his later plays.

The curtain rises upon a man in citizen’s-dress (Moliere).  He expresses amazement and dismay at seeing so large and so distinguished an audience, and implores His Majesty to pardon him for being there without actors enough and without time enough to prepare a suitable entertainment.  While he is yet speaking, twenty jets of water spring into the air,—­a huge rock in the foreground changes into a shell,—­the shell opens,—­forth steps a Naiad (pretty Mademoiselle Bejart, a well-known actress,—­too well known for Moliere’s domestic comfort) and declaims verses written by Pellisson for the occasion.  Here is a part of this prologue in commonplace prose; Pellisson’s verses are of a kind which loses little by translation.  The flattery is heavy, but Louis XIV. was not dainty; he liked it strong, and probably swallowed more of it with pleasure and comfort during fifty years than any other man.