"No; but I might have seen him there, if he really walked there."
"Well, that gentleman is M. Boulingrin."
"Who is M. Boulingrin?"
"Now we are coming to it. If, when this gentleman is walking with a ruler in his hand, any one should ask me,--'who is M. Boulingrin?' I should reply: 'He is the architect of the house.' Well! M. Getard is the Boulingrin of M. Fouquet. But he has nothing to do with the fortifications, which are my department alone; do you understand? mine, absolutely mine."
"Ah! Porthos," cried D'Artagnan, letting his arms fall as a conquered man gives up his sword; "ah! my friend, you are not only a Herculean topographer, you are, still further, a dialectician of the first water."
"Is it not powerfully reasoned?" said Porthos: and he puffed and blew like the conger which D'Artagnan had let slip from his hand.
"And now," said D'Artagnan, "that shabby-looking man, who accompanies M. Getard, is he also of the household of M. Fouquet?"
"Oh! yes," said Porthos, with contempt; "it is one M. Jupenet, or Juponet, a sort of poet."
"Who is come to establish himself here?"
"I believe so."
"I thought M. Fouquet had poets enough, yonder--Scudery, Loret, Pelisson, La Fontaine? If I must tell you the truth, Porthos, that poet disgraces you."
"Eh!--my friend; but what saves us is that he is not here as a poet."
"As what, then, is he?"
"As printer. And you make me remember, I have a word to say to the cuistre."
"Say it, then."
Porthos made a sign to Jupenet, who perfectly recollected D'Artagnan, and did not care to come nearer; which naturally produced another sign from Porthos. This was so imperative, he was obliged to obey. As he approached, "Come hither!" said Porthos. "You only landed yesterday and you have begun your tricks already."
"How so, monsieur le baron?" asked Jupenet, trembling.
"Your press was groaning all night, monsieur," said Porthos, "and you prevented my sleeping, corne de boeuf!"
"Monsieur--" objected Jupenet, timidly.
"You have nothing yet to print: therefore you have no occasion to set your press going. What did you print last night?"
"Monsieur, a light poem of my own composition."
"Light! no, no, monsieur; the press groaned pitifully beneath it. Let it not happen again. Do you understand?"