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Updated: June 20, 2025
During the short banishment of royalty, Monsieur de Fontaine was so happy as to be employed by Louis XVIII., and found more than one opportunity of giving him proofs of great political honesty and sincere attachment. One evening, when the King had nothing better to do, he recalled Monsieur de Fontaine's witticism at the Tuileries.
"Planchet, do you know M. La Fontaine?" "The chemist at the corner of the Rue Saint-Mederic?" "No, the writer of fables." "Oh! Maitre Corbeau!" "Exactly; well, then, I am like his hare." "He has got a hare also, then?" "He has all sorts of animals." "Well, what does his hare do, then?" "M. La Fontaine's hare thinks." "Ah, ah!" "Planchet, I am like that hare I am thinking."
We lived on perfectly good terms with one another; but there was an unrecognized decrease of confidence among us, which I for one felt sometimes almost painfully. An unwholesome atmosphere of distrust enveloped us. Mr. Keller only believed, under reserve, that Madame Fontaine's persistent low spirits were really attributable, as she said, to nothing more important than nervous headaches.
Somehow, Billie's inflated enthusiasm received a prick when the bell echoed through the rooms with a hollow, empty sound. She waited impatiently but no one came to answer it. Usually Mme. Fontaine's well-trained maid was bowing and smiling almost before the vibrations of the bell had ceased. Billie rang again and again, and still there was no answer.
Fontaine's ears the more sympathetic the widow became until Nancy was worked into a perfect rage. As for the widow, she had said very little indeed, only a few words now and then, vague, suggestive remarks, but they had set Nancy thinking; had stirred her up so violently, indeed, that she had written that foolish letter.
Heath's maid-of-all-work, but a stranger, with her hands deep in a bowl of dough. Her back was toward him, but he guessed that she was Madame de la Fontaine's maid, whom he had seen in the morning. The door into the dining-room beyond stood open, and by craning his neck, Dan could see that the room was lighter, but he could not discover whether or not it were occupied.
Pupil Godard, who was a chubby-faced fellow with sleepy eyes, rose automatically and in one single stream, like a running tap, recited, without stopping to take breath, "The Wolf and the Lamb," rolling off La Fontaine's fable like the thread from a bobbin run by steam.
I did not care especially for "The Pilgrim's Progress," which I think I did not finish, or for the "Fables." I read La Fontaine's "Fables" first in an English translation, and enjoyed them only after a half-hearted fashion. Later I read the book again in French, and I found that, in spite of the vivid word-pictures, and the wonderful mastery of language, I liked it no better.
"Take care," said Pelisson in La Fontaine's ear; "you have had a most brilliant success up to the present moment; do not go beyond your depth." "Not at all, Monsieur Pelisson; and you, who are a man of decided taste, will be the first to approve of what I have done." "We are talking of millions, remember," said Gourville.
That is the answer to La Fontaine's octogenarian, planting his trees, despite the gibes of the little beardless boys whom, as is inevitable in such cases, he survived. Défendez-vous au sage De se donner des soins pour le plaisir d'autrui? Cela même est un fruit qui je goûte aujourd'hui; J'en puis jouir demain, et quelques jours encore.
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