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"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?
"This is called a composing-stick," said Jupenet; "it is by the aid of this stick that the lines are formed." "Come, then, I was not mistaken in what I said; you have a press in your pocket," said D'Artagnan, laughing with an air of simplicity so stupid, that the poet was completely his dupe.
"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.
"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, Pellisson, La Fontaine?
"Stop, stop, stop," said D'Artagnan, opening his eyes very innocently. "Yes, monsieur, a capital; the first letter of my name." "And this is a letter, is it?" "Yes, monsieur." "Well, I will confess one thing to you." "And what is that?" "No, I will not, I was going to say something stupid." "No, no," said Master Jupenet, with a patronizing air.
"'Castrametation'?" "Yes, that's it, but I never could recollect it." "All the better. What more did he ask you?" "Who M. Getard was." "Next?" "Who M. Jupenet was." "He did not happen to see our plan of fortifications, did he?" "Yes." "The devil he did!" "But don't be alarmed, I had rubbed out your writing with India-rubber.
"Are you sure of that, Porthos?" "Parbleu!" "It is impossible. Recollect yourself." "He asked me what I was doing, and I told him studying topography. I would have made use of another word which you employed one day." "'Castrametation'?" "Yes, that's it; but I never could recollect it." "All the better. What more did he ask you?" "Who M. Getard was." "Next?" "Who M. Jupenet was."
"Thus, then, you see, monsieur," continued the poet, "you are in error on my account, and that not being at all known to you, you have never heard tell of me." "Ah! that confounds me. That name, Jupenet, appears to me, nevertheless, a fine name, and quite as worthy of being known as those of MM. Corneille, or Rotrou, or Garnier.
His carriage was waiting at the door. The second traveler got into his saddle, in the courtyard, with his lackey. D'Artagnan followed Jupenet to the door; he embarked his cart and horse on board the boat. As to the opulent traveler, he did the same with his two horses and servant. But all the wit D'Artagnan employed in endeavoring to find out his name was lost he could learn nothing.
M. Jupenet smiled like a man who has an answer for everything; then he pulled out still from his pocket a little metal ruler, composed of two parts, like a carpenter's rule, against which he put together, and in a line, the characters, holding them under his left thumb. "And what do you call that little metal ruler?" said D'Artagnan, "for, I suppose, all these things have names."
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