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Updated: May 13, 2025
Now, we have but two hours in which we can possibly succeed; the concierge once gone to bed, how shall we get at him without making a disturbance? When daylight dawns, how can we conceal our proceedings? Go, go yourself, monseigneur, and do not seek either woman or angel to-night." "But, my dear Pellisson, here we are before her door." "What! before the angel's door?" "Why, yes!"
The system of purchasing conversions had been commenced; and Pellisson, himself originally a Protestant, had charge of the payments, a source of fraud and hypocrisies of every sort.
"Prevent me!" cried Fouquet; "why, no power on earth should prevent my going to pay my compliments to Madame de Plessis-Belliere, besides, who knows that we shall not stand in need of her!" "No, monseigneur no!" "But I do not wish you to wait for me, Pellisson," replied Fouquet, sincerely courteous.
When Malherbe was dead and Balzac had retired to his country house on the borders of the Charente, some friends, "men of letters and of merits very much above the average," says Pellisson in his Histoire de l'Academie Francaise, "finding that nothing was more inconvenient in this great city than to go often and often to call upon one another without finding anybody at home, resolved to meet one day in the week at the house of one of them.
In spite of her subtle analysis of love, and her exact map of the Empire of Tenderness, the sentiment of the "Illustrious Sappho" seems to have been rather ideal. She had numerous adorers, of whom Conrart and Pellisson were among the most devoted.
The French have become diligent students of their own early poetry, which they long neglected; the study makes many of them dissatisfied with their so-called classical poetry, the court-tragedy of the seventeenth century, a poetry which Pellisson long ago reproached with its want of the true poetic stamp, with its politesse sterile et rampante? but which nevertheless has reigned in France as absolutely as if it had been the perfection of classical poetry indeed.
"This is the hotel of Madame de Belliere!" "Hush!" "Ah! Good Lord!" exclaimed Pellisson. "What have you to say against her?" "Nothing, alas! and it is that which causes my despair. Nothing, absolutely nothing. Why can I not, on the contrary, say ill enough of her to prevent your going to her?" But Fouquet had already given orders to stop, and the carriage was motionless.
"Bon Dieu! begone, begone, monseigneur!" replied the marquise, pushing Fouquet out of the salon, whilst Pellisson dragged him by the hand. "Am I, then, indeed," said the superintendent, "become a child, to be frightened by a shadow?" "You are a giant," said the marquise, "whom a viper is trying to bite in the heel." Pellisson continued to drag Fouquet to the carriage.
He was still at her feet, kissing her hand, when Pellisson entered precipitately, crying, in very ill-humor, "Monseigneur! madame! for Heaven's sake! excuse me. Monseigneur, you have been here half an hour. Oh! do not both look at me so reproachfully. Madame, pray who is that lady who left your house soon after monseigneur came in?" "Madame Vanel," said Fouquet.
"I know quite well," says Pellisson, "that his Eminence would have wished to have the Cid more roughly handled, if he had not been adroitly made to understand that a judge must not speak like a party to a suit, and that in proportion as he showed passion, he would lose authority."
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