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Updated: June 27, 2025
Percerin turned crimson; an ominous sign indeed in old men blanched by age. "Monsieur is quite at liberty to confer his custom elsewhere." "Come, come, Percerin," interposed D'Artagnan, "you are not in a good temper to-day. Well, I will say one more word to you, which will bring you on your knees; monsieur is not only a friend of mine, but more, a friend of M. Fouquet's."
Monsieur d'Artagnan, how hard you are upon me!" "If you don't go directly and tell M. Percerin that I am here, my dear Moliere," said D'Artagnan, in a low tone, "I warn you of one thing: that I won't exhibit to you the friend I have brought with me." Moliere indicated Porthos by an imperceptible gesture, "This gentleman, is it not?" "Yes."
A story used to circulate that even M. de Mazarin, in exchange for Percerin supplying him with a full suit of ceremonial vestments as cardinal, one fine day slipped letters of nobility into his pocket.
"By no means, dear Monsieur Percerin, above all if I ask you," said a mild voice at the door, a silvery voice which made D'Artagnan prick up his ears. It was the voice of Aramis. "Monsieur d'Herblay!" cried the tailor. "Aramis," murmured D'Artagnan. "Ah! our bishop!" said Porthos. "Good morning, D'Artagnan; good morning, Porthos; good-morning, my dear friends," said Aramis.
I know well and I by no means count upon compelling you, my dear monsieur. I will say more, I even understand all the delicacy you feel in taking up with M. Fouquet's idea; you dread appearing to flatter the king. A noble spirit, M. Percerin, a noble spirit!" The tailor stammered.
"That man," he used often to say, "is beyond my art; my needle can never dot him down." We need scarcely say that Percerin was M. Fouquet's tailor, and that the superintendent highly esteemed him. M. Percerin was nearly eighty years old, nevertheless still fresh, and at the same time so dry, the courtiers used to say, that he was positively brittle.
On his part, Aramis saw that D'Artagnan was not without suspicion, and pressed him. "Stay, by all means," he said, "this is what it is." Then turning towards the tailor, "My dear Percerin," said he, "I am even very happy that you are here, D'Artagnan." "Oh, indeed," exclaimed the Gascon, for the third time, even less deceived this time than before. Percerin never moved.
Percerin being saved, made, out of gratitude, some beautiful black bodices, very inexpensively indeed, for Queen Catherine, who ended by being pleased at the preservation of a Huguenot people, on whom she had long looked with detestation.
"Bah!" said the musketeer, laughing, "and do we write no more poems now, either?" "Oh! D'Artagnan," exclaimed Aramis, "I have long ago given up all such tomfoolery." "True," repeated D'Artagnan, only half convinced. As for Percerin, he was once more absorbed in contemplation of the brocades.
Some, contented with this reason, went away again, contented to repeat the tale to others, but others, more tenacious, insisted on having the doors opened, and among these last three Blue Ribbons, intended to take parts in a ballet, which would inevitably fail unless the said three had their costumes shaped by the very hand of the great Percerin himself.
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