Twenty Years Later by Dumas, Alexandre. Part one

the duchess; “do not quit his salon until you have seen me.”

Athos bowed and prepared to leave.

“Well, monsieur le comte,” said the duchess, smiling, “does

one leave so solemnly his old friends?”

“Ah,” murmured Athos, kissing her hand, “had I only sooner

known that Marie Michon was so charming a creature!” And he

withdrew, sighing.

21

The Abbe Scarron.

There was once in the Rue des Tournelles a house known by

all the sedan chairmen and footmen of Paris, and yet,

nevertheless, this house was neither that of a great lord

nor of a rich man. There was neither dining, nor playing at

cards, nor dancing in that house. Nevertheless, it was the

rendezvous of the great world and all Paris went there. It

was the abode of the little Abbe Scarron.

In the home of the witty abbe dwelt incessant laughter;

there all the items of the day had their source and were so

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quickly transformed, misrepresented, metamorphosed, some

into epigrams, some into falsehoods, that every one was

anxious to pass an hour with little Scarron, listening to

what he said, reporting it to others.

The diminutive Abbe Scarron, who, however, was an abbe only

because he owned an abbey, and not because he was in orders,

had formerly been one of the gayest prebendaries in the town

of Mans, which he inhabited. On a day of the carnival he had

taken a notion to provide an unusual entertainment for that

good town, of which he was the life and soul. He had made

his valet cover him with honey; then, opening a feather bed,

he had rolled in it and had thus become the most grotesque

fowl it is possible to imagine. He then began to visit his

friends of both sexes, in that strange costume. At first he

had been followed through astonishment, then with derisive

shouts, then the porters had insulted him, then children had

thrown stones at him, and finally he was obliged to run, to

escape the missiles. As soon as he took to flight every one

pursued him, until, pressed on all sides, Scarron found no

way of escaping his escort, except by throwing himself into

the river; but the water was icy cold. Scarron was heated,

the cold seized on him, and when he reached the farther bank

he found himself crippled.

Every means had been employed in vain to restore the use of

his limbs. He had been subjected to a severe disciplinary

course of medicine, at length he sent away all his doctors,

declaring that he preferred the disease to the treatment,

and came to Paris, where the fame of his wit had preceded

him. There he had a chair made on his own plan, and one day,

visiting Anne of Austria in this chair, she asked him,

charmed as she was with his wit, if he did not wish for a

title.

“Yes, your majesty, there is a title which I covet much,”

replied Scarron.

“And what is that?”

“That of being your invalid,” answered Scarron.

So he was called the queen’s invalid, with a pension of

fifteen hundred francs.

From that lucky moment Scarron led a happy life, spending

both income and principal. One day, however, an emissary of

the cardinal’s gave him to understand that he was wrong in

receiving the coadjutor so often.

“And why?” asked Scarron; “is he not a man of good birth?”

“Certainly.”

“Agreeable?”

“Undeniably.”

“Witty?”

“He has, unfortunately, too much wit.”

“Well, then, why do you wish me to give up seeing such a

man?”

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“Because he is an enemy.”

“Of whom?”

“Of the cardinal.”

“What?” answered Scarron, “I continue to receive Monsieur

Gilles Despreaux, who thinks ill of me, and you wish me to

give up seeing the coadjutor, because he thinks ill of

another man. Impossible!”

The conversation had rested there and Scarron, through sheer

obstinacy, had seen Monsieur de Gondy only the more

frequently.

Now, the very morning of which we speak was that of his

quarter-day payment, and Scarron, as usual, had sent his

servant to get his money at the pension-office, but the man

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