grandeur, a look around the room, and her eyes rested on
Raoul.
Athos smiled.
“Mademoiselle Paulet has observed you, vicomte; go and bow
to her; don’t try to appear anything but what you are, a
true country youth; on no account speak to her of Henry IV.”
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“When shall we two walk together?” Athos then said to
Aramis.
“Presently — there are not a sufficient number of people
here yet; we shall be remarked.”
At this moment the door opened and in walked the coadjutor.
At this name every one looked around, for his was already a
very celebrated name. Athos did the same. He knew the Abbe
de Gondy only by report.
He saw a little dark man, ill made and awkward with his
hands in everything — except drawing a sword and firing a
pistol — with something haughty and contemptuous in his
face.
Scarron turned around toward him and came to meet him in his
chair.
“Well,” said the coadjutor, on seeing him, “you are in
disgrace, then, abbe?”
This was the orthodox phrase. It had been said that evening
a hundred times — and Scarron was at his hundredth bon mot
on the subject; he was very nearly at the end of his
humoristic tether, but one despairing effort saved him.
“Monsieur, the Cardinal Mazarin has been so kind as to think
of me,” he said.
“But how can you continue to receive us?” asked the
coadjutor; “if your income is lessened I shall be obliged to
make you a canon of Notre Dame.”
“Oh, no!” cried Scarron, “I should compromise you too much.”
“Perhaps you have resources of which we are ignorant?”
“I shall borrow from the queen.”
“But her majesty has no property,” interposed Aramis.
At this moment the door opened and Madame de Chevreuse was
announced. Every one arose. Scarron turned his chair toward
the door, Raoul blushed, Athos made a sign to Aramis, who
went and hid himself in the enclosure of a window.
In the midst of all the compliments that awaited her on her
entrance, the duchess seemed to be looking for some one; at
last she found out Raoul and her eyes sparkled; she
perceived Athos and became thoughtful; she saw Aramis in the
seclusion of the window and gave a start of surprise behind
her fan.
“Apropos,” she said, as if to drive away thoughts that
pursued her in spite of herself, “how is poor Voiture, do
you know, Scarron?”
“What, is Monsieur Voiture ill?” inquired a gentleman who
had spoken to Athos in the Rue Saint Honore; “what is the
matter with him?”
“He was acting, but forgot to take the precaution to have a
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change of linen ready after the performance,” said the
coadjutor, “so he took cold and is about to die.”
“Is he then so ill, dear Voiture?” asked Aramis, half hidden
by the window curtain.
“Die!” cried Mademoiselle Paulet, bitterly, “he! Why, he is
surrounded by sultanas, like a Turk. Madame de Saintot has
hastened to him with broth; La Renaudot warms his sheets;
the Marquise de Rambouillet sends him his tisanes.”
“You don’t like him, my dear Parthenie,” said Scarron.
“What an injustice, my dear invalid! I hate him so little
that I should be delighted to order masses for the repose of
his soul.”
“You are not called `Lionne’ for nothing,” observed Madame
de Chevreuse, “your teeth are terrible.”
“You are unjust to a great poet, it seems to me,” Raoul
ventured to say.
“A great poet! come, one may easily see, vicomte, that you
are lately from the provinces and have never so much as seen
him. A great poet! he is scarcely five feet high.”
“Bravo bravo!” cried a tall man with an enormous mustache
and a long rapier, “bravo, fair Paulet, it is high time to
put little Voiture in his right place. For my part, I always
thought his poetry detestable, and I think I know something
about poetry.”
“Who is this officer,” inquired Raoul of Athos, “who is
speaking?”
“Monsieur de Scudery, the author of `Clelie,’ and of `Le
Grand Cyrus,’ which were composed partly by him and partly