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
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
by his sister, who is now talking to that pretty person
yonder, near Monsieur Scarron."
Raoul turned and saw two faces just arrived. One was
perfectly charming, delicate, pensive, shaded by beautiful
dark hair, and eyes soft as velvet, like those lovely
flowers, the heartsease, in which shine out the golden
petals. The other, of mature age, seemed to have the former
one under her charge, and was cold, dry and yellow -- the
true type of a duenna or a devotee.
Raoul resolved not to quit the room without having spoken to
the beautiful girl with the soft eyes, who by a strange
fancy, although she bore no resemblance, reminded him of his
poor little Louise, whom he had left in the Chateau de la
Valliere and whom, in the midst of all the party, he had
never for one moment quite forgotten. Meantime Aramis had
drawn near to the coadjutor, who, smiling all the while,
contrived to drop some words into his ear. Aramis,
notwithstanding his self-control, could not refrain from a
slight movement of surprise.
"Laugh, then," said Monsieur de Retz; "they are looking at
us." And leaving Aramis he went to talk with Madame de
Chevreuse, who was in the midst of a large group.
Aramis affected a laugh, to divert the attention of certain
curious listeners, and perceiving that Athos had betaken
himself to the embrasure of a window and remained there, he
proceeded to join him, throwing out a few words carelessly
as he moved through the room.
As soon as the two friends met they began a conversation
which was emphasized by frequent gesticulation.
Raoul then approached them as Athos had directed him to do.
"'Tis a rondeau by Monsieur Voiture that monsieur l'abbe is
repeating to me." said Athos in a loud voice, "and I confess
I think it incomparable."
Raoul stayed only a few minutes near them and then mingled
with the group round Madame de Chevreuse.
"Well, then?" asked Athos, in a low tone.
"It is to be to-morrow," said Aramis hastily.
"At what time?"
"Six o'clock."
"Where?"
"At Saint Mande."
"Who told you?"
"The Count de Rochefort."
Some one drew near.
"And then philosophic ideas are wholly wanting in Voiture's
works, but I am of the same opinion as the coadjutor -- he
is a poet, a true poet." Aramis spoke so as to be heard by
everybody.
"And I, too," murmured the young lady with the velvet eyes.
"I have the misfortune also to admire his poetry
exceedingly."
"Monsieur Scarron, do me the honor," said Raoul, blushing,
"to tell me the name of that young lady whose opinion seems
so different from that of others of the company."
"Ah! my young vicomte," replied Scarron, "I suppose you wish
to propose to her an alliance offensive and defensive."
Raoul blushed again.
"You asked the name of that young lady. She is called the
fair Indian."
"Excuse me, sir," returned Raoul, blushing still more
deeply, "I know no more than I did before. Alas! I am from
the country."
"Which means that you know very little about the nonsense
which here flows down our streets. So much the better, young
man! so much the better! Don't try to understand it -- you
will only lose your time."
"You forgive me, then, sir," said Raoul, "and you will deign
to tell me who is the person that you call the young
Indian?"
"Certainly; one of the most charming persons that lives --
Mademoiselle Frances d'Aubigne."
"Does she belong to the family of the celebrated Agrippa,
the friend of Henry IV.?"
"His granddaughter. She comes from Martinique, so I call her
the beautiful Indian."
Raoul looked surprised and his eyes met those of the young
lady, who smiled.
The company went on speaking of the poet Voiture.
"Monsieur," said Mademoiselle d'Aubigne to Scarron, as if
she wished to join in the conversation he was engaged in
with Raoul, "do you not admire Monsieur Voiture's friends?
Listen how they pull him to pieces even whilst they praise
him; one takes away from him all claim to good sense,
another robs him of his poetry, a third of his originality,
another of his humor, another of his independence of
character, a sixth -- but, good heavens! what will they
leave him? as Mademoiselle de Scudery remarks."
Scarron and Raoul laughed. The fair Indian, astonished at
the sensation her observation produced, looked down and
resumed her air of naivete.
Athos, still within the inclosure of the window, watched
this scene with a smile of disdain on his lips.
"Tell the Comte de la Fere to come to me," said Madame de
Chevreuse, "I want to speak to him."
"And I," said the coadjutor, "want it to be thought that I
do not speak to him. I admire, I love him -- for I know his
former adventures -- but I shall not speak to him until the
day after to-morrow."
"And why day after to-morrow?" asked Madame de Chevreuse.
"You will know that to-morrow evening," said the coadjutor,
smiling.
"Really, my dear Gondy," said the duchess, "you remind one
of the Apocalypse. Monsieur d'Herblay," she added, turning
toward Aramis, "will you be my servant once more this
evening?"
"How can you doubt it?" replied Aramis; "this evening,
to-morrow, always; command me."
"I will, then. Go and look for the Comte de la Fere; I wish
to speak with him."
Aramis found Athos and brought him.
"Monsieur le comte," said the duchess, giving him a letter,
"here is what I promised you; our young friend will be
extremely well received."
"Madame, he is very happy in owing any obligation to you."
"You have no reason to envy him on that score, for I owe to
you the pleasure of knowing him," replied the witty woman,
with a smile which recalled Marie Michon to Aramis and to
Athos.
As she uttered that bon mot, she arose and asked for her
carriage. Mademoiselle Paulet had already gone; Mademoiselle
de Scudery was going.
"Vicomte," said Athos to Raoul, "follow the duchess; beg her
to do you the favor to take your arm in going downstairs,
and thank her as you descend."
The fair Indian approached Scarron.
"You are going already?" he said.
"One of the last, as you see; if you hear anything of
Monsieur Voiture, be so kind as to send me word to-morrow."
"Oh!" said Scarron, "he may die now."
"Why?" asked the young girl with the velvet eyes.
"Certainly; his panegyric has been uttered."
They parted, laughing, she turning back to gaze at the poor
paralytic man with interest, he looking after her with eyes
of love.
One by one the several groups broke up. Scarron seemed not
to observe that certain of his guests had talked
mysteriously, that letters had passed from hand to hand and
that the assembly had seemed to have a secret purpose quite
apart from the literary discussion carried on with so much
ostentation. What was all that to Scarron? At his house
rebellion could be planned with impunity, for, as we have
said, since that morning he had ceased to be "the queen's
invalid."
As to Raoul, he had attended the duchess to her carriage,
where, as she took her seat, she gave him her hand to kiss;
then, by one of those wild caprices which made her so
adorable and at the same time so dangerous, she had suddenly
put her arm around his neck and kissed his forehead, saying:
"Vicomte, may my good wishes and this kiss bring you good
fortune!"
Then she had pushed him away and directed the coachman to
stop at the Hotel de Luynes. The carriage had started,
Madame de Chevreuse had made a parting gesture to the young
man, and Raoul had returned in a state of stupefaction.
Athos surmised what had taken place and smiled. "Come,
vicomte," he said, "it is time for you to go to bed; you
will start in the morning for the army of monsieur le
prince. Sleep well your last night as citizen."
"I am to be a soldier then?" said the young man. "Oh,
monsieur, I thank you with all my heart."
"Adieu, count," said the Abbe d'Herblay; "I return to my
convent."
"Adieu, abbe," said the coadjutor, "I am to preach to-morrow
and have twenty texts to examine this evening."
"Adieu, gentlemen," said the count; "I am going to sleep
twenty-four hours; I am just falling down with fatigue."
The three men saluted one another, whilst exchanging a last
look.
Scarron followed their movements with a glance from the
corner of his eye.
"Not one of them will do as he says," he murmured, with his
little monkey smile; "but they may do as they please, the
brave gentlemen! Who knows if they will not manage to
restore to me my pension? They can move their arms, they
can, and that is much. Alas, I have only my tongue, but I
will try to show that it is good for something. Ho, there,
Champenois! here, it is eleven o'clock. Come and roll me to
bed. Really, that Demoiselle d'Aubigne is very charming!"
So the invalid disappeared soon afterward and went into his
sleeping-room; and one by one the lights in the salon of the
Rue des Tournelles were extinguished.
22
Saint Denis.
The day had begun to break when Athos arose and dressed
himself. It was plain, by a paleness still greater than
usual, and by those traces which loss of sleep leaves on the
face, that he must have passed almost the whole of the night
without sleeping. Contrary to the custom of a man so firm
and decided, there was this morning in his personal
appearance something tardy and irresolute.
He was occupied with the preparations for Raoul's departure
and was seeking to gain time. In the first place he himself
furbished a sword, which he drew from its perfumed leather
sheath; he examined it to see if its hilt was well guarded
and if the blade was firmly attached to the hilt. Then he
placed at the bottom of the valise belonging to the young
man a small bag of louis, called Olivain, the lackey who had
followed him from Blois, and made him pack the valise under
his own eyes, watchful to see that everything should be put
in which might be useful to a young man entering on his
first campaign.
At length, after occupying about an hour in these
preparations, he opened the door of the room in which the
vicomte slept, and entered.
The sun, already high, penetrated into the room through the
window, the curtains of which Raoul had neglected to close
on the previous evening. He was still sleeping, his head
gracefully reposing on his arm.
Athos approached and hung over the youth in an attitude full
of tender melancholy; he looked long on this young man,
whose smiling mouth and half closed eyes bespoke soft dreams
and lightest slumber, as if his guardian angel watched over
him with solicitude and affection. By degrees Athos gave
himself up to the charms of his reverie in the proximity of
youth, so pure, so fresh. His own youth seemed to reappear,
bringing with it all those savoury remembrances, which are
like perfumes more than thoughts. Between the past and the
present was an ineffable abyss. But imagination has the
wings of an angel of light and travels safely through or
over the seas where we have been almost shipwrecked, the
darkness in which our illusions are lost, the precipice
whence our happiness has been hurled and swallowed up. He
remembered that all the first part of his life had been
embittered by a woman and he thought with alarm of the
influence love might assume over so fine, and at the same
time so vigorous an organization as that of Raoul.
In recalling all he had been through, he foresaw all that
