“What, is Monsieur Voiture ill?” inquired a gentleman who had spoken to Athos in the Rue Saint-Honoré; “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 Parthénie,” 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 Scudéry, the author of Clélie, 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 Château de la Vallière 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’Abbé 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 tomorrow,” said Aramis hastily.
“At what time?”
“Six o’clock.”
“Where?”
“At Saint Mandé.”
“Who told you?”
“The Count de Rochefort.”
Someone 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’Aubigné.”
“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’Aubigné 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 Scudéry 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 enclosure of the window, watched this scene
