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
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?"
"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
had returned and said that the government had no more money
to give Monsieur Scarron.
It was on Thursday, the abbe's reception day; people went
there in crowds. The cardinal's refusal to pay the pension
was known about the town in half an hour and he was abused
with wit and vehemence.
In the Rue Saint Honore Athos fell in with two gentlemen
whom he did not know, on horseback like himself, followed by
a lackey like himself, and going in the same direction that
he was. One of them, hat in hand, said to him:
"Would you believe it, monsieur? that contemptible Mazarin
has stopped poor Scarron's pension."
"That is unreasonable," said Athos, saluting in his turn the
two cavaliers. And they separated with courteous gestures.
"It happens well that we are going there this evening," said
Athos to the vicomte; "we will pay our compliments to that
poor man."
"What, then, is this Monsieur Scarron, who thus puts all
Paris in commotion? Is he some minister out of office?"
"Oh, no, not at all, vicomte," Athos replied; "he is simply
a gentleman of great genius who has fallen into disgrace
with the cardinal through having written certain verses
against him."
"Do gentlemen, then, make verses?" asked Raoul, naively, "I
thought it was derogatory."
"So it is, my dear vicomte," said Athos, laughing, "to make
bad ones; but to make good ones increases fame -- witness
Monsieur de Rotrou. Nevertheless," he continued, in the tone
of one who gives wholesome advice, "I think it is better not
to make them."
"Then," said Raoul, "this Monsieur Scarron is a poet?"
"Yes; you are warned, vicomte. Consider well what you do in
that house. Talk only by gestures, or rather always listen."
"Yes, monsieur," replied Raoul.
"You will see me talking with one of my friends, the Abbe
d'Herblay, of whom you have often heard me speak."
"I remember him, monsieur."
"Come near to us from time to time, as if to speak; but do
not speak, and do not listen. That little stratagem may
serve to keep off interlopers."
"Very well, monsieur; I will obey you at all points."
Athos made two visits in Paris; at seven o'clock he and
Raoul directed their steps to the Rue des Tournelles; it was
stopped by porters, horses and footmen. Athos forced his way
through and entered, followed by the young man. The first
person that struck him on his entrance was Aramis, planted
near a great chair on castors, very large, covered with a
canopy of tapestry, under which there moved, enveloped in a
quilt of brocade, a little face, youngish, very merry,
somewhat pallid, whilst its eyes never ceased to express a
sentiment at once lively, intellectual, and amiable. This
was the Abbe Scarron, always laughing, joking, complimenting
-- yet suffering -- and toying nervously with a small
switch.
Around this kind of rolling tent pressed a crowd of
gentlemen and ladies. The room was neatly, comfortably
furnished. Large valances of silk, embroidered with flowers
of gay colors, which were rather faded, fell from the wide
windows; the fittings of the room were simple, but in
excellent taste. Two well trained servingmen were in
attendance on the company. On perceiving Athos, Aramis
advanced toward him, took him by the hand and presented him
to Scarron. Raoul remained silent, for he was not prepared
for the dignity of the bel esprit.
After some minutes the door opened and a footman announced
Mademoiselle Paulet.
Athos touched the shoulder of the vicomte.
"Look at this lady, Raoul, she is an historic personage; it
was to visit her King Henry IV. was going when he was
assassinated."
Every one thronged around Mademoiselle Paulet, for she was
always very much the fashion. She was a tall woman, with a
slender figure and a forest of golden curls, such as Raphael
was fond of and Titian has painted all his Magdalens with.
This fawn-colored hair, or, perhaps the sort of ascendancy
which she had over other women, gave her the name of "La
Lionne." Mademoiselle Paulet took her accustomed seat, but
before sitting down, she cast, in all her queen-like
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."
"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
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.
