Something neglected now, the place was thronged in Ninon’s day, every season with a motley crowd of varied nationalities and conditions of men and woman. “Parisians and provincials, nobles and citizen-folk, monks and nuns, English, Flemish, Spaniards, Christians—Catholics and Huguenots—Jews, Mohammedans, every one drinks in company the waters, whose detestable flavour brings your heart into your mouth. This debauch takes place at six o’clock a.m.” Then began a promenade in the avenue of the Capucin garden, thrown open to the public, and tongues, let loose, fell to work upon the passing events and topics and reputations and no reputations. At nine, breakfast drew the hungry ones to table, and Mass the devout. All the morning was spent in doing nothing, or the business of the toilette; then came a copious dinner, then visiting and more chatter. At five began the theatre, supplied from the Rouen companies. At seven was supper, then more promenading, concluding with litanies sung in the monks’ chapel. The Duchesse of Montpensier was among the company—her period of mourning just ended for her father, who had died at Blois in the preceding summer. The Grande Mademoiselle had been seized with the _cacoëthes scribendi_, and treated her circle with readings from her romances, _La Princesse de Paphlagonie_, _L’Ile Imaginaire_, and a series of _Portraits_, for which style of composition there was a rage just then. Ninon considered their excellence fell very short of Mademoiselle’s martial talents. In a day or two arrived the Duc de Roquelaure, with his cousin the chevalier, a personage of terror-striking mien, followed everywhere by a Monsieur de Romainville, a gouty, objectionable individual, as, indeed, not much more could be said of his two friends. Instead of the waters, he drank such a quantity of cider, that it aggravated his malady to the extent of sending for one of the Capucin confessors; but on his appearance the chevalier flourished his sword at him. “Be off with you, my father!” he cried. “He has lived like a heathen: let him die like one”; and so violently did the invalid laugh at this sally, that it cured him. One day the chevalier was hectoring over the number of the victims of his doughty sword-blade. “And I have,” he added, “fought at least fifty duels, and never received a single wound.” “Parbleu! my dear cousin,” calmly said the Duc de Roquelaure, “I have fought only one duel in all my life, and then I was killed.” The end of the dog-days closed the season of Forges, and then Ninon returned to rue des Tournelles.