“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 Abbé 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 Abbé 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.