“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 Abbé 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, abbé?” 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 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.”