buckskin. His scabbard
was picked out with various designs, and jewels shone in the hilt of
the sword.

"Lautrec, my friend, come here!" cried D'Arcy. "_Ma foi!_ what an
interesting group! Raoul and I for the Duke; Lautrec for Conde, and M.
de Lalande for Mazarin. We only want a friend of De Retz to complete
the party!"

"What?" cried Lautrec, looking at me with a broad smile, "the hero of
Scarron's poem? The youngster from the country who tricked De Retz?
M. de Lalande, I am delighted to meet you!"

"We will go to Perret's, and Lautrec shall sing us the famous song
which Scarron wrote on our attempt to abduct the Cardinal," cried
D'Arcy.

"But," said I in surprise, "it is not possible that the affair is
openly talked about?"

"Why not? It is of the past. Who cares for yesterday's thunderstorm,
especially when it did no damage? We are all brothers now."

"But is it safe to introduce a _Mazarin_ at Perret's?" asked Raoul.

"Have no fear," exclaimed Lautrec, "your young friend will be welcome;
only we shall not tell him our secrets!" and he glanced roguishly at
D'Arcy.

It seemed rather odd to be on terms of friendship with Mazarin's
enemies, but this was only one of the strange features of this strange
period. No one appeared able to remain serious long; a fight was
followed by a banquet, and your opponent of the morning supped with you
at night.

Lautrec was correct in saying that no one would molest me at Perret's,
which was a large meeting-room, where we found a score of men, all
young or at least not more than on the threshold of middle age, and all
richly dressed, though none so extravagantly as the _petit maitre_.

"Messieurs," cried my new acquaintance, "we have brought you an
illustrious visitor. Behold the youth whom Scarron has immortalised!
A _Mazarin_, but a prince of good fellows!" and he clapped me on the
back.

Had I been one of them they could not have received me in a more
friendly manner, and in a very short time I was completely at my ease.

"Let us have the song, Lautrec," said D'Arcy, "our friend has not heard
it."

"Yes, yes, the song!" cried the others, laughing, and Lautrec stood up
to sing the famous song composed by the Abbe Scarron.

The author had been made acquainted with the principal facts, but my
wonder at this soon gave place to amusement. Mazarin, De Retz, Henri,
myself, and even poor Pillot, were covered with ridicule, and at each
verse the merriment of th