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 th