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The Three Musketeers
Twenty Years Later
The Vicomte De Bragelonne
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Twenty Years Later 78 at Prostate Health
often.
"And why?" asked Scarron; "is he not a man of good birth?"
"Certainly."
"Agreeable?"
"Undeniably."
"Witty?"
"He has, unfortunately, too much wit."
"Well, then, why do you wish me to give up seeing such a
man?"
"Because he is an enemy."
"Of whom?"
"Of the cardinal."
"What?" answered Scarron, "I continue to receive Monsieur
Gilles Despreaux, who thinks ill of me, and you wish me to
give up seeing the coadjutor, because he thinks ill of
another man. Impossible!"
The conversation had rested there and Scarron, through sheer
obstinacy, had seen Monsieur de Gondy only the more
frequently.
Now, the very morning of which we speak was that of his
quarter-day payment, and Scarron, as usual, had sent his
servant to get his money at the pension-office, but the man
had returned and said that the government had no more money
to give Monsieur Scarron.
It was on Thursday, the abbes reception day; people went
there in crowds. The cardinals refusal to pay the pension
was known about the town in half an hour and he was abused
with wit and vehemence.
In the Rue Saint Honore Athos fell in with two gentlemen
whom he did not know, on horseback like himself, followed by
a lackey like himself, and going in the same direction that
he was. One of them, hat in hand, said to him:
"Would you believe it, monsieur? that contemptible Mazarin
has stopped poor Scarrons pension."
"That is unreasonable," said Athos, saluting in his turn the
two cavaliers. And they separated with courteous gestures.
"It happens well that we are going there this evening," said
Athos to the vicomte; "we will pay our compliments to that
poor man."
"What, then, is this Monsieur Scarron, who thus puts all
Paris in commotion? Is he some minister out of office?"
"Oh, no, not at all, vicomte," Athos replied; "he is simply
a gentleman of great genius who has fallen into disgrace
with the cardinal through having written certain verses
against him."
"Do gentlemen, then, make verses?" asked Raoul, naively, "I
thought it was derogatory."
"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 Abbe
dHerblay, 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 oclock 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 Abbe 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
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