The Abbe Scarron.
There was once in the Rue des Tournelles a house known by all the sedan chairmen and footmen of Paris, and yet, nevertheless, this house was neither that of a great lord nor of a rich man. There was neither dining, nor playing at cards, nor dancing in that house. Nevertheless, it was the rendezvous of the great world and all Paris went there. It was the abode of the little Abbe Scarron.
In the home of the witty abbe dwelt incessant laughter; there all the items of the day had their source and were so quickly transformed, misrepresented, metamorphosed, some into epigrams, some into falsehoods, that every one was anxious to pass an hour with little Scarron, listening to what he said, reporting it to others.
The diminutive Abbe Scarron, who, however, was an abbe only because he owned an abbey, and not because he was in orders, had formerly been one of the gayest prebendaries in the town of Mans, which he inhabited. On a day of the carnival he had taken a notion to provide an unusual entertainment for that good town, of which he was the life and soul. He had made his valet cover him with honey; then, opening a feather bed, he had rolled in it and had thus become the most grotesque fowl it is possible to imagine. He then began to visit his friends of both sexes, in that strange costume. At first he had been followed through astonishment, then with derisive shouts, then the porters had insulted him, then children had thrown stones at him, and finally he was obliged to run, to escape the missiles. As soon as he took to flight every one pursued him, until, pressed on all sides, Scarron found no way of escaping his escort, except by throwing himself into the river; but the water was icy cold. Scarron was heated, the cold seized on him, and when he reached the farther bank he found himself crippled.
Every means had been employed in vain to restore the use of his limbs. He had been subjected to a severe disciplinary course of medicine, at length he sent away all his doctors, declaring that he preferred the disease to the treatment, and came to Paris, where the fame of his wit had preceded him. There he had a chair made on his own plan, and one day, visiting Anne of Austria in this chair, she asked him, charmed as she was with his wit, if he did not wish for a title.
"Yes, your majesty, there is a title which I covet much," replied Scarron.
"And what is that?"
"That of being your invalid," answered Scarron.
So he was called the queen's invalid, with a pension of fifteen hundred francs.
From that lucky moment Scarron led a happy life, spending both income and principal. One day, however, an emissary of the cardinal's gave him to understand that he was wrong in receiving the coadjutor so 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 abbe's reception day; people went there in crowds. The cardinal's 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 Scarron's 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 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."