Twenty Years After

by Alexander Dumas

  Around this sort of rolling pavilion clustered a crowd of gentlemen and ladies. The room was well and simply furnished; fine curtains of silk embroidered with flowers, their bright colors now somewhat faded, framed the windows; the wall hangings were modest but tasteful. Two polite and well-dressed footmen served the distinguished guests.

  Seeing Athos, Aramis approached him, took him by the arm, and presented him to Scarron, who received him with both pleasure and respect, and gave a very pretty compliment to the viscount. Raoul was speechless, unready for this level of discourse, so he bowed with what grace he could muster. Athos received the compliments of several nobles to whom Aramis presented him, and then, the flurry of his entrance passed, the general conversation resumed.

  After four or five minutes, which Raoul used to recover his self-possession and begin to size up the assembled company, the main door opened and a servant announced Mademoiselle Paulet.82

  Athos tapped the viscount’s shoulder. “Take note of this lady, Raoul,” he said, “she’s a historical figure—it was to visit her that King Henri IV was going when he was assassinated.”

  Raoul started; it seemed that every moment, these days, brought him face-to-face with history. Here was a lady, still young and beautiful, who had known Henri IV and had spoken to him.

  Everyone hastened to greet the newcomer, for she was never out of fashion. She was a tall and graceful figure, crowned by a head of glorious golden hair, such as Raphael loved to paint and Titian gave to all his Magdalenes. This tawny hair, or perhaps the ascendancy she’d won over other women, was why she was known as the Lioness. Our belles dames of today who aspire to this title should know that it comes to them, not from England, as they might think, but from their august compatriot Mademoiselle Paulet.

  Amid the murmur that her arrival evoked on all sides, Mademoiselle Paulet went right up to Scarron. “Well then, my dear Abbé,” she said in her serene voice, “are you now in poverty? We heard all about it this afternoon, at Madame de Rambouillet’s, from Monsieur de Grasse.”

  “Yes, but we enrich the State thereby,” said Scarron. “We must, after all, make sacrifices for our country.”

  “Monsieur le Cardinal will spend that fifteen hundred livres on more pomades and perfumes,” said Monsieur Ménage, a Frondeur whom Athos recognized as the gentlemen he’d met in Rue Saint-Honoré.

  “But what will the Muse say?” replied Aramis in his voice of honey. “That Muse, who requires a golden mediocrity? After all, Si Virgilio puer aut tolerabile desit Hospitum, caderent omnes crinibus Hydri.”83

  “Well said!” said Scarron, extending his hand to Mademoiselle Paulet. “But if I no longer have my Hydra, at least I have my Lioness.”

  Every word Scarron said that night seemed exquisite. Such is the privilege of persecution. Monsieur Ménage couldn’t contain his praise.

  Mademoiselle Paulet went to assume her accustomed place—but before taking her seat, she stood in her grandeur and surveyed all those assembled, her eyes finally resting on Raoul.

  Athos smiled. “You have been noticed by Mademoiselle Paulet, Viscount; go and greet her. Presume to be nothing more than what you are, a French provincial—and don’t dare to speak to her of Henri IV.”

  Blushing, the viscount approached the Lioness, and joined the other nobles who clustered around her throne.

  The gathering now divided into two distinct groups: those who surrounded Monsieur Ménage, and those paying court to Mademoiselle Paulet. Scarron rolled from one to the other, maneuvering his wheelchair in the press with as much skill as an experienced pilot steering a boat in a crowded harbor.

  “When shall we talk?” said Athos to Aramis.

  “Shortly,” came the reply. “The crowd isn’t thick enough yet; we’d be noticed.”

  At that moment the door opened and the footman announced the coadjutor.

  At this title, everyone turned, for it belonged to one who was already on his way to becoming famous.

  Athos turned with the others. He knew the Abbé de Gondy only by name. He saw a small, dark man come in, awkward and short-sighted, clumsy in everything except drawing his sword or pistol; though he stumbled against a table and nearly knocked it over, there was nonetheless something fierce and proud in his expression.

  Mademoiselle Paulet offered him her hand, and Scarron rolled up to greet him from his chair. “Well!” said the coadjutor, upon seeing Scarron. “I hear you’re in disgrace, Monsieur l’Abbé?”

  It was the greeting of the hour and had already been said a hundred times that evening, so Scarron had to find a hundredth witty rejoinder, but he replied without effort, “Cardinal Mazarin has been kind enough to think of me.”

  “Brilliant!” cried Ménage.

  “But how will you continue to be able to receive us?” continued the coadjutor. “If your income dwindles to naught, I’ll have to appoint you a canon of Notre Dame.”

  “Oh, no!” said Scarron. “I’d bring you into disgrace as well.”

  “Do you have any resources we’re unaware of?”

  “I’ll just borrow from the queen.”

  “But Her Majesty has no income of her own,” said Aramis. “Doesn’t she live on the conjugal funds?”

  The coadjutor turned with a smile and acknowledged Aramis with a friendly gesture. “Pardon me, my dear Abbé d’Herblay,” he said, “but I see you’re behind the times, and I must give you something to bring you up to date.”

  “What’s that?” said Aramis.

  “A hatband.”

  Everyone turned toward the coadjutor, who drew from his pocket a silk ribbon tied in a distinctive shape. “Ah!” said Scarron. “It’s tied into a sling—a fronde!”

  “Exactly,” said the coadjutor. “Everything now must be done à la fronde. Mademoiselle Paulet, I have for you a fan à la fronde. I’ll give you the name of my glover, d’Herblay—he makes gloves à la fronde. And for you, Scarron, my baker, who bakes excellent loaves à la fronde.”

  Aramis took the ribbon and tied it around his hat. Just then the door opened, and the footman announced, “Madame la Duchesse de Chevreuse!”

  At this name, everyone rose. Scarron turned his chair toward the door. Raoul blushed. Athos gestured to Aramis, who withdrew into a window embrasure.

  Amidst the respectful compliments that greeted her entrance, the duchess seemed to be looking for something—or someone. Finally, her gaze lighted on Raoul, and her eyes sparkled. She saw Athos and looked thoughtful; and she saw Aramis by the window and started slightly behind her fan. “What’s the latest?” she asked, as if to conceal the thoughts crossing her mind. “How is poor Voiture? Do you know, Scarron?”

  “What? Is Voiture ill?” asked Ménage. “What ails him?”

  “He played cards overlong without reminding his servant to bring him a change of shirts,” said the coadjutor, “caught a terrible cold, and is dying.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Mon Dieu! At my place, where else? Think of it—he’d made a solemn vow to give up gambling, but after three days he couldn’t stand it anymore. He came to the archbishop’s house to ask me to relieve him of his oath, but I was out on business visiting our good Councilor Broussel. However, in my rooms Voiture found the Marquis de Luynes at a card table, shuffling and looking for an opponent. The marquis called him over, but Voiture said he couldn’t play until he’d been relieved of his sacred vow. Luynes engaged in my name to take the sin upon himself, so Voiture sat down at the table, played until he lost four hundred crowns, then took a chill and lay down, to rise no more.”

  “Is he in danger, our dear Voiture?” asked Aramis, half hidden by the window curtain.

  “Hélas! The great man,” said Monsieur Ménage. “Perhaps this time we will lose him, deseret orbem.”

  “You pity him?” said Mademoiselle Paulet wryly. “On his deathbed he’s surrounded by sultanas, like a Grand Turk! Madame de Saintot comes running with soothing soups, La Renaudot warms his sheets, and Madame de Rambouillet sends herb
al tisanes.”

  “You wouldn’t miss him, my dear Parthénie?” said Scarron, laughing.

  “How unjust you are! Of course, I would. I’d happily say masses for the repose of his soul.”

  “It’s not for nothing you’re called the Lioness,” said Madame de Chevreuse. “Your bite is as sharp as ever.”

  “But . . . you speak ill of a poetic giant, Madame,” said Raoul, hesitantly.

  “He, a giant? Clearly, Viscount, as you said, you have just arrived from the provinces, and have never seen him. A giant? Why, he’s scarcely five feet tall.”

  “Brava! Hear, hear!” said a tall man, dark and gaunt, with a bristling mustache and a long rapier at his side. “Brava, lovely Paulet! It’s past time someone put that little Voiture in his place. I think I know more than a little about poetry, and I’ve always found his detestable.”

  “Who is that swashbuckler, Monsieur?” Raoul asked Athos.

  “Monsieur de Scudéry.”

  “The author of Clélie and The Grand Cyrus?”

  “Coauthor, an honor he shares with his sister, Mademoiselle de Scudéry,84 that imposing woman over there next to Monsieur Scarron.”

  Raoul turned and saw two figures who had just entered: an older lady, prim, stiff, and arid, who held herself near like a duenna or chaperone, next to a lovely young woman, frail and sad of demeanor, with luxurious black hair and thoughtful, violet eyes.

  Raoul vowed to himself not to leave the salon before he’d had a chance to speak to the beautiful young lady with violet eyes, who, to his mind, though she had no resemblance to her, recalled to him poor little Louise whom he’d left suffering at Château de La Vallière, and whom his encounters with high society had made him forget for a moment.

  Meanwhile, Aramis had approached the coadjutor, who without ceasing to smile had whispered a few words in his ear. Aramis, despite himself, started slightly in surprise. “Laugh with me,” said Monsieur de Gondy. “We’re being watched.” And he moved away toward Madame de Chevreuse, who had a lively circle gathered around her.

  Aramis pretended to laugh to throw off any curious listeners, then seeing that Athos had gone into the embrasure he’d left a minute before, tossed a few words left and right before moving to join him.

  There at the window they finally had their conversation, a quiet one but accented with many gestures. Raoul approached them, as Athos had requested. “Monsieur l’Abbé has been repeating one of Monsieur Voiture’s rondeaus that I’d never heard,” Athos said loudly. “It’s quite charming.”

  Raoul stood near them awhile, pretending to listen, then went to join the group around the duchess, which included Mademoiselle Paulet on one side and Mademoiselle de Scudéry on the other.

  “Well, as to me,” the coadjutor was saying, “I don’t share Monsieur de Scudéry’s opinion. I think Monsieur Voiture is indeed a poet, but solely of poetical ideas, without a touch of politics to them.”

  Meanwhile: “And so?” asked Athos.

  “It’s tomorrow,” Aramis said quickly.

  “At what time?”

  “Six o’clock.”

  “And where?”

  “At Saint-Mandé.”

  “Who told you this?”

  “The Comte de Rochefort.” A guest drew near. “Political ideas?” said Aramis aloud. “Our poor Voiture hasn’t a one—on this I agree with Monsieur le Coadjuteur. He’s purely a poet.”

  “Oh, certainly—a prodigious poet,” said Ménage. “And yet posterity, while admiring him, will surely reproach him for having too little regard for the laws of poetry. He simply murders the rules.”

  “Murders them, that’s the word for it,” said Monsieur de Scudéry.

  “But admit that his letters are literary masterworks,” said Madame de Chevreuse.

  “Oh, in that regard,” said Mademoiselle de Scudéry, “his fame is assured.”

  “True enough,” replied Mademoiselle Paulet, “so long as he’s being humorous; but as a serious epistolary writer he’s pitiful, his words blunt, unadorned, and put quite badly—as you must agree.”

  “So long as you agree that at humor, he’s inimitable.”

  “Inimitable? Certainly,” said Monsieur de Scudéry, twisting his mustache, “for who would imitate comedy that’s forced and jokes that are overfamiliar? For example, his ‘Letter from a Carp to a Sturgeon.’”

  “And you know,” said Ménage, “he gets all his best ideas eavesdropping at the Hôtel Rambouillet. Look at his Zélide and Alcidalis.”

  “As for me,” said Aramis, approaching the circle and bowing respectfully to Madame de Chevreuse, “as for me, I find him too careless in his regard for those of high rank. He’s frequently disrespectful of Madame la Princesse, the Maréchal d’Albret, Monsieur de Schomberg,85 and the queen herself.”

  “What, even the queen?” demanded Monsieur de Scudéry, advancing his right leg and assuming a belligerent pose. “Morbleu! That I hadn’t heard. And how has he disrespected Her Majesty?”

  “You haven’t heard his piece, ‘I Thought’?”

  “No,” said Madame de Chevreuse.

  “No,” said Mademoiselle de Scudéry.

  “No,” said Mademoiselle Paulet.

  “Ah! In fact, I think the queen has shared it with only a few—but I have it from a reliable source.”

  “And you know it?”

  “I could bring it to mind, I think.”

  “Let’s have it! Let’s have it!” said every voice.

  “Here’s how it came about,” said Aramis. “Monsieur Voiture was in the queen’s carriage, riding with her through the forest of Fontainebleau; he put on a look of deep thought, which never fails to incite the queen to ask him what he’s thinking about. And so, ‘Of what are you thinking, Monsieur Voiture?’ Her Majesty asked.

  “Voiture smiled, pretended to ponder for about five seconds so he would appear to be improvising, and replied:

  “‘I thought—that Destiny,

  After so much unearned misfortune,

  Had finally crowned you

  With glory, splendor, and fortune

  “‘But before, when you suffered,

  I think you were happier . . .

  I’ll not say more beloved

  Though that’s what the rhyme calls for.’”

  Monsieur Ménage and Mesdemoiselles de Scudéry and Paulet shrugged, unimpressed.

  “Wait for it, wait for it,” said Aramis. “There are two strophes.”

  “Oh, say rather two couplets,” said Mademoiselle de Scudéry, “as this is at best a song.”

  “‘I thought—that poor Love,

  Who always lent you his arms,

  Is banished from your Court,

  Without looks, bow, or charms—

  “‘And for me, what’s the use

  Of thinking about you,

  If you only abuse

  Those who’ve served you so well?’”

  “Well, as to that last trait,” said Madame de Chevreuse, “it might murder the laws of poetry, but it’s certainly the truth—as Madame de Hautefort and Madame de Sennecey would surely attest, not to mention Monsieur de Beaufort.”

  “Go on, go on,” said Scarron, “that no longer concerns me, since as of this morning I’m no longer ‘her patient.’”

  “And the final couplet?” said Mademoiselle de Scudéry. “Let’s have the final couplet.”

  “Here it is,” said Aramis. “This one goes to the trouble of naming names, so no one has to guess:

  “‘I thought—we who are poets,

  Ideas tumbling in torment,

  What, given your mood,

  You would do in this moment,

  “‘If you saw enter, in this place

  The Duke of Buckingham,

  Who would you sooner disgrace,

  The duke or Père Vincent?’”86

  At this final verse, there was a general cry of outrage at Voiture’s impertinence.

  “Speaking for myself,” said the girl with violet eyes,
quietly, “I’m afraid I find these verses quite charming.”

  Raoul thought so as well; blushing, he approached Scarron and said, “Monsieur Scarron, do me the honor, if you please, to tell me who is this young lady whose opinion stands against that of this entire illustrious assembly.”

  “Oh ho, my young Viscount!” said Scarron. “I gather you wish to propose an alliance both offensive and defensive?”

  Raoul blushed again. “I admit,” he said, “I thought the verses very pretty.”

  “And so they are,” said Scarron, “but hush! Between poets, we don’t say such things.”

  “But I don’t have the honor to be a poet,” said Raoul, “so I ask you . . .”

  “That’s right—you wanted to know who the young lady is, no? She’s the girl known as the Beautiful Indian.”

  “Excuse me, Monsieur,” said Raoul, coloring, “but that doesn’t tell me anything. Alas! I’m such a provincial.”

  “Which just means you’re not infected yet with the wild nonsense we spew here from every mouth. All the better, young man, all the better! Don’t try to understand it all, it’s a waste of time—but when you grasp a bit more of it, we’ll speak again.”

  “But forgive me, Monsieur,” said Raoul, “and do please tell me who is this person you call the Beautiful Indian?”

  “Oh, of course, she’s one of the nicest people you could hope to meet: Mademoiselle Françoise d’Aubigné.”87

  “D’Aubigné? Is she of the family of the famous ‘Agrippa,’ the friend of King Henri IV?”

  “She’s his granddaughter. She came here from Martinique, which is why she’s called the Beautiful Indian.”

  Raoul’s eyes widened, and met the violet gaze of the young lady, who smiled.

  Everyone was still talking about Voiture. “Monsieur,” Mademoiselle d’Aubigné said to Scarron, inserting herself into his conversation with the young viscount, “don’t you admire these friends of poor Voiture? Listen to how they prick him even as they praise him. One denies him the possession of common sense, the next all talent for poetry, then any originality, or sense of humor, or independence, or . . . why, good God! What has he left but celebrity?”

  Scarron laughed, and Raoul joined in. The Beautiful Indian, astonished by the effect she’d achieved, looked down and resumed her air of innocence. Raoul said to himself, “This is a person of refined spirit.”