“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.