“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?”