Once in the city, with rivers of rain above and below, and filth, crime, poverty, and utter darkness about them, Claude de Mailly and his illustrious companion made their way with what rapidity they could down the Rue de Sèvres, past St. Vincent de Paul and the Lazariste, through the little Rue Mi-Carême, the Place du Dragon, Rue Dauphine, and so out upon the quays. After riding for three squares along the river-bank, with the waters of the Seine foaming below them, the two finally passed the Pont St. Louis, and, turning down a short side street, drew up before a doorway wherein lanterns were lighted, and before which two link-boys and twice as many lackeys stood waiting. Above, upon a long iron arm, tossed by the ever-rising wind, swung a great painted sign, a harlequin in cap and bells, throwing his parti-colored cap above his head. Below, in uncertain letters, were the words "Café Procope."
As the two gentlemen dismounted, Richelieu called to one of the servants, who hastened forward to take his bridle. A second assisted Claude, while another, evidently under orders, turned and called back to some one inside. Instantly both doors were flung wide open, while the landlord of this most popular resort himself braved the weather and came out, candelabrum in hand, to greet his guests.
"Ah, Cressin," deigned the Duke, nodding, as he entered the house, "are the rest not yet arrived?"
"Indeed, my lord, they have waited for some time above—Monsieur le Duc de Gêvres, Monsieur le Duc d'Epernon, the Marquis de Mailly-Nesle, and the Baron d'Holbach."
"Um. 'Twas the hunt kept us. Light the way up."
Claude lagged behind to throw off his wet riding-cloak, brush what water he could from his hat, and shake out his hair which had flattened beneath the protecting collar. Richelieu was kept waiting for some seconds, and the landlord had become ill at ease before the young précieuse signified his willingness to proceed to the room above, where his host waited.
Not a bad-looking fellow was Claude de Mailly, albeit what individuality he possessed had some difficulty in asserting itself through the immaculate foppishness of his attire. His wig, a very fine one, was arranged à la brigadière, and tied with the regulation black ribbon. His forehead was broad and smooth, his eyes of a grayish green, shaded with heavy black lashes and good brows, which, however, were artificially pencilled. His nose was one bequeathed of ten generations of noble ancestry; his mouth was sensitive, his complexion dark. The dress that he wore was not expensive, though its ruffles were of fine Mechlin, and he carried both patch and snuff box of ivory and gold. Richelieu, who preceded him up the narrow stairs, was a more striking figure—taller, broader of frame, with well-shaped head, great brown eyes that had carried him through life, a hand like a woman's, with muscles of steel, a smile that had won him a king's heart, and a charm, a power of presence which had made time stand still before him, so that his eight-and-forty years were something less than Claude de Mailly's twenty-three.
Before the two noblemen and the landlord were half-way up-stairs there reached them from above the tones of familiar voices engaged in that species of conversation, half witty, half absurd, which typified the times.
"Parbleu, Baron, you will be calling Richelieu out to-morrow! Your carp will be ruined."
"In such case, Marquis, I must order your cousin spitted. He will have been swimming the streets long enough, by the time he arrives, to have acquired an excellent flavor, of a kind."