Nothing more simple. The master, to begin with, immediately on the departure of Ninon and his wife for Vaux, had despatched Nanon with a note to his good-for-nothing brother-in-law. D’Aubigné, having read the note, said that it was all right, and he would come and pass the evening with Monsieur Scarron. Nanon, thus feeling herself free also to enjoy an evening out like the rest, spent it with Jean Claude, a young man cousin of hers; but when at a fairly decent hour she returned home, an appalling picture met her eyes. On the table prepared for supper, lay, or stood as might be, seven empty bottles, the bones of a capon on the empty plates, with the crumbs of two Chartres pasties, and an empty Strasburg goose pot, also well cleared, madame’s brother under the table, and Monsieur Scarron lying back in his wheel-chair, waxen-white, speechless, but convulsed with a hiccough, a terrible hiccough that had never ceased all night, Nanon said.
“Fly for a doctor!” cried Ninon.
And one of grave and profoundly calm aspect appeared, and proceeded to examine his unconscious patient’s condition; then he shook his head. “He is a dead man,” he said.
“Ah, quick, Nanon! Quick to the rue de l’Arbre Sec, for Doctor Guy Patin.”
“What!” cried the doctor, with almost a yell of horror, “the foe to antimony! I would sooner see the devil himself!” and he fled; for the battle of antimony was at fierce pitch just then. As a medicinal agent it was opposed by the medical profession to such an extent, that the Parliament of Paris forbade its use; although already many of the profession were as strongly in its favour. Meanwhile Ninon sprinkled the face and hands of the sick man with cold water. He opened his eyes and recognised the two.
“Ah!” murmured he, “what a delicious supper. In this world, I fear, I shall never have another like it.”
“We have sent for Guy Patin. He will cure you.”
“Guy Patin?—yes, he is a grand creature; but, ah!”—and the hiccough, which had momentarily ceased, recommenced. “Well, people don’t die of a hiccough, I suppose,” went on Scarron—alas! for the mistake!—“but that goose, and the pasty, how excellent they were! Take your pen, dearest Françoise—it is indigestion—yes, but one of rhymes—till Guy Patin comes. I will see what rhyming will do for me—some good, surely, for my rhymes shall be of Ninon. Take your pen, Françoise, and write.”
And as well as she could for her tears, the poor wife wrote Scarron’s swan’s-song in praise of Ninon. “Well, are they detestable?” he asked then, between the never-ceasing convulsion of hiccoughs. “No matter. I have rhymed—on my deathbed—for it is useless to deceive myself—I—I die.” One last convulsion, that shook his whole distorted frame, seized him, and he fell back dead.
Then from the depths of the room loomed a dishevelled figure. It was d’Aubigné. “Dead!” he murmured, leaning over the corpse of his boon companion. “Well, he ate—all—and I—drank all. De profundis”—and he shuffled out.