The dawn of the new century did not find Mademoiselle de L’Enclos in the old home of the rue des Tournelles. One by one the relentless scythe of Death had cut down all the illustrious men and women of Ninon’s time. The cercle had narrowed, the music and wit and joyousness the walls of that salon had so long echoed with, were silent. If Ninon touched her lute now, it could but stir regret and sadness for the void. At last, she tells, her beauty had faded, leaving no traces of it; yet much of the old animation, and even not a little of the gaieté du cœur, were with her still. The empty salon, and the “yellow chamber” and the Place Royale itself, once echoing with the footsteps of her best friends, must have only deepened her regrets. Of all the friends left her in Paris, there were but two as old, one indeed older than herself—Mademoiselle de Scudéri. The other lady, Madame de Sandwich, somewhere of the same age, ever grande dame, sweet and amiable, and coquette to the last, in the beautiful old point de Venise and paduasoy silks she adorned herself with.
Both these ladies occupied apartments in the faubourg St Germain, and, desiring to be nearer to them, Mademoiselle de L’Enclos disposed of her house in the rue des Tournelles, and took up her residence upon the quay, in a house facing the Tuileries. The trio, enjoying their old terms of friendship, interchanged visits, and dined together, and chatted, sometimes sighing in unison over the irrevocable delights of the past. Mademoiselle de Scudéri best preserved her cheery outlook upon the world; but, to be sure, as Ninon says, never having been beautiful, she had had the least to lose; for age could not rob her of her mental charms and delightful wit and fancy. “Time is a coward,” she said one day; “he only flings his wrinkles, as the Parthians flung their arrows, as they flew by.”
One day, as the three were together, the message of the gentle lady’s recall came; and they laid her on a couch, and sent for the medical aid which was not likely to avail much for the ninety-four years. “Dry your tears,” she murmured on the last breath. “Soon it will be your turn, and in a better world we shall find again our young years, and our old friends.”
Yet another pleasant acquaintance shared those twilight days for Mademoiselle de L’Enclos, never weary of kindly interest and well-doing where she could bestow it. Fortunately for posterity, Ninon was afflicted with an atrociously bad cook, and she was often obliged to go into her kitchen and attend personally to the sauces and the rôtis, and the rest. One day she was busily engaged in putting together a partridge pasty for the entertainment of her two friends, who were coming to déjeuner with her.
Suddenly the kitchen door opened, and a little boy of some seven to eight years old entered, with intelligent eyes, and a bright smile on his clean-cut features. Taking off his cap, he said in the politest of tones—“Will you please give me a few cinders, Madame, since your fire is alight? Our servant upstairs there has let our fire go out, and papa forbids me to go to school until I have eaten my soup.”
Ninon wondered who this little son of a most wise papa might be. He was a small child for going to college, as he told her on further question, was that of the Jesuit College of Clermont. Then, putting facts together, she had scarcely need to ask his name; though on questioning him further still, he told her it was François Marie Arouet.
“The son of the treasurer Arouet, of the Court of Accounts—and you live on the floor above mine, do you not?”
“That is so, Madame,” nodded the boy, repeating his request, for he was in fear of the professor’s wrath if he should be late.
“But you have nothing to put your fire in,” said Ninon.
“Ah! how stupid of me,” said the child, as he stooped down, and gathered a handful of the cold ashes. “Please put the hot coals on this,” he went on, holding out the cinder-shielded palms.