“Who told you?”

“The Count de Rochefort.”

Some one drew near.

“And then philosophic ideas are wholly wanting in Voiture’s works, but I am of the same opinion as the coadjutor —­ he is a poet, a true poet.”  Aramis spoke so as to be heard by everybody.

“And I, too,” murmured the young lady with the velvet eyes.  “I have the misfortune also to admire his poetry exceedingly.”

“Monsieur Scarron, do me the honor,” said Raoul, blushing, “to tell me the name of that young lady whose opinion seems so different from that of others of the company.”

“Ah! my young vicomte,” replied Scarron, “I suppose you wish to propose to her an alliance offensive and defensive.”

Raoul blushed again.

“You asked the name of that young lady.  She is called the fair Indian.”

“Excuse me, sir,” returned Raoul, blushing still more deeply, “I know no more than I did before.  Alas!  I am from the country.”

“Which means that you know very little about the nonsense which here flows down our streets.  So much the better, young man! so much the better!  Don’t try to understand it —­ you will only lose your time.”

“You forgive me, then, sir,” said Raoul, “and you will deign to tell me who is the person that you call the young Indian?”

“Certainly; one of the most charming persons that lives —­ Mademoiselle Frances d’Aubigne.”

“Does she belong to the family of the celebrated Agrippa, the friend of Henry IV.?”

“His granddaughter.  She comes from Martinique, so I call her the beautiful Indian.”

Raoul looked surprised and his eyes met those of the young lady, who smiled.

The company went on speaking of the poet Voiture.

“Monsieur,” said Mademoiselle d’Aubigne to Scarron, as if she wished to join in the conversation he was engaged in with Raoul, “do you not admire Monsieur Voiture’s friends?  Listen how they pull him to pieces even whilst they praise him; one takes away from him all claim to good sense, another robs him of his poetry, a third of his originality, another of his humor, another of his independence of character, a sixth —­ but, good heavens! what will they leave him? as Mademoiselle de Scudery remarks.”

Scarron and Raoul laughed.  The fair Indian, astonished at the sensation her observation produced, looked down and resumed her air of naivete.

Athos, still within the inclosure of the window, watched this scene with a smile of disdain on his lips.

“Tell the Comte de la Fere to come to me,” said Madame de Chevreuse, “I want to speak to him.”

“And I,” said the coadjutor, “want it to be thought that I do not speak to him.  I admire, I love him —­ for I know his former adventures —­ but I shall not speak to him until the day after to-morrow.”

“And why day after to-morrow?” asked Madame de Chevreuse.

“You will know that to-morrow evening,” said the coadjutor, smiling.