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,