To reach the salons of semi-literary and semi-fashionable people, where rank and wealth were balanced by wit, became the desire of the young Mademoiselle d’Aubigne.  Her entrance into society was effected in a curious way.  At that time there lived in Paris (about the year 1650) a man whose house was the centre of gay and literary people,—­those who did not like the stiffness of the court or the pedantries of the Hotel de Rambouillet.  His name was Scarron,—­a popular and ribald poet, a comic dramatist, a buffoon, a sort of Rabelais, whose inexhaustible wit was the admiration of the city.  He belonged to a good family, and originally was a man of means.  His uncle had been a bishop and his father a member of the Parliament of Paris.  But he had wasted his substance in riotous living, and was reduced to a small pension from the Government.  His profession was originally that of a priest, and he continued through life to wear the ecclesiastical garb.  He was full of maladies and miseries, and his only relief was in society.  In spite of his poverty he contrived to give suppers—­they would now be called dinners—­which were exceedingly attractive.  To his house came the noted characters of the day,—­Mademoiselle de Scudery the novelist, Marigny the songwriter, Henault the translator of Lucretius, De Grammont the pet of the court, Chatillon, the duchesses de la Saliere and De Sevigne, even Ninon de L’Enclos; all bright and fashionable people, whose wit and raillery were the admiration of the city.

It so happened that to a reception of the Abbe Scarron was brought one day the young lady destined to play so important a part in the history of her country.  But her dress was too short, which so mortified her in the splendid circle to which she was introduced that she burst into tears, and Scarron was obliged to exert all his tact to comfort her.  Yet she made a good impression, since she was beautiful and witty; and a letter which she wrote to a friend soon after, which letter Scarron happened to see, was so remarkable, that the crippled dramatist determined to make her his wife,—­she only sixteen, he forty-two; so infirm that he could not walk, and so poor that the guests frequently furnished the dishes for the common entertainments.  And with all these physical defects (for his body was bent nearly double), and notwithstanding that he was one of the coarsest and profanest men of that ungodly age, she accepted him.  What price will not an aspiring woman pay for social position!—­for even a marriage with Scarron was to her a step in the ladder of social elevation.

Did she love this bloated and crippled sensualist, or was she carried away by admiration of his brilliant conversation, or was she actuated by a far-reaching policy?  I look upon her as a born female Jesuit, believing in the principle that the end justifies the means.  Nor is such Jesuitism incompatible with pleasing manners, amiability of temper, and great intellectual radiance; it equally marked, I can fancy, Jezebel, Cleopatra, and Catherine de Medicis.  Moreover, in France it has long been the custom for poor girls to seek eligible matches without reference to love.