Desbarreaux kissed her hand with a gallant and chivalrous air.  He then, talking to her all the time, walked round the large room, where were assembled nearly thirty persons-some seated in the large arm chairs, others standing in the vast chimney-place, others conversing in the embrasures of the windows under the heavy curtains.  Some of them were obscure men, now illustrious; others illustrious men, now obscure for posterity.  Thus, among the latter, he profoundly saluted mm. d’Aubijoux, de Brion, de Montmort, and other very brilliant gentlemen, who were there as judges; tenderly, and with an air of esteem, pressed the hands of mm.  Monteruel, de Sirmond, de Malleville, Baro, Gombauld, and other learned men, almost all called great men in the annals of the Academy of which they were the founders—­itself called sometimes the Academic des Beaux Esprits, but really the Academic Francaise.  But M. Desbarreaux gave but a mere patronizing nod to young Corneille, who was talking in a corner with a foreigner, and with a young man whom he presented to the mistress of the house by the name of M. Poquelin, son of the ’valet-de-chambre tapissier du roi’.  The foreigner was Milton; the young man was Moliere.

Before the reading expected from the young Sybarite, a great contest arose between him and other poets and prose writers of the time.  They spoke to each other with great volubility and animation a language incomprehensible to any one who should suddenly have come among them without being initiated, eagerly pressing each other’s hands with affectionate compliments and infinite allusions to their works.

“Ah, here you are, illustrious Baro!” cried the newcomer.  “I have read your last sixain.  Ah, what a sixain! how full of the gallant and the tendre?”

“What is that you say of the tendre?” interrupted Marion de Lorme; “have you ever seen that country?  You stopped at the village of Grand-Esprit, and at that of Jolis-Vers, but you have been no farther.  If Monsieur le Gouverneur de Notre Dame de la Garde will please to show us his new chart, I will tell you where you are.”

Scudery arose with a vainglorious and pedantic air; and, unrolling upon the table a sort of geographical chart tied with blue ribbons, he himself showed the lines of red ink which he had traced upon it.

“This is the finest piece of Clelie,” he said.  “This chart is generally found very gallant; but ’tis merely a slight ebullition of playful wit, to please our little literary cabale.  However, as there are strange people in the world, it is possible that all who see it may not have minds sufficiently well turned to understand it.  This is the road which must be followed to go from Nouvelle-Amitie to Tendre; and observe, gentlemen, that as we say Cumae-on-the-Ionian-Sea, Cuma;-on-the-Tyrrhean-Sea, we shall say Tendre-sur-Inclination, Tendre-sur-Estime, and Tendre-sur-Reconnaissance.  We must begin by inhabiting the village of Grand-Coeur, Generosity, Exactitude, and Petits-Soins.”