THE great gallery of the Louvre is just completed. It is on the first floor, and approached through a circular hall with a fine mosaic floor; it has painted walls and a vaulted ceiling. The gallery is lighted by twelve lofty windows looking towards the quays and the river, which glitters without in the morning sun. Every inch of this sumptuous apartment is painted and laden with gilding; the glittering ceiling rests upon a cornice, where Henry’s initials are blended with those of the dead Gabrielle. A crowd of lords-in-waiting and courtiers walk up and down, loll upon settees, or gather in groups within the deep embrasures of the windows, to discuss in low tones the many scandals of the day, as they await his Majesty’s lover. Presently MarÉchal Bassompierre enters. Bassompierre, the friend and confidant of Henry, as great a libertine as his master, who has left behind him a minute chronicle of his life, is a tall, burly man; his face is bronzed by the long campaigns against the League, and his bearing as he moves up and down, his sword clanging upon the polished floor, has more of the swagger of the camp than the refinement of the Court. He wears the uniform of the Musketeers who guard the person of the King, and on his broad breast is the ribbon of the Order of the “Saint-Esprit.” He is joined by the Duc de Roquelaure. Now Roquelaure is an effeminate-looking man, a gossip and a dandy, the retailer of the latest scandal, the block upon which the newest fashions are tried. He wears a doublet of rose-coloured Florence satin quilted with silk, stiff with embroidery and sown with seed-pearls. The sleeves are slashed with cloth of silver; a golden chain, with a huge medallion set in diamonds, hangs round his neck. Placed jauntily over his ear is a velvet cap with a jewelled clasp and white ostrich plume. Broad golden lace borders his hose, and high-heeled Cordovan boots—for he desires to appear tall—of amber leather, with huge golden spurs, complete his attire. Being a man of low stature—a pigmy beside the Marshal—as the sun streams upon him from the broad window-panes, he looks like a gaudy human butterfly.

“Well, Bassompierre,” says the Duke eagerly, standing on the points of his toes, “is it true that your marriage with the incomparable Charlotte de Montmorenci is broken off?”

Bassompierre bows his head in silence, and a sorrowful look passes over his jovial face.

“Pardieu! Marshal, for a rejected lover you seem well and hearty. Are you going to break your heart, or the Prince of CondÉ’s head—eh, Marshal?”

A malicious twinkle gathers in Roquelaure’s eye, for there is a certain satisfaction to a man of his inches in seeing a giant like Bassompierre unsuccessful.

“Neither, Duke,” replies Bassompierre drily. “I shall in this matter, as in all others, submit myself to his Majesty’s pleasure.”

“Mighty well spoken, Marshal; you are a perfect model of our court virtue. But how can a worshipper of ‘the great Alexander,’ at the court of ‘Lutetia,’ in the very presence of the divine Millegarde, the superb Dorinda, and all the attendant knights and ladies, tolerate the affront, the dishonour of a public rejection?” And Roquelaure takes out an enamelled snuff-box, taps it, and with a pinch of scented snuff between fingers covered with rings awaits a reply. “Not but that any gentleman,” continues he, receiving no answer, “who marries the fair Montmorenci will have perforce to submit to his Majesty’s pleasure—eh, Marshal, you understand?” and Roquelaure takes his pinch of snuff and dusts his perfumed beard.

“I cannot allow the lady to be made a subject for idle gossip, Duke,” replies Bassompierre, drawing himself up to his full height and eying the other grimly. “Although I am not to have the honour of being her husband, her good name is as dear to me as before.”

“But, morbleu! who blames the lady?”

“Not I—I never blamed a lady in my life, let her do what she may—it is my creed of honour.’

“But his Majesty’s passion for her is so unconcealed. Perhaps, Marshal, the King understood that this marriage must break up your ancient friendship?”

Bassompierre scowls, but makes no reply.

“The King has grown young again,” continues Roquelaure. “Our noble Henri Quatre,—he orders new clothes every day, wears embroidered collars, sleeves of carnation satin—(I brought in the mode)” and he glances at his own—“and scents and perfumes his hair and beard. We are to have another tournament to-morrow in honour of the marriage of the Prince de CondÉ—in reality to show off a suit of armour his Majesty has received from Milan. Will you have the heart to be present, Marshal?”

“Yes, Duke, I shall attend his Majesty as usual,” replies Bassompierre, turning away with an offended air.

“Come, Marshal, between such old friends as you and I these airs of distance are absurd”; and the Duke lays his hand on the other’s arm to detain him. “Own to me honestly that this marriage with the Prince de CondÉ gives you great concern——”

Bassompierre hangs down his head and plays with his sword-knot. “I should have desired a better husband for her, truly,” answers he in a low voice. “The Prince is a shabby fellow, with an evil temper. I fear Mademoiselle de Montmorenci can never affect him,” and a deep sigh escapes him.

“Never, never,” rejoins Roquelaure, looking round to note who arrives, “it is an ill-assorted union. You, Bassompierre, would have loved her well. It was possible she might have reformed your manners. Ha! I have you there, Marshal. Pardon my joke,” adds he, as he sees a dark scowl again gathering on the Marshal’s face. “But CondÉ, the rustre, he hates women—I never saw him address one in his life; a cold, austere fellow, as solitary as an owl; a miser, and silent too—if he does speak he is rude and ungracious; and with the temper of a fiend. If he does right, it is only through obstinacy. I am told he suspects the lady already, and has set spies to watch her. A pretty match for the fair Montmorenci truly, who has lived with a sovereign at her feet.”

“Duke,” cries Bassompierre fiercely, secretly writhing under the Duke’s malicious probing of a heart-wound which still bled, “I have already observed that any inuendoes touching Mademoiselle de Montmorenci displease me.”

“Inuendoes! why, Marshal, even CondÉ confessed the other day that rich as was the prize, and surpassing the lady, he hesitated to accept ‘one whom the King’s attention had made so notorious!’”

Bassompierre’s eyes flash. He is about to make an angry rejoinder when a page approaches and summons them to attend his Majesty.

The marriage between Charlotte de Montmorenci and the Prince de CondÉ was, as had been anticipated, a failure. CondÉ, devoured by jealousy, shut up his wife at Chantilly, or at the still more remote ChÂteau of Muret. The petted beauty, accustomed to the incense of a Court and the avowed admiration of an infatuated sovereign, scolded and wept, but in vain. The more bitterly they quarrelled, the more deep and dangerous became CondÉ’s enmity to Henry. Disloyalty was the tradition of his race, rebellious practices with Spain the habit of his house. We have seen how a CondÉ was ready to usurp the throne under pretence of a Regency, during the conflict with the Huguenots at Amboise. His son, “the great CondÉ,” is by-and-by to head the standard of revolt, and at the head of Spanish troops to bring France to the brink of ruin. Avarice had led him to accept the hand of Charlotte de Montmorenci—avarice and poverty—and he had counted upon constant espionage and absence from Court as sufficient precautions. But he was young: he had yet to learn the wilfulness of his wife and the audacity of the King. As he gradually discovered that the Princess was neither to be soothed nor coerced, his rage knew no bounds. Sully, seriously alarmed at the rumours that reached him respecting the Prince’s language, requested a visit from him at the Arsenal.

Sully is seated in a sombre closet—looking towards the towers of Notre-Dame—at a table covered with papers. CondÉ is tall, thin, and slightly made. He is singularly ill-favoured, with dark hair and swarthy skin, a nose quite out of proportion with the rest of his face, and a sinister expression in his eyes. On entering he cannot conceal his uneasiness.

“Be seated, monseigneur,” says Sully, scanning him from under his heavy eyebrows. “I have no time to spare—therefore I must use plain words. You speak of the King my master in terms that do you little credit. You are playing the devil, Prince. The King’s patience is well-nigh exhausted. I am commanded to keep back the payment of the pension you receive to mark his Majesty’s displeasure. If this has no effect upon you, other means must be tried.”

While Sully speaks, CondÉ sits opposite to him unmoved, save that his dark face hardens, and he fixes his sullen eyes steadfastly upon Sully.

“If I am what you say,” replies he at last doggedly, “if I speak ill of his Majesty, am I not justified? He is determined to ruin me. He persecutes me because I choose to keep my wife in the country. It is my desire to leave France—then I shall no longer give his Majesty offence.”

“Impossible, monseigneur! As a Prince of the blood your place is at Court, beside the Sovereign.”

“What! have I not liberty even to visit my own sister, the Princess of Orange, at Breda, in company with the Princess, my wife? That can be no affront to his Majesty. Surely, Monsieur de Sully, you cannot advise the King to refuse so reasonable a request?”

“I shall advise him to refuse it, monseigneur, nevertheless. Persons of your rank cannot leave the kingdom—the very act is treason.”

CondÉ casts up his eyes, and his hands—

“Was ever a man so ill used? My personal liberty denied me! My very allowance stopped!”

“It is said, Prince, that you have plenty of Spanish doubloons at Chantilly,” returns Sully significantly.

“It is false—tales to ruin me. Ever since my marriage I have been pursued by informers. It was by his Majesty’s command I married. Now he desires to seduce my wife—that is the truth. If I appear ungrateful, there is my reason.”

“His Majesty assures me, Prince,” breaks in Sully, “that his sentiments towards your illustrious consort are those of a father.”

“A father! Why, then, does he come disguised to Chantilly? He has been seen hiding in the woods there and at Muret. A pretty father, indeed! By the grace of God, I will submit to the tyranny of no such a father. It is a thraldom unbecoming my birth, my position, and my honour! While the King acts thus I will not come to Court, to be an object of pity and contempt!”

“You speak of tyranny, Prince, towards yourself. It may be well for your highness to consider, however, that the King, my master, has to a certain extent justified your accusation.” CondÉ looks up at him keenly. “But it is tyranny exercised in your favour, Monsieur le Prince, not to your prejudice.”

Sully’s eyes are bent upon the Prince. While he speaks a half smile flitters about his mouth.

“I do not understand you, Duke. Explain yourself,” replies CondÉ, with real or affected ignorance; but something in the expression of Sully’s face caused him to drop the tone of bravado he had hitherto assumed.

“His Majesty, Prince, has justified your accusation of tyranny by having hitherto insisted, nay even compelled, those about him to acknowledge you—well—for what you are not!”

CondÉ almost bounds from his seat. There was a horrible suspicion that his mother had shortened his father’s life, and this suspicion had cast doubts upon his legitimacy.

Sully sits back in his chair and contemplates CondÉ at his ease.

“Your highness will, I think, do well for the future to consider how much you owe to his Majesty’s bounty in many ways.” And these last words are strongly emphasised. CondÉ is silent. “Again, I say, as your highness is fortunately accepted as a Prince of the blood, you must bear the penalties of this high position.”

CondÉ, who has turned ashy pale, rises with difficulty—he even holds the table for support.

“Have you more to say to me, Duc de Sully, or is our interview ended?”

He speaks in a suppressed voice, and looks careworn and haggard.

“Monseigneur, I have now only to thank you for the honour you have done me in coming here,” replies Sully, rising, a malicious smile upon his face. “I commend to your consideration the remarks I have had the honour to make to you. Believe me, you owe everything to the King, my master.”