'Exiled from my own country, madame, for reasons which I can easily explain, I am most anxious to obtain military employment in one of the Scottish regiments of King Louis; and his Grace the Duke of Lennox favoured me with this letter of recommendation to you, saying that in Paris you were all powerful, and that Paris is France.' She held out her hand, and as the trimmings of rich lace fell back to her elbow, she displayed an arm of dazzling whiteness, as with a proud and gratified smile she received and opened the letter of the duke. Its tenor and conception were no doubt complimentary and gallant; and perhaps it referred to old remembered days and passages of love between them in other times; for a half-repressed sigh escaped her; her fine eyelids drooped; a half blush flitted across her cheek with a soft smile of pleasure. Folding it hastily, she placed it in her bosom, and bending her bright hazel eyes upon me, said. 'Believe, monsieur, that all my little interest is wholly at your service.' 'Ah, Madame la Comtesse, how shall I thank you!' 'You will soon learn, monsieur,' and the eyelids drooped again to veil a cunning smile. 'The Duke informed me that you had but to express a wish, and his majesty King Louis would grant it--even were it to go to war with the empire.' 'His Grace of Lennox is almost right. Here at our French court the ladies guide the men, and have all their several departments in the science of government and intrigue.' 'So I have heard, madame.' 'Thus, the tender and pious Mademoiselle de Saujon has charge of Monseigneur le Duc d'Orleans; Madame de Chatillon, lively, tender, and black-eyed, has especial dominion over the Duc de Nemours and the great Prince of Condé; Mademoiselle de Chevreuse commands the amorous little Coadjutor Bishop of Paris; the tall, ample, fair, and dazzling Montbazon, with her snow-white shoulders, and bosom like a Juno, looks after the Duc de Beaufort; Madame de Longoville, with her saucy blue eyes, has charge of the Duc de Rochefoucault and le Marquis de Gordon, Captain of the Scottish guard; while that brilliant little blonde, the Duchesse de Bouillon, has a more terrible task than all assigned her--what is it, dear Nicola?' 'She actually looks after her own husband.' 'But, madame,' said I, 'in this catalogue of political beauties you forget yourself. You govern--' 'The King!' she replied with a triumphant smile that made her seem irresistibly beautiful; but the reply was whispered in my ear so closely that I started with confusion. 'So said the Duke of Lennox, adding, "she has but to smile, and the commander of the Scots will give you a pair of colours at once."'