'Enough, monseigneur,' replied the Count, assuming his plumed hat, and retiring with repeated bows towards the door; 'I shall not renew this subject again, but at the same time crave leave to choose my own friends, and beg to be excused sitting at table with your new Scottish ally, with whom I here proclaim I shall neither make peace nor truce.' 'Neither will I,' added De Bitche, retiring also, and from the door, hurling his leather glove at me. 'Take back your glove, De Bitche,' said the Prince, snatching it from my hand, and tossing it along the corridor; 'and on peril of your life, fight in this matter without my knowledge.' He closed the door after nis guests, and turning towards me, said, with a ruffled air, 'My poor M. Blane; these two irritable Counts mean you mischief. I saw it in their eyes, and De Bitche has the yellow orbs of a snake. Milles barbes! I wish that you were beyond our lines, among your own people, safely out of Lorraine, and in the French camp; for these two will leave no means untried to compass your destruction!' With this comfortable assurance, I seated myself at table; and we filled our cups with wine. CHAPTER L. RATHER POLITICAL. I now rehearsed, as succinctly as I could, considering the agitation of my thoughts, my adventures with Marie Louise on our journey; omitting only such passages as I deemed might prove unnecessary, or unwelcome. When I concluded, her brother expressed much satisfaction, and gave me earnest thanks, adding that in everything, my relation agreed with that given by Mademoiselle to himself, and to the Duke. 'A further proof that she has not told them all,' thought I, again. 'Now that I have heard your story, and that those blustering Counts are gone elsewhere to swear and grumble over pots of Rhenish, or jugs of German beer,' said the gay Prince, filling up my wine-horn again, 'tell me, how are all my enemies, the good people of Paris? Marion de l'Orme, Ninon de l'Enclos, Louis _le Juste_ (faugh!), and Anne of Austria; and how is Father Richelieu himself--the great master showman in red hat and stockings, who makes all these little marionettes to hop and dance whenever he pulls the political strings?' 'Marion is still surrounded by lovers, and Ninon ditto, having quite forgotten the Count de Poligni,' I replied, in the same bantering tone; 'Louis is still in the silken meshes of Clara d'Ische; Anne of Austria still makes confessions to Monseigneur, the Archbishop of Paris, and still powders, paints, and patches; and eats and drinks as usual with the regal voracity of a pike; while Richelieu, the Coadjutor's rival in her heart, still enrols regiments, and levies treasures, to carry the frontiers of France towards the Rhine.' The expression of Vaudemont's face changed, and his eyes sparkled at these words.