The whole of the Scottish Guard were under arms; the hundred cuirassiers on horseback in full array, with rapier, helmet, and plume; the hundred archers, now archers but in name, as they were armed with arquebuses, and clad in white hocquetons, glittering with lace; and the twenty-four chosen Scottish gentlemen, keepers of the royal body, who never left the King of France until their hands deposited his remains in the regal sepulchre of St. Denis, which was always the last duty of the Scottish Guard, before they encircled the throne of his successor. Our commander was styled _first_ captain of his Majesty's Guards, and began the military year by serving the first quarter of it. The court before the Louvre presented a brilliant appearance. The Guards of horse and foot under arms; the Grey and the Blue Musketeers--all of whom were gentlemen of the best families in France--richly attired, laced and plumed; nobles, chevaliers, pages, and lacqueys, all clad in gorgeous dresses; horses, gaily trapped, pawing the pavement, impatient for their riders. Amid all this glittering crowd I looked for the carriage of the Countess d'Amboise, but nowhere could see it, yet I was told that it was usually drawn by six white horses. With all the vanity of youth, I was particularly anxious that she should see me in my brilliant accoutrements, plumed, spurred, and belted. My gay companions laughed and made bold jests when I inquired if she had been seen, for the secret of my patronage had been whispered about, and the old Marechal de Logis told me gruffly that, 'the King always went to Madame, for Madame dared not come to the King.' Patrick Gordon had come to parade in a bad humour that morning. A horseman had splashed him with mud, on the Pont de Notre Dame, and he was making loud complaints on the subject to the Commandant of the City Watch and the Chevalier Livingstone. 'Zounds!' said he, curling his strong grey moustache up to his eyes, 'he was only a rascally bourgeois, monsieur; had I been daubed by the horse of a musketeer, or gentleman, I should not have cared so much, but a cit--a mere cit!' 'Whom one cannot fight; it was too bad, M. le Marechal de Logis,' replied the Captain of the Watch; 'why did you not fling him into the Seine?' 'Of course,' added the Chevalier Livingstone; 'for a mere bourgeois must be taught that he is not to ride everybody down like a prince of the blood.' 'Is yonder carriage, which I see drawn by four white horses and guarded by twelve Grey Musketeers, the equipage of the Countess d'Amboise?' I asked. 'Always your Countess,' grumbled the Marechal; 'no, 'tis the Queen's.' 'And why has the Countess six?' 'My bon camarado, have you yet to learn that Anne of Austria is only the wife of the most Christian King, while Clara d'Ische is his mistress? This makes all the difference in the world.'