'Our old Marechal de Logis has paraded in a bad humour to-day,' said Raynold Cheyne, as Gordon moved his horse to the rear of our line. ''Tis his dark day,' said the Chevalier; 'but, Blane, you cannot know what we mean by that anniversary.' 'The day on which he lost his friend and mistress together, by a hasty shot.' 'Thirty years ago, that is to say, in April 1605, he stood in high favour with the beautiful Marguerite of Valois, who was then living--and still lovely--at the old embattled Hotel de Sens; but lo! as madame was not so discreet as in the days of the Huguenots, one night he discovered a rival.' 'Where?' I asked, 'in her chamber?' 'Nay, in the boot of her coach.' 'A strange place--well?' 'He fired his arquebuse through it, and killed him on the spot.' 'The deuce; that was unpleasant!' 'After this, Marguerite quitted the Hotel de Sens for ever; it became hateful to her. She then built another house in the Fauxbourg St. Germain, near the Seine, and the Pré aux Cleres.' 'And the Marechal de Logis?' 'Lost her favour for ever; but he did not break his heart, for Marguerite was well past forty. He was supposed to be her ninth lover; but hush, here he comes again.' There was a flourishing of trumpets, a rolling of drums, a lowering of swords and standards, an uncovering of heads, with a general salute, as a little man, about forty years of age, with a thin, round profile, in a broad hat and feather, wearing a purple cloak, a prodigiously long sword, having his poor, lean legs encased in wrinkly boots of white perfumed leather, and with the crosses of the Holy Ghost and Notre Dame du Mont Carmel, flashing in diamonds, on his breast, appeared at the grand entrance of the Louvre. He was Louis XIII.--Louis the Just, whose politics were ever at variance with his inclinations. He had just left the Council, where the expected war with Lorraine and the Empire was the all-engrossing topic; and as he descended, according to etiquette and to daily use and wont, he gave the parole and countersign for the day to the young and splendid Marquis de Gordon, who, as premiere capitaine of the household troops, stood at his right hand in his white hocqueton and with his lofty plume; he, in turn, gave it to the officers of the Scottish Guard, and to the colonels of the Gensdarmes, Dragoons, and Musketeers; and then the King gave (what he deemed of much more importance) special orders to the keepers of the kennels about his favourite dogs, as he was a passionate lover of the chase--such as it is in France. By the King's side stalked Richelieu, with a stately step, his keen, hawk-like eyes and prominent cheek-bones full of cunning, and his firm lip and well-defined chin bespeaking dogged perseverance. I gazed with undefined interest upon this lofty prelate, so terrible for his political intrigues, his perspicacity, his subtlety, inflexibility, and revenge.