Lovers taught her soon--too soon--that she was beautiful, that she was witty, and that there was a divine grace in all she did. She sang well, excelled in the guitar, and was wont to admit that she had loved passionately--at least while the love lasted--eight or nine consecutive lovers. The first was Des Barreaux, the next was Rouville, of whom she soon wearied, as he was not handsome enough; but the poor fellow fought a duel about her with his successor, La Ferte Senecterre, and left this valley of tears with three feet of a rapier in his body. Then came Miossens, to whom she took a fancy as he caracoled his horse along the Boulevardes, and to whom she bluntly sent a little pink note, inviting him to come and sup with her. Then followed Arnauld, the unfortunate Cinq Mars, who was beheaded by Richelieu; M. de Chatillon; the Marquis de Gordon, who was forgotten as soon as our drums died away on the road to Lorraine; and lastly, my new friend, M. de Brissac, whom I should have found little difficulty in supplanting had I been so disposed. Cardinal Richelieu himself was among her lovers. He gave her a cane worth six hundred francs, and she used to visit his Eminence dressed as a page; for her whims were ever rash, fantastic, and unaccountable. Love excepted, Marion had no frailty, and she had many virtues. She chatted away of her past amours with a coolness which surprised me. Perceiving that M. de Brissac was admiring Cupid and Psyche, a beautiful group in bronze-- 'Ah!' said she, 'that was a gift from poor Senecterre; and the buhl pedestal on which it stands, was given to me by that wretch Miossens, whose moustache had always such a horrid odour of nicotina.' 'And this beautiful casket,' said I, 'excels that of the Duchess d'Ancre.' 'Scarcely, in size at least,' said Marion; 'for the Duchess, in her famous casket, carried all her jewels, together with her best locks and bosom. The buhl table that it stands on was a present from dear Cinq Mars, who thought himself so handsome. There was a time when I thought him so too, but then he was such a self-willed toad that he bored me. And so, M. Blane, my gay friend, the little Marquis de Toneins was actually wounded at your terrible La Mothe?' 'Yes, mademoiselle, in ascending the breach.' 'Ah! he sought the bubble reputation even at the cannon's mouth, but in lieu of the bubble got the ball, which M. Shakespeare forgot to consider. I doubt not, my dear M. Blane, your despatches will cause many a tear to be shed in France.' 'True, mademoiselle,' said De Brissac, with a sentimental air; 'many an eye, lovely as your own, that God made only for smiling, now is compelled to weep.'