One pleasant afternoon in the early autumn of 1653, a glittering company filled the little theatre of the Hotel de Petit Bourbon, near to the Louvre. The curtain parted, and, now soft and sweet, now fast and furious, the music rose and fell, as the company of amateurs--young nobles and demoiselles of the court--danced, declaimed, and sang through all the mirth and action of one of the lively plays of that period written for the king by Monsieur Benserade. In one of the numbers of the _ballet_, Mars and Venus stood at the wings awaiting their cue and watching the graceful dancing of a nimble dryad who, beset by a cruel satyr, changed speedily into the tuneful Apollo, vanquished the surprised satyr, and then sang to the accompaniment of his own lute the high-sounding praises of the great and glorious "King Louis Quatorze." And Mars said to Venus: "Our noble brother Immortal sings divinely; does he not, Olympia?--or thinks he does," he added, in a whisper. "Hush, Count Armand," Venus replied, holding up a warning finger. "Your last words are barely short of treason." "Is it treason to tell the truth, fair Olympia?" asked the boy courtier. "Sure, you hear little enough of it from royal lips." Olympia tossed her pretty head disdainfully. "And how can you know, Sir Count, that his Majesty does not mean truthfully all the pretty things he says to me? Ay, sir, and perhaps----" "Well! perhaps what, Mam'selle?" Count Armand asked, as the imperious little lady hesitated in her speech. "Perhaps--well--who knows? Perhaps, some day, Count Armand, you may rue on bended knee the sharp things you are now so fond of saying to me--to me, who may then be--Olympia, Queen of France!" Armand laughed softly. "Ho, stands my lady there?" he said. "I kiss your Majesty's hand, and sue for pardon," and he bent in mock reverence above the beautiful hand which the young king admired, and the courtiers, therefore, dutifully raved over. "But----" he added, slowly. "But what, Count?" Olympia exclaimed, hastily withdrawing her hand. "Why, his Majesty says just as many and as pretty things, believe me, to all the fair young demoiselles of his court." "Ay, but he _means_ them with me," the girl protested. "Why, Count, who can stand before me in the king's eyes? Can the little square-nozed Montmorency, or the straw-colored Marie de Villeroi? Can--ah, Count, is it, think you, that very proper little girl sitting there so demurely by her mamma in the _fauteuil_ yonder--is it she that may be foremost in the king's thoughts?"