The great gallery of the Louvre is just completed. It is on the first floor, and approached through a circular hall with a fine mosaic floor; it has painted walls and a vaulted ceiling. The gallery is lighted by twelve lofty windows looking towards the quays and the river, which glitters without in the morning sun. Every inch of this sumptuous apartment is painted and laden with gilding; the glittering ceiling rests upon a cornice, where Henry’s initials are blended with those of the dead Gabrielle. A crowd of lords-in-waiting and courtiers walk up and down, loll upon settees, or gather in groups within the deep embrasures of the windows, to discuss in low tones the many scandals of the day, as they await his Majesty’s lover. Presently Maréchal Bassompierre enters. Bassompierre, the friend and confidant of Henry, as great a libertine as his master, who has left behind him a minute chronicle of his life, is a tall, burly man; his face is bronzed by the long campaigns against the League, and his bearing as he moves up and down, his sword clanging upon the polished floor, has more of the swagger of the camp than the refinement of the Court. He wears the uniform of the Musketeers who guard the person of the King, and on his broad breast is the ribbon of the Order of the “Saint-Esprit.” He is joined by the Duc de Roquelaure. Now Roquelaure is an effeminate-looking man, a gossip and a dandy, the retailer of the latest scandal, the block upon which the newest fashions are tried. He wears a doublet of rose-coloured Florence satin quilted with silk, stiff with embroidery and sown with seed-pearls. The sleeves are slashed with cloth of silver; a golden chain, with a huge medallion set in diamonds, hangs round his neck. Placed jauntily over his ear is a velvet cap with a jewelled clasp and white ostrich plume. Broad golden lace borders his hose, and high-heeled Cordovan boots--for he desires to appear tall--of amber leather, with huge golden spurs, complete his attire. Being a man of low stature--a pigmy beside the Marshal--as the sun streams upon him from the broad window-panes, he looks like a gaudy human butterfly. “Well, Bassompierre,” says the Duke eagerly, standing on the points of his toes, “is it true that your marriage with the incomparable Charlotte de Montmorenci is broken off?” Bassompierre bows his head in silence, and a sorrowful look passes over his jovial face. “_Pardieu!_ Marshal, for a rejected lover you seem well and hearty. Are you going to break your heart, or the Prince of Condé’s head--eh, Marshal?” A malicious twinkle gathers in Roquelaure’s eye, for there is a certain satisfaction to a man of his inches in seeing a giant like Bassompierre unsuccessful. “Neither, Duke,” replies Bassompierre drily. “I shall in this matter, as in all others, submit myself to his Majesty’s pleasure.”