“Mighty well spoken, Marshal; you are a perfect model of our court virtue. But how can a worshipper of ‘the great Alexander,’ at the court of ‘Lutetia,’ in the very presence of the divine Millegarde, the superb Dorinda, and all the attendant knights and ladies, tolerate the affront, the dishonour of a public rejection?” And Roquelaure takes out an enamelled snuff-box, taps it, and with a pinch of scented snuff between fingers covered with rings awaits a reply. “Not but that any gentleman,” continues he, receiving no answer, “who marries the fair Montmorenci will have perforce to submit to his Majesty’s pleasure--eh, Marshal, you understand?” and Roquelaure takes his pinch of snuff and dusts his perfumed beard. “I cannot allow the lady to be made a subject for idle gossip, Duke,” replies Bassompierre, drawing himself up to his full height and eying the other grimly. “Although I am not to have the honour of being her husband, her good name is as dear to me as before.” “But, _morbleu_! who blames the lady?” “Not I--I never blamed a lady in my life, let her do what she may--it is my creed of honour.’ “But his Majesty’s passion for her is so unconcealed. Perhaps, Marshal, the King understood that this marriage must break up your ancient friendship?” Bassompierre scowls, but makes no reply. “The King has grown young again,” continues Roquelaure. “Our noble Henri Quatre,--he orders new clothes every day, wears embroidered collars, sleeves of carnation satin--(I brought in the mode)” and he glances at his own--“and scents and perfumes his hair and beard. We are to have another tournament to-morrow in honour of the marriage of the Prince de Condé--in reality to show off a suit of armour his Majesty has received from Milan. Will you have the heart to be present, Marshal?” “Yes, Duke, I shall attend his Majesty as usual,” replies Bassompierre, turning away with an offended air. “Come, Marshal, between such old friends as you and I these airs of distance are absurd”; and the Duke lays his hand on the other’s arm to detain him. “Own to me honestly that this marriage with the Prince de Condé gives you great concern----” Bassompierre hangs down his head and plays with his sword-knot. “I should have desired a better husband for her, truly,” answers he in a low voice. “The Prince is a shabby fellow, with an evil temper. I fear Mademoiselle de Montmorenci can never affect him,” and a deep sigh escapes him.