In temper she was at times violent and imperious, and her disposition had this peculiarity, that while even eager and lively about trifles that affected herself, she was too often carelessly cold and selfishly indifferent about all that concerned others. She was born to be a coquette, and the spirit of gallantry, with the desire to charm, win and enslave, pervaded her whole existence. She was the centre of Parisian fashion; lovers she had in plenty, and if she desired to marry, some of the proudest titles in France were at her disposal; but Ninon, whom her mother had destined for the service of God, preferred a life of perfect freedom--such freedom as the days of Louis "the Just" permitted, with independence and intrigue--to live, not for others, but for herself alone. We shall see how all this ended. One night in the year 1633, she was seated alone in a room of her house in the Rue de Parlement, behind the Palais-Royal. Her lovers, the Counts de Coligné and Jersey, and her favourite friends, the Comtesse de la Suze, D'Olonne, and the Duchesse de Bouillon-Mancini, the cripple Abbé Scarron, M. de Sévigné, and others, had all retired and departed in their carriages or sedans, and Ninon was now seated before a mirror in that famous boudoir, the walls of which, as history tells us, were decorated with frescoes, that illustrated the story of Cupid and Pysche. Ninon was now only in her seventeenth year. She observed that she was very pale, that her round cheeks were colourless, and some remarks made by the Abbé Scarron on the decay of youth, the fading of beauty, the gradual advance of years, made the young girl thoughtful; and she was too intelligent and too well-read to be without reflection, so she thought of the _future_ with forebodings, for already had late hours and gaiety robbed her of her roses. Arrayed for conquest, who at that time could have competed with Ninon? Round her slender neck she wore the _collet-monti_, or standing collar, which disappeared with Louis XIV.; her fine hair was delicately sprinkled with perfumed maréchal powder; a kissing-patch, like a tiny star, was in one of the dimples at the corner of her rosy mouth, and her robe of silver gauze was looped in ample festoons, to display the petticoat of crimson brocade beneath. Would a time ever come when she would be covered with wrinkles, like the Comtesse de la Suze, or when her most passionate lover, the gay young English Count of Jersey* would weary of her? Oh, _mon Dieu!_ it was not to be thought of with patience. * William Villiers, Viscount Grandison, then known in France by that title. At that moment Guillot, her valet, tapped at the door of her boudoir. "Who is there?" she asked, impatiently. "A stranger, who would speak with you, mademoiselle," replied Guillot. "A stranger, and at this hour! What is his name?" "He declines to give it." "Ridiculous! Is he armed?" "No, mademoiselle." "Is he young or handsome?"