"It is said," chronicles Le Laboureur, "that King François, who was the first lover of Diane de Poitiers, having expressed to her one day, after the death of François the dauphin, some dissatisfaction at the lack of animation exhibited by Prince Henri, she told him that he needed to have a love affair, and that she would make him fall in love with her." What woman wills, God wills; and Diane was for twenty years the dearly and only beloved of Henri. But now that we have examined the king and the favorite, is it not time to hear what they are saying? Henri, holding a parchment in his hand, was reading aloud the following verses, not without some interruptions and by-play which we cannot set down here, because they were part of the setting of the piece. Douce et belle bouchelette, Plus fraîche, et plus vermeillette Que le bouton églantine, Au matin! Plus suave et mieux fleurante Que l'immortelle amarante, Et plus mignarde cent fois Que n'est la douce rosée Dont la terre est arrosée Goutte à goutte au plus doux mois! Baise-moi, ma douce amie, Baise-moi, chère vie, Baise-moi, mignonnement, Serrement, Jusques à tant que je die: Las! je n'en puis plus, ma mie; Las! mon Dieu, je n'en puis plus. Lors ta bouchette retire, Afin que mort, je soupire, Puis, me donne le surplus. Ainsi ma douce guerrière, Mon cœur, mon tout, ma lumière, Vivons ensemble, vivons, Et suivons Les doux soutiens de jeunesse, Aussi bien une vieillesse Nous menace sur le port, Qui, toute courbe et tremblante, Nous attraîne, chancelante, La maladie et la mort.[1] "And what might be the name of this polite versifier who tells us so well what we are doing?" asked Henri when he had finished his reading. "He is called Remy Belleau, Sire, and promises to rival Ronsard, it seems to me. Oh, well!" continued the duchess, "do you put the value of this lover's poem at five hundred crowns, as I do?" "He shall have them, this protégé of yours, my beautiful Diane." "But we must not allow this to make us forget the earlier ones, Sire. Have you signed the warrant for the pension that I promised in your name to Ronsard, the prince of poets? You have, haven't you? Well, then, I have only one favor more to ask at your hands, and that is the vacant abbey of Recouls for your librarian, Mellin de Saint-Gelais, our French Ovid." "Ovid shall have his abbey, never fear, my fair Maecenas," said the king. "Ah, how fortunate are you, Sire, to have the power of disposing of so many benefices and offices at your pleasure! If I could only have your power just for one short hour!" "Haven't you it always, ingrate?"