What was most curious and unexpected was, that the mania for rhyming took possession of Condé himself. As we have said, he had much wit and gayety, and he entered willingly into the society with which he was surrounded. In the midst of the Fronde, when war was also carried on by means of songs, he made more than one, bearing his own peculiar stamp. During the first war of Paris, in which Condé, still faithful to the true interests of his house, sided with the court, one of the most ardent chieftains of the opposing party was the Count de Maure, a cadet of the Duke de Mortemart, uncle of Madame de Montespan, husband of the witty Anne Doni d’Attichy, intimate friend of Madame de Sablé. In the councils of the Fronde, the count always favored the most rash resolutions. The Mazarins turned him into ridicule, and overwhelmed him with a shower of epigrams. Bachaumont, one of the authors of the celebrated _Voyage de Chapelle et Bachaumont_, had written against him some little verses, which terminated thus:[167] Oh! a buff-jacket, with black velvet sleeves, Is worn by the great Count de Maure; And over this hero, whom well it relieves, There is a buff-jacket, with black velvet sleeves: Look out, Sir Condé, one easy perceives You are destined for food to this hero in war. Oh! a buff-jacket, with black velvet sleeves, Is worn by the great Count de Maure. Condé, according to the testimony of Tallemant, whom we have no reason to discredit, added the following lines: He’s a blood-thirsty tiger, the worst of his kind, This very same brave Count de Maure; When to be ’mong the foremost in fight he’s a mind, He’s a blood-thirsty tiger, the worst of his kind. But he’s not very oft with the foremost we find, Thus is it that Condé was not kill’d before. He’s a blood-thirsty tiger, the worst of his kind, This very same brave Count de Maure. Among his best lieutenants was the Count de Marsin, father of the marshal, indeed much superior to him, and a veritable warrior. Condé esteemed him highly, but for all that he did not spare him. One day at table, in drinking his health, he improvised to a tune, then very common, this little song,[168] which has never been published, and which seems to us very piquant: My dear Marsin, I drink to thee, Mars truly must thy cousin be, Bellona sure thy ma, But who may be thy pa Is more than I can see. Tin, tin, trelin, tin, tin, tin. At Liancourt, having nothing to do, and vexed because his sister and her beautiful friends stayed so long at church on All-Saints’ Day, he addressed to them the following epigram:[169] Impose on others, if you may, A hundred pater-nosters say, And mumble o’er to day your prayers. You’re very artful, we believe, For, if a beau his love declares, You’re ready then your prayers to leave.