These Memoirs might merit the honourable name of history from the
truths contained in them, as I shall prefer truth to embellishment.
In fact, to embellish my story I have neither leisure nor ability;
I shall, therefore, do no more than give a simple narration of
events. They are the labours of my evenings, and will come to
you an unformed mass, to receive its shape from your hands, or
as a chaos on which you have already thrown light. Mine is a
history most assuredly worthy to come from a man of honour, one
who is a true Frenchman, born of illustrious parents, brought
up in the Court of the Kings my father and brothers, allied in
blood and friendship to the most virtuous and accomplished women
of our times, of which society I have had the good fortune to
be the bond of union.

I shall begin these Memoirs in the reign of Charles IX., and
set out with the first remarkable event of my life which fell
within my remembrance. Herein I follow the example of geographical
writers, who having described the places within their knowledge,
tell you that all beyond them are sandy deserts, countries without
inhabitants, or seas never navigated. Thus I might say that all
prior to the commencement of these Memoirs was the barrenness of
my infancy, when we can only be said to vegetate like plants,
or live, like brutes, according to instinct, and not as human
creatures, guided by reason. To those who had the direction of
my earliest years I leave the task of relating the transactions
of my infancy, if they find them as worthy of being recorded as
the infantine exploits of Themistocles and Alexander,--the one
exposing himself to be trampled on by the horses of a charioteer,
who would not stop them when requested to do so, and the other
refusing to run a race unless kings were to enter the contest