inward impatience, resting sometimes on one leg, sometimes on the
other, as the little Marquis descanted, with his usual fire and
vivacity, on the achievements of his ancestors, whose portraits hung
along the wall; from the martial deeds of the stern warriors in steel,
to the gallantries and intrigues of the blue-eyed gentlemen, with fair
smiling faces, powdered ear-locks, laced ruffles, and pink and blue
silk coats and breeches; not forgetting the conquests of the lovely
shepherdesses, with hoop petticoats and waists no thicker than an hour
glass, who appeared ruling over their sheep and their swains with
dainty crooks decorated with fluttering ribbands.

In the midst of his friend's discourse my uncle's eyes rested on a
full-length portrait, which struck him as being the very counterpart of
his visitor of the preceding night.

"Methinks," said he, pointing to it, "I have seen the original of this
portrait."

"_Pardonnez moi_," replied the Marquis politely, "that can hardly be,
as the lady has been dead more than a hundred years. That was the
beautiful Duchess de Longueville, who figured during the minority of
Louis the Fourteenth."

"And was there any thing remarkable in her history."

Never was question more unlucky. The little Marquis immediately threw
himself into the attitude of a man about to tell a long story. In fact,
my uncle had pulled upon himself the whole history of the civil war of
the Fronde, in which the beautiful Duchess had played so distinguished
a part. Turenne, Coligni, Mazarin, were called up from their graves to