and strewed flowers in front of his carriage.

Oh, the Duke of Mantua was a great man!

In his retinue was a troop of comedians, a court fool, two dwarfs for
luck, seven cooks, three alchemists and an astrologer. Like the old woman
who lived in a shoe, he had so many children he didn't know what to do.
One of his sons married a princess of the House of Saxony, another son
was a cardinal, and a daughter married into the House of Lorraine. He had
alliances and close relations with every reigning family of Europe. The
sister of his wife, Marie de Medici, became "King of France," as
Talleyrand avers, and had a mad, glad, sad, bad, jolly time of it.

Wherever the Duke of Mantua went, there too went Annibale Chieppo, the
Minister of State. This man had a calm eye, a quiet pulse, and could
locate any man or woman in his numerous retinue at any hour of the day or
night. He was a diplomat, a soldier, a financier.

You could not reach the Duke until you had got past Chieppo.

And the Duke of Mantua had much commonsense--for in spite of envy and
calumny and threat he never lost faith in Annibale Chieppo.

No success in life is possible without a capable first mate. Chieppo was
king of first mates.

He was subtle as Richelieu and as wise as Wolsey.

When Peter Paul Rubens, aged twenty-three, arrived at Venice, the Duke of
Mantua and his train were there. Rubens presented his credentials to