him the butt of her venomous wit, had taken the festivities of a court in
dudgeon where he possessed hosts of enemies and flatterers but scarcely a
single friend.

He refused to attend any of the rehearsals of the ballet, but one day a
group of Diana and her nymphs passed him in the great gallery of the
palace. One of the nymphs as she went by turned and aimed her gilded
javelin at his heart. Henry looked and saw the most beautiful young
creature, so he thought, that mortal eye had ever gazed upon, and
according to his wont fell instantly over head and ears in love.
He said afterwards that he felt himself pierced to the heart and
was ready to faint away.

The lady was just fifteen years of age. The King was turned of fifty-
five. The disparity of age seemed to make the royal passion ridiculous.
To Henry the situation seemed poetical and pathetic. After this first
interview he never missed a single rehearsal. In the intervals he called
perpetually for the services of the court poet Malherbe, who certainly
contrived to perpetrate in his behalf some of the most detestable verses
that even he had ever composed.

The nymph was Marguerite de Montmorency, daughter of the Constable of
France, and destined one day to become the mother of the great Conde,
hero of Rocroy. There can be no doubt that she was exquisitely
beautiful. Fair-haired, with a complexion of dazzling purity, large
expressive eyes, delicate but commanding features, she had a singular
fascination of look and gesture, and a winning, almost childlike,
simplicity of manner. Without feminine artifice or commonplace coquetry,
she seemed to bewitch and subdue at a glance men of all ranks, ages, and
pursuits; kings and cardinals, great generals, ambassadors and statesmen,