War.

"If the Prince of Conde comes back." What had the Prince of Conde, his
comings and his goings, to do with this vast enterprise?

It is time to point to the golden thread of most fantastic passion which
runs throughout this dark and eventful history.

One evening in the beginning of the year which had just come to its close
there was to be a splendid fancy ball at the Louvre in the course of
which several young ladies of highest rank were to perform a dance in
mythological costume.

The King, on ill terms with the Queen, who harassed him with scenes of
affected jealousy, while engaged in permanent plots with her paramour and
master, the Italian Concini, against his policy and his life; on still
worse terms with his latest mistress in chief, the Marquise de Verneuil,
who hated him and revenged herself for enduring his caresses by making
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 coquetr