oleon the Great added a wing in honour of his
second bride, Marie Louise. But why be hampered by details like that?
Charles V built a castle at this old Roman Compendium, on the very spot
where all those centuries later Louis XV erected his Grecian facades;
and Henri of Navarre often came there, in his day. One of Henri's best
romances he owed to Compiegne; and while we were having what was meant
to be a hurried luncheon, Mother Beckett made Brian tell the story. You
know Brian came to Compiegne before the war and painted in the palace
park, where Napoleon I and Napoleon III used to give their
_fetes-champetres_; and he says that the picture is clear as ever
"behind his eyes."

Once upon a time, Henri was staying in the chateau, very bored because
weather had spoiled the hunting. Suddenly appeared the "handsomest young
man of Prance," the Duc de Bellegarde, Henri's equerry, who had been
away on an adventure of love. Somehow, he'd contrived to meet Gabrielle
d'Estrees, almost a child, but of dazzling beauty. She hid him for three
days, and then, alas, a treacherous maid threatened to tell Gabrielle's
father. Bellegarde had to be smuggled out of the family castle--a rope
and a high window. The tale amused Henri; and the girl's portrait fired
him. He couldn't forget; and later, having finished some business at
Senlis (part of which concerned a lady) he laid a plan to cut Bellegarde
out. When the Equerry begged leave from Compiegne to visit Gabrielle
again, Henri consented, on condition that he might be the duke's
companion.

Bellegarde had to agree; and Henri fell in love at sight with the golden
hair, blue eyes, and rose-and-white skin of "Gaby." She preferred
Bellegarde to the long-nosed king; but the Bearnais was never one to
take "no" for an answer. He went from Compiegne again and again to the
forbidden castle, in peril of his life from Guise and the League. After
a wild adventure, in disguise as a peasant with a bundle of straw on his
head, his daring captured the girl's fancy. She was his; and he was
hers, writing sonnets to "Charmante Gabrielle," making Marguerite
furious by giving to the new love his wife's own Abbey of St. Corneille,
at Compiegne. (One can still see its ruins!)

I said we meant to eat quickly and go for an afternoon of
sightseeing--for early to-morrow (I'm writing late at night) we're due
at Noyon. But Brian remembered so many bits about Compiegne, that by
tacit consent we lingered and listene