--Monsieur, his younger brother,
Philip IV. of Spain, Charles II. of England, the Emperor of Germany, the
Archduke Leopold of Austria,--prospective king of Holland,--the King of
Portugal, the Prince of Denmark, the Elector of Bavaria, the Duke of
Savoy, Conde's son, and Conde himself. For the last of these alone she
seems to have felt any real affection. Their tie was more than cousinly;
the same heroic blood of the early Bourbons was in them, they were trained
by the same precocious successes, only six years apart in age, and
beginning with that hearty mutual aversion which is so often the parent of
love, in impulsive natures like theirs. Their flirtation was platonic, but
chronic; and whenever poor, heroic, desolate Clemence de Maille was sicker
than usual, these cousins were walking side by side in the Tuileries
gardens, and dreaming, almost in silence, of what might be, while Mazarin
shuddered at the thought of mating two such eagles together.--So passed
her life, and at last, like many a matchmaking lady, she baffled all the
gossips, and left them all in laughter when her choice was made.

The tale stands embalmed forever in the famous letter of Madame de Sevigne
to her cousin, M. de Coulanges, written on Monday, December 15, 1670. It
can never be translated too often, so we will risk it again.

"I have now to announce to you the most astonishing circumstance, the most
surprising, most marvellous, most triumphant, most bewildering, most
unheard-of, most singular, most extraordinary, most incredible, most
unexpected, most grand, most trivial, most rare, most common, most
notorious, most secret, (till to-day,) most brilliant, most desirable;
indeed, a thing to which past ages afford but one parallel, and that a
poor one; a thing which we can scarcely believe at Paris; how can it be
believed at Lyons? a thing which excites the compassion of all the world,
and the delight of Madame de Rohan and Madame de Hauterive; a thing which
is to be done on Sunday, when those who see it will hardly believe their
eyes; a thing which will be done on Sunday, and which might perhaps be
impossible on Monday: I cannot possibly announce it; guess it; I give you
three guesses; try now. If you will not, I must tell you. M. de Lauzun
marries on Sunday, at the Louvre,--whom now? I give you three guesses,--
six,--a hundred. Madame de Coulanges says, 'It is not hard to guess; it is
Madame de la Valliere.' Not at all, Madame! 'Mlle. de Retz?' No