ng Duchess found herself speedily surrounded by a swarm of
courtiers, attracted by her sprightly and refined intelligence, her
majestic beauty, her nonchalant and languishing grace. What more
adorable mistress could an audacious aspirant dream of? Bold adventurers
for such a lady's love there was no lack of; and would not many be
encouraged with the thought that such a prize could only be defended by
a husband already verging towards the decline of life, and whose heart,
moreover, was believed to be in the keeping of another? The sighs of the
suitors, however, all adventurous and calculating as they might be, were
wasted, their hopes altogether fallacious. For six long years there was
nothing more accorded to that crowd of often-renewed adorers save the
smiles of an innocent coquetry. He who, during that period of honest
gallantry, coming near to La Rochefoucauld, seems to have made the
liveliest impression, was Coligny; and it was only slanderers who
whispered that the young Count was happier than became the adorer of a
heroine of the De Rambouillet school.

Madame de Longueville, nevertheless, possessed the characteristics of
her sex; she had alike its lovable qualities and its well-known
imperfections. In a sphere where gallantry was the order of the day,
that young and fascinating creature, married to a man already in the
decline of life, and, moreover, with his affections engaged elsewhere,
merely followed the universal example. Tender by nature, the senses, she
herself says in her confessions--the humblest ever made--played no minor
part in the affairs of the heart. But, surrounded unceasingly by homage,
she found pleasure in receiving it. Very lovable, she centred her
happiness in being loved. Sister of the Great Conde, she was not
insensible to the idea of playing a part which should occupy public
attention; but, far from pretending to domination, there was so much of
the woman in her that she allowed herself to be led by him whom she
loved. Whilst, around her, interest and ambition assumed so frequently
the hues of love, she listened to the dictates of her heart alone, and
devoted herself to the interest and ambition of another. All
contemporary writers are unanimous on that point. Her enemies sharply
reproach her alike for not having a fitting object in her political
intrigues, and for being unmindful of her own interests. But they appear
not to be aware that, in thinking to overwhelm her memory by such
accusa