to her use in the Louvre; but in a few days, when he had accustomed her to converse freely with him upon the subject, Henry put a leading question which must, after all these gracious promises, have tended to startle Mademoiselle de Montmorency, by demanding to know if she personally desired the marriage, as, should it be otherwise, she need only confess the truth with frankness, when he would break off the match, and procure for her an alliance more to her taste; adding that he was even willing to bestow her hand upon his own nephew the Prince de Conde.  In reply the Princess modestly but firmly assured his Majesty that as her union with M. de Bassompierre was the wish of her father, she felt convinced that her destiny would be a happy one; and there can be no doubt that she said this more emphatically than she had intended, as, from that moment, Henry became convinced that she really loved her intended husband, and he resolved in consequence to prevent the marriage.

Unhappily for all parties, the monarch appeared to have forgotten that he had reached his fifty-sixth year, that he was rapidly becoming a martyr to the gout, and that he was no longer calculated to enter into a successful rivalry with his younger and more attractive nobility; a delusion which was unfortunately encouraged, according to Mezeray, by his confidential friends, the relatives of the lady, and even the members of the Queen’s household, who, in the hope of at length triumphing over his former favourites, exerted themselves to increase his passion for the daughter of the Connetable;[397] a passion which they moreover doubtless imagined could not, from the high rank and peculiar position of Mademoiselle de Montmorency, exceed the limits of propriety.  The intentions of Henry himself were, however, as was subsequently proved, of a far less innocuous tendency than those for which others so erroneously gave him credit.  At eight o’clock on the following morning he sent for Bassompierre, and having caused the attendants to leave the room, he motioned him to kneel down upon the cushion beside his bed, when he assured him that he had been thinking seriously of the propriety of his taking a wife.

“Ah!  Sire,” said the delighted courtier, perfectly unsuspicious of the real meaning of the monarch, “had not the same unlucky disease under which your Majesty is also suffering attacked the Connetable, I should ere this have been a husband.”

“No,” was the hurried reply, as the King looked steadfastly at his intended victim, “such is not my meaning.  What I desire is to bestow upon you the hand of Mademoiselle d’Aumale, and by this means to revive the duchy of Aumale in your favour.”

“But I am betrothed, Sire, and cannot take a second wife!”