shortly after the dismemberment of his little Court, the monarch of France having refused to join a hunting-party organized by the Queen-mother, found himself entirely deserted save by De Luynes and a single valet; and overcome by mortification and melancholy, he leant his head upon his hand and wept bitterly.  For some time not a sound was heard in the Louvre save the soughing of the wind through the tall trees of the palace-garden, and the measured tread of the sentinels, when suddenly a tumult arose in the great court; the trampling of horses, the voices of men, and the clashing of weapons were blent together; and dashing away his tears, Louis desired his favourite to ascertain the cause of the disturbance.

“It is the Marechal d’Ancre, Sire, who has just alighted,” said De Luynes as he approached the window.

In a few minutes the Italian was announced, and entered the royal apartment followed by a train of forty gentlemen all magnificently attired.  At this spectacle Louis started from his seat; and with a bitter smile inquired of the arrogant Marquis his motive for thus parading before his sovereign a state which could only be intended as a satire upon his own privations.

To this question the vainglorious adventurer replied in a tone of affected sympathy and patronage which festered in the heart of the young King; assuring him that his followers were at his own cost, and not at that of the state; and concluding his explanation by an offer of pecuniary aid, and a company of his regiment of Bussy-Zamet, which he had just brought from Normandy.  Justly incensed by such an insult, Louis commanded him instantly to quit his presence; and he had no sooner withdrawn, followed by his glittering retinue, than the young monarch sank back upon his seat, and uttered the most bitter complaints of the affront to which he had been subjected.[263]

“And to this, Sire,” said De Luynes, as he stood beside his royal master—­“to this insult, which is but the precursor of many others, you have been subjected by the Queen-mother.”

“I will revenge myself!” exclaimed Louis with a sudden assumption of dignity.

“And how?” demanded the favourite emphatically.  “You are called a King, but where are your great nobles? where are the officers of your household? where are your barons?  So many princes, so many powers.  France has no longer a King.”

“And my people?” shouted the excited youth.

“You have no people.  You are a mere puppet in the hands of an ambitious woman and an unprincipled adventurer.”

“A puppet!” echoed Louis haughtily.  “Do I not wear the crown of France?”

“So did Charles IX,” was the unmoved reply; “yet he died to make way for Henri III.  Concini and his wife, Sire, come from the same country as Catherine de Medicis.  Isabeau de Baviere was a mother, yet she preferred her lover to her son.” [264]

“Enough, enough, Sir,” said Louis, clutching the hilt of his sword; “I will hear no more, lest it should make me mad!”