The court was in the South, travelling from town to town, pending the arrival of the dispensations from Rome.  On the 3d of June, 1660, Don Louis de Haro, in the name of the King of France, espoused the Infanta in the church of Fontfrabia.  Mdlle. de Montpensier made up her mind to be present, unknown to anybody, at the ceremony.  When it was over, the new queen, knowing that the king’s cousin was there, went up to her, saying, “I should like to embrace this fair unknown,” and led her away to her room, chatting about everything, but pretending not to know her.  The queen-mother and King Philip IV. met next day, on the Island of Pheasants, after forty-five years’ separation.  The king had come privately to have a view of the Infanta, and he watched her, through a door ajar, towering a whole head above the courtiers.  “May I, ask my niece what she thinks of this unknown?” said Anne of Austria to her brother.  “It will be time when she has passed that door,” replied the king.  Young Monsieur, the king’s brother, leaned forward towards his sister-in-law, and, “What does your Majesty think of this door?” he whispered.  “I think it very nice and handsome,” answered the young queen.  The king had thought her handsome, “despite the ugliness of her head-dress and of her clothes, which had at first taken him by surprise.”  King Philip IV. kept looking at M. de Turenne, who had accompanied the king.  “That man has given me dreadful times,” he repeated twice or thrice.  “You can judge whether M. de Turenne felt himself offended,” says Mdlle. de Montpensier.  The definitive marriage took place at Saint-Jean-de-Luz on the 9th of June, and the court took the road leisurely back to Vincennes.  Scarcely had the arrival taken place, when all the sovereign bodies sent a solemn deputation to pay their respects to Cardinal Mazarin and thank him for the peace he had just concluded.  It was an unprecedented honor, paid to a minister upon whose head the Parliament had but lately set a price.  The cardinal’s triumph was as complete at home as abroad; all foes had been reduced to submission or silence, Paris and France rejoicing over the peace and the king’s marriage; but, like Cardinal Richelieu, Mazarin succumbed at the very pinnacle of his glory and power; the gout, to which he was subject, flew to his stomach, and he suffered excruciating agonies.  One day, when the king came to get his advice upon a certain matter, “Sir,” said the cardinal, “you are asking counsel of a man who no longer has his reason and who raves.”  He saw the approach of death calmly, but not unregretfully.  Concealed, one day, behind a curtain in the new apartments of the Mazarin Palace (now the National Library), young Brienne heard the cardinal coming.  “He dragged his slippers along like a man very languid and just recovering from some serious illness.  He paused at every step, for he was very feeble; he fixed his gaze first on one side and then on the other, and letting his eyes wander over the magnificent