The center of the gallery presented an animated scene.  The beautiful Madame de Turenne, whose husband was the marechal-general of the armies of France, then engaged in war against Spain, under whose banners the great Conde was meeting with a long series of defeats, the Comtesse de Soissons, the Abbe de la Rivre, Madame de Brigy, the Duc and Duchesse de Montausier,—­all were laughing and exchanging badinage with the Duc de Gramont, who was playing execrably on Mademoiselle de Longueville’s guitar.  Surrounding were the younger courtiers and ladies, who also were enjoying the affair.  There are few things which amuse young people as much as the sight of an elderly, dignified man making a clown of himself.

“Oh, Monsieur le Duc,” cried Mademoiselle de Longueville, springing from the window-seat from which position she had been staring at the flambeaux below, “if you fought as badly as you play, you would never have gained the baton.”

“Mademoiselle, each has its time and place, the battle and the madrigal, Homer and Voiture, and besides, I never play when I fight;” and De Gramont continued his thrumming.

Just outside the pale of this merry circle the Duc de Beaufort leaned over the chair of Madame de Montbazon, and carried on a conversation in low tones.  The duchess exhibited at intervals a fine set of teeth.  In the old days when the literary salons of the Hotel de Rambouillet were at zenith, the Duchesse de Montbazon was known to be at once the handsomest and most ignorant woman in France.  But none denied that she possessed a natural wit or the ability successfully to intrigue; and many were the grand sieurs who had knelt at her feet.  But now, like Anne of Austria, she was devoting her time to prayers and to the preservation of what beauty remained.

“So De Brissac is dead?” said Beaufort seriously.  “Ah well, we all must die.  I hope he has straightened up his affairs and that his papers fall into worthy hands.”  The prince glanced covertly toward Mazarin.  “But it was all his own fault.  The idea of a man of sixty marrying a girl of seventeen, fresh from convent, and a beauty, too, they say.  He deserved it.”

“Beaufort, few persons deserve violent deaths,” replied the duchess; and with a perceptible frown she added:  “And are you aware that Madame de Brissac, of whom you speak so lightly, is my own daughter?”

Beaufort started back from the chair.  “Word of honor, I had forgotten!  But it was so long ago, and no one seems to have heard of her.  Your daughter!  Why was she never presented at court?”

“She was presented three years ago, informally.  I wished it so.  Monsieur, we women love to hold a surprise in reserve.  When we are no longer attractive, a daughter more or less does not matter.”

“Truly I had forgotten.  Eh well, we can not remember everything, especially when one spends five years in Vincennes,” with another furtive glance at Mazarin.  “But why De Brissac?  If this daughter has half the beauty you had in your youth . . .”