“Assuredly, Madame,” answered he; “no one is more willing to recognize his virtues than Francois de Bassompierre.  I shall be faithful to him to the end, because I gave myself, body and fortune, to his father at a ball; and I swear that, with my consent at least, none of my family shall ever fail in their duties toward the King of France.  Although the Besteins are foreigners and Lorrains, a shake of the hand from Henri IV gained us forever.  My greatest grief has been to see my brother die in the service of Spain; and I have just written to my nephew to say that I shall disinherit him if he has passed over to the Emperor, as report says he has.”

One of the gentlemen guests who had as yet been silent, and who was remarkable for the profusion of knots, ribbons, and tags which covered his dress, and for the black cordon of the Order of St. Michael which decorated his neck, bowed, observing that it was thus all faithful subjects ought to speak.

“I’ faith, Monsieur de Launay, you deceive yourself very much,” said the Marechal, to whom the recollection of his ancestors now occurred; “persons of our blood are subjects only at our own pleasure, for God has caused us to be born as much lords of our lands as the King is of his.  When I came to France, I came at my ease, accompanied by my gentlemen and pages.  I perceive, however, that the farther we go, the more we lose sight of this idea, especially at the court.  But here is a young man who arrives very opportunely to hear me.”

The door indeed opened, and a young man of fine form entered.  He was pale; his hair was brown, his eyes were black, his expression was sad and reckless.  This was Henri d’Effiat, Marquis de Cinq-Mars (a name taken from an estate of his family).  His dress and his short cloak were black; a collar of lace fell from his neck halfway down his breast; his stout, small, and very wide-spurred boots made so much noise upon the flags of the salon that his approach was heard at a distance.  He walked directly toward the Marechale, bowed low, and kissed her hand.

“Well, Henri,” she said, “are your horses ready?  At what hour do you depart?”

“Immediately after dinner, Madame, if you will allow me,” said he to his mother, with the ceremonious respect of the times; and passing behind her, he saluted M. de Bassompierre before seating himself at the left of his eldest brother.

“Well,” said the Marechal, continuing to eat with an excellent appetite, “you are about to depart, my son; you are going to the court—­a slippery place nowadays.  I am sorry for your sake that it is not now what it used to be.  In former times, the court was simply the drawing-room of the King, in which he received his natural friends:  nobles of great family, his peers, who visited him to show their devotion and their friendship, lost their money with him, and accompanied him in his pleasure parties, but never received anything from him, except permission to bring their vassals with them, to break their heads in his service.  The honors a man of quality received did not enrich him, for he paid for them out of his purse.  I sold an estate for every grade I received; the title of colonel-general of the Swiss cost me four hundred thousand crowns, and at the baptism of the present King I had to buy a costume that cost me a hundred thousand francs.”