“Ah!” exclaimed Bassompierre; “see, our battlehorses are saddled and bridled.  Come, young man, we must say, with our old Marot: 

          ’Adieu la cour, adieu les dames! 
          Adieu les filles et les femmes! 
          Adieu vous dy pour quelque temps;
          Adieu vos plaisans parse-temps! 
          Adieu le bal, adieu la dance;
          Adieu mesure, adieu cadance,
          Tabourins, Hautbois, Violons,
          Puisqu’a la guerre nous allons!’”

These old verses and the air of the Marechal made all the guests laugh, except three persons.

“Heavens!” he continued, “it seems to me as if, like him, I were only seventeen years old; he will return to us covered with embroidery.  Madame, we must keep his chair vacant for him.”

The Marechale suddenly grew pale, and left the table in tears; every one rose with her; she took only two steps, and sank into another chair.  Her sons and her daughter and the young Duchess gathered anxiously around her, and heard her say, amid the sighs and tears which she strove to restrain: 

“Pardon, my friends! it is foolish of me—­childish; but I am weak at present, and am not mistress of myself.  We were thirteen at table; and you, my dear Duchess, were the cause of it.  But it is very wrong of me to show so much weakness before him.  Farewell, my child; give me your forehead to kiss, and may God conduct you!  Be worthy of your name and of your father.”

Then, as Homer says, “smiling under tears,” she raised herself, pushed her son from her, and said: 

“Come, let me see you on horseback, fair sir!”

The silent traveller kissed the hands of his mother, and made a low bow to her; he bowed also to the Duchess, without raising his eyes.  Then, embracing his elder brother, pressing the hand of the Marechal, and kissing the forehead of his young sister almost simultaneously, he went forth, and was on horseback in an instant.  Every one went to the windows which overlooked the court, except Madame d’Effiat, who was still seated and suffering.

“He sets off at full gallop.  That is a good sign,” said the Marechal, laughing.

“Oh, heavens!” cried the young Princess, retiring from the bay-window.

“What is the matter?” said the mother.

“Nothing, nothing!” said M. de Launay.  “Your son’s horse stumbled under the gateway; but he soon pulled him up.  See, he salutes us from the road.”

“Another ominous presage!” said the Marquise, upon retiring to her apartments.

Every one imitated her by being silent or speaking low.

The day was sad, and in the evening the supper was silent at the chateau of Chaumont.