Two days long he spent in solitude, unable to eat, drink, or sleep, abandoned to despair and bewailing his wretched fate, and it was long before he could recover sufficient equanimity to face his lost Margaret and resume his place at the King’s dicing table.  When he made his appearance, he was according to his own account so pale, changed, and emaciated that his friends could not recognise him.

The marriage with Conde, first prince of the blood, took place early in the spring.  The bride received magnificent presents, and the husband a, pension of 100,000 livres a year.  The attentions of the King became soon outrageous and the reigning scandal of the hour.  Henry, discarding the grey jacket and simple costume on which he was wont to pride himself, paraded himself about in perfumed ruffs and glittering doublet, an ancient fop, very little heroic, and much ridiculed.  The Princess made merry with the antics of her royal adorer, while her vanity at least, if not her affection, was really touched, and there was one great round of court festivities in her honour, at which the King and herself were ever the central figures.  But Conde was not at all amused.  Not liking the part assigned to him in the comedy thus skilfully arranged by his cousin king, never much enamoured of his bride, while highly appreciating the 100,000 livres of pension, he remonstrated violently with his wife, bitterly reproached the King, and made himself generally offensive.  “The Prince is here,” wrote Henry to Sully, “and is playing the very devil.  You would be in a rage and be ashamed of the things he says of me.  But at last I am losing patience, and am resolved to give him a bit of my mind.”  He wrote in the same terms to Montmorency.  The Constable, whose conduct throughout the affair was odious and pitiable, promised to do his best to induce the Prince, instead of playing the devil, to listen to reason, as he and the Duchess of Angouleme understood reason.

Henry had even the ineffable folly to appeal to the Queen to use her influence with the refractory Conde.  Mary de’ Medici replied that there were already thirty go-betweens at work, and she had no idea of being the thirty-first—­[Henrard, 30].

Conde, surrounded by a conspiracy against his honour and happiness, suddenly carried off his wife to the country, much to the amazement and rage of Henry.

In the autumn he entertained a hunting party at a seat of his, the Abbey of Verneuille, on the borders of Picardy.  De Traigny, governor of Amiens, invited the Prince, Princess, and the Dowager-Princess to a banquet at his chateau not far from the Abbey.  On their road thither they passed a group of huntsmen and grooms in the royal livery.  Among them was an aged lackey with a plaister over one eye, holding a couple of hounds in leash.  The Princess recognized at a glance under that ridiculous disguise the King.

“What a madman!” she murmured as she passed him, “I will never forgive you;” but as she confessed many years afterwards, this act of gallantly did not displease her.’