of the court
were seen slowly passing on, filled with women, uniformly dressed in
black, and obliged to await the result of a chase which they did not
witness. The distant hounds gave tongue, and the horn was sometimes
faintly heard like a sigh. A cold, cutting wind compelled every man to
don cloaks, and some of the women, putting over their faces a veil or
mask of black velvet to keep themselves from the air which the curtains
of their carriages did not intercept (for there were no glasses at that
time), seemed to wear what is called a domino. All was languishing and
sad. The only relief was that ever and anon groups of young men in the
excitement of the chase flew down the avenue like the wind, cheering on
the dogs or sounding their horns. Then all again became silent, as after
the discharge of fireworks the sky appears darker than before.

In a path, parallel with that followed by the King, were several
courtiers enveloped in their cloaks. Appearing little intent upon the
stag, they rode step for step with the King's brouette, and never lost
sight of him. They conversed in low tones.

"Excellent! Fontrailles, excellent! victory! The King takes his arm
every moment. See how he smiles upon him! See! Monsieur le Grand
dismounts and gets into the brouette by his side. Come, come, the old
fox is done at last!"

"Ah, that's nothing! Did you not see how the King shook hands with
Monsieur? He's made a sign to you, Montresor. Look, Gondi!"

"Look, indeed! That's very easy to say; but I don't see with my own
eyes. I have only those of faith, and yours. Well, what are they doing
now? I wish to Heaven I were not so near-sighted! Tell me, what are they
doing?"

Montresor answered, "The King bends his ear toward the Duc de Bouillon,
who is speaking to him; he speaks again! he gesticulates! he does not
cease! Oh, he'll be minister!"

"He will be minister!" said Fontrailles.

"He will be minister!" echoed the Comte du Lude.

"Oh, no doubt of it!" said Montresor.

"I hope he'll give me a regiment, and I'll marry my cousin," cried
Olivier d'Entraigues, with boyish vivacity.

The Abbe de Gondi sneered, and, looking up at the sky, began to sing to
a hunting tune.

"Les etourneaux ont le vent bon,
Ton ton, ton ton, ton taine, ton ton--"

"I think, gentlemen, you are more short-sighted than I, or else miracles
will come to pass in the year of grace 1642; for Monsieur de Bouillon is
no nearer being Prime-Mini