Henriette d’Entragues—­for this was the divinity’s name—­was equipped by fate as few women were ever equipped, for the conquest of a King.  Her mother, Marie Touchet, had been “light-o’-love” to Charles IX.; her father was the Seigneur d’Entragues, member of one of the most blue-blooded families of France, a soldier and statesman of fame; and their daughter had inherited, with her mother’s beauty and grace, the clever brain and diplomatic skill of her father.  A strange mixture of the bewitching and bewildering, this daughter of a King’s mistress seems to have been.  Tall and dark, voluptuous of figure, with ripe red lips, and bold and dazzling black eyes, she was, in her full-blooded, sensuous charms, the very “antipodes” to the childish, fairy-like Gabrielle who had so long been enshrined in the King’s heart.  And to this physical appeal—­irresistible to a man of such strong passion as Henri, she added gifts of mind which “baby Gabrielle” could never claim.

She had a wit as brilliant as the tongue which was its vehicle; her well-stored brain was more than a match for the most learned men at Court, and she would leave an archbishop discomfited in a theological argument, to cross swords with Sully himself on some abstruse problem of statesmanship.  When Sully had been brought to his knees, she would rush away, with mischief in her eyes, to take the lead in some merry escapade or practical joke, her silvery laughter echoing in some remote palace corridor.  A bewildering, alluring bundle of inconsistencies—­beauty, savant, wit, and madcap—­such was Henriette d’Entragues when Henri, fresh from his woes, came under the spell of her magnetism.

Here, indeed, was an escape from his grief such as the King had never dared to hope for.  Before he had been many hours in his palace, Henri was caught hopelessly in the toils of the new siren, and was intoxicated by her smiles and witcheries.  Never was conquest so speedy, so dramatic.  Before a week had flown he was at Henrietta’s feet, as lovesick a swain as ever sighed for a lady, pouring love into her ears and writing her passionate letters between the frequent meetings, in which he would send her a “good night, my dearest heart,” with “a million kisses.”

In the days of his lusty youth the idol and hero of France had never known passion such as this which consumed him within sight of his fiftieth birthday, and which was inspired by a woman of much less than half his years; for at the time Henri was forty-six, and Henriette was barely twenty.

He quickly found, however, that his wooing was not to be all “plain sailing.”  When Henriette’s parents heard of it, they affected to be horrified at the danger in which their beloved daughter was placed.  They summoned her home from the perils of Court and a King’s passion; and when Henri sent an envoy to bring them to reason they sent him back with a rebuff.  Their daughter was to be no man’s—­not even a King’s—­plaything.  If Henri’s passion was sincere, he must prove it by a definite promise of marriage; and only on this condition would their opposition be removed.