Yet still she was unhappy.  In all her letters one finds a plaintive tone, a little moaning sound that shows how slightly her nature had been changed.  No longer, however, did she throw herself away upon dullards or brutes.  An English peer—­Lord Peterborough—­ not realizing that she was different from other actresses of that loose-lived age, said to her coarsely at his first introduction: 

“Come now!  Show me lots of wit and lots of love.”

The remark was characteristic of the time.  Yet Adrienne had learned at least one thing, and that was the discontent which came from light affairs.  She had thrown herself away too often.  If she could not love with her entire being, if she could not give all that was in her to be given, whether of her heart or mind or soul, then she would love no more at all.

At this time there came to Paris a man remarkable in his own century, and one who afterward became almost a hero of romance.  This was Maurice, Comte de Saxe, as the French called him, his German name and title being Moritz, Graf von Sachsen, while we usually term him, in English, Marshal Saxe.  Maurice de Saxe was now, in 1721, entering his twenty-fifth year.  Already, though so young, his career had been a strange one; and it was destined to be still more remarkable.  He was the natural son of Duke Augustus II. of Saxony, who later became King of Poland, and who is known in history as Augustus the Strong.

Augustus was a giant in stature and in strength, handsome, daring, unscrupulous, and yet extremely fascinating.  His life was one of revelry and fighting and display.  When in his cups he would often call for a horseshoe and twist it into a knot with his powerful fingers.  Many were his mistresses; but the one for whom he cared the most was a beautiful and high-spirited Swedish girl of rank, Aurora von Konigsmarck.  She was descended from a rough old field-marshal who in the Thirty Years’ War had slashed and sacked and pillaged and plundered to his heart’s content.  From him Aurora von Konigsmarck seemed to have inherited a high spirit and a sort of lawlessness which charmed the stalwart Augustus of Poland.

Their son, Maurice de Saxe, inherited everything that was good in his parents, and a great deal that was less commendable.  As a mere child of twelve he had insisted on joining the army of Prince Eugene, and had seen rough service in a very strenuous campaign.  Two years later he showed such daring on the battle-field that Prince Eugene summoned him and paid him a compliment under the form of a rebuke.

“Young man,” he said, “you must not mistake mere recklessness for valor.”

Before he was twenty he had attained the stature and strength of his royal father; and, to prove it, he in his turn called for a horseshoe, which he twisted and broke in his fingers.  He fought on the side of the Russians and Poles, and again against the Turks, everywhere displaying high courage and also genius as a commander; for he never lost his self-possession amid the very blackest danger, but possessed, as Carlyle says, “vigilance, foresight, and sagacious precaution.”