The King was turned of fifty-five.

The disparity of age seemed to make the royal passion ridiculous.

To Henry the situation seemed poetical and pathetic.

After this first interview he never missed a single rehearsal.

In the intervals he called perpetually for the services of the court poet Malherbe, who certainly contrived to perpetrate in his behalf some of the most detestable verses that even he had ever composed.
The nymph was Marguerite de Montmorency, daughter of the Constable of France, and destined one day to become the mother of the great Conde, hero of Rocroy.