AN AENEAS FOR AN ACHATES In the grand gallery of the Palais Royal stood a mahogany table, the bellying legs of which, decorated with Venetian-wrought gold, sparkled and glittered in the light of the flames that rose and fell in the gaping chimney-place.

Around this table were seated four persons of note: the aging Marechal de Villeroi, Madame de Motteville of imperishable memoirs, Anne of Austria, and Cardinal Mazarin.

The Italian, having won a pile of golden louis from the soldier, was smiling amiably and building yellow pyramids, forgetful for the time being of his gouty foot which dozed on a cushion under the table.

This astute politician was still a handsome man, but the Fronde and the turbulent nobility had left their imprint.

There were many lines wrinkling the circle of his eyes, and the brilliant color on his cheeks was the effect of rouge and fever.
The queen gazed covetously at Mazarin's winnings.