barely restrain, and when there was something vehement about Mon epee
et ma patrie he laid his hand on his sword, and his eyes lit up, so
that he reminded me of a young eagle.

This was the Princess of Conde, who in the pride of her youthful
beauty had been the last flame of Henri IV., who had almost begun a
war on her account; this was her lovely daughter, Mademoiselle de
Bourbon, and her sons, the brave Duke of Enghien, with his deformed
brother, the Prince of Conti.

When the recital was over, there was a general outburst of applause,
in which M. de Nidemerle joined heartily. Madame de Rambouillet gave
her meed of approbation, but her daughter, Mademoiselle d' Argennes,
took exception at the use of the word chevaucher, for to ride, both
as being obsolete, and being formed from the name of a single animal,
instead of regularly derived from a Latin verb.

The Abbe defended his word, and for fully twenty minutes there was an
eager argument, people citing passages and derivations, and defining
shades of meaning with immense animation and brilliant wit, as I now
understand, though then it seemed to me a wearisome imbroglio about a
trifle. I did not know what real benefit was done by these
discussions in purifying the language from much that was coarse and
unrefined. Yes, and far more than the language, for Madame de
Rambouillet, using her great gifts as a holy trust for the good of
her neighbour, conferred no small benefit on her generation, nor is
that good even yet entirely vanished. Ah! If there were more women
like her, France and society would be very different.

When the discussion was subsiding, Mademoiselle d' Argennes came to