Sully, who had served Henry so well, soon found that the regent did not wish his help to govern the kingdom.

Her favourites were two Italians, Concini and his wife Leonora. Concini the regent made Marquis of Ancre as well as a Marshal of France, and, proud of his title and position, Concini grew more and more insolent to the French nobles.

Sully watched the regent and her favourites wasting the treasures he had stored up in the Bastille for time of war, and showed his disapproval. But Concini resented his presence at court, and was so rude to the former minister that at length the duke went away and lived quietly in the country for the rest of his life.

But the nobles, led by the Prince of Condé, soon rebelled against the tyranny of Mary de Medici and her favourites.

Concini thought it was an easy matter to pacify these nobles by bribing them with large sums of money, and they, sad to tell, fell before the temptation, and were soon ready to agree to anything the regent cared to propose.

The nobles had, however, wrung from the marshal a promise that the States-General should meet. But this assembly, when it did meet in 1614, did little to help the troubles of the people, and is only famous because it was the last time the States-General met for one hundred and seventy-five years, and because among its members sat Armand du Plessis of Richelieu. This Annand du Plessis became in time Cardinal Richelieu, and was, in reality, king in all but name during the larger part of the reign of Louis

Two years after the meeting of the States-General the young king married Anne of Austria. This marriage had been arranged through the influence of Concini and was disliked by the nobles, who again rose in rebellion. The favourite was forced to buy peace this time with larger bribes than before. He also promised to reform his council, and into the new council Armand du Plessis was admitted. He was at this time Bishop of Lucon.

The young prelate had been trained as a soldier. But while he was still quite young he was offered a living if he would become a priest. Armand accepted the offer, and studied so diligently that when he was only twenty-one years of age he was made a bishop.

Armand was fond of splendour and display now, as well as when in after-years he became Cardinal Richelieu.

Unfortunately his see was in a small village, which he himself tells us was the poorest and the nastiest in France.

Nevertheless the young bishop determined to enter Lucon in what he considered fitting style. He had no money to buy a coach, so he borrowed one, and a coachman and horses as well. Thus he was able to drive to his see as he thought a bishop should.

Poor as he was, he also made up his mind to buy a velvet bed. It was not new, but it cost less money for that reason, and being grand it satisfied Armand du Plessis.

In those early days, too, the bishop would not be content without silver dishes in his house, no fewer indeed than two dozen of fair size he must possess.

I am a beggar, as you know, he wrote to a friend, but at any rate when I have silver dishes my nobility will be considerably enhanced.

While Richelieu was settled at Lucon he often went to court, and month by month his influence over Mary de Medici increased, until by degrees it was the young bishop's strong hand that upheld her Italian favourites against the anger of the nobles and the hatred of the people.

Meanwhile the king was growing up. When he was sixteen he was no longer willing to be ruled by Concini. Yet the marshal, wishing to increase his influence with the lad, began to arrange his games and his walks. He even wished to choose Louis's companions, but to this the boy-king would not submit.

As Concini perhaps feared, Albert de Luynes, the king's falconer as well as his favourite, had no love for the marshal, and did all he could to encourage the king's dislike.

One day matters came to a crisis. Concini so far forgot himself that he kept on his hat in the king's presence as they played a game of billiards together, saying:

I hope your Majesty will allow me to be covered. De Luynes, who was present, scowled at the man's insolence.

Louis pretended not to notice Concini's rudeness, but his anger was great, and de Luynes carefully fanned it, until the king was ready for anything that would rid him of the Italian.

So one day, with the king's consent, the captain of the guard, taking with him several of his officers, each with a pistol in his pocket, went to the Louvre, and, finding the marshal, took hold of him, saying, Marquis, I have the king's orders to arrest you.

Me, said the marquis, utterly unprepared for such a blow, and trying to shake himself free from the captain's grasp; but even as he struggled he was shot dead by the officers.

When de Luynes heard what had happened he hastened to the king and said, Now are you truly King of France, Marshal de l'Ancre is dead.

Louis was too glad to be his own master to blame those who had killed Concini. Without delay he announced that now he would himself govern his kingdom, and the regent and her adviser Richelieu were sent away from court.

Albert de Luynes at once became the king's chief adviser. Louis bestowed upon his favourite the title of duke, and from this time until his death he was all-powerful, and did almost as he wished with the monarch.

It was not long before the duke was as bitterly disliked as Concini had been. In their hatred of de Luynes the nobles rallied round the queen-mother, and it seemed as though there would be civil war in the country. But the duke recalled Richelieu, who acted so wisely that he reconciled the regent and the nobles with the king, and for the time war was averted.

This reconciliation was not lasting. Before long the queen-mother's court was again the centre of plots against the king and his favourite.

Then Louis roused himself. With something of the spirit of his father, he marched at the head of his army against his mother and those who supported her.

Mary de Medici also assembled an army, and marched with it to meet her son. Her soldiers were untrained, and the king might easily have crushed the revolt had Luynes not persuaded him to treat with the rebels.

Again Richelieu was asked to make peace between Mary de Medici and her royal son, and again he was successful; so successful, indeed, that the mother and son who so lately had been in arms against each other, met and embraced.

God bless me, my boy, how you are grown, said the queen.

In order to be of more service to you, mother, gallantly answered the king.

But after this meeting Louis went back to Paris, the queen to Anjou, and thus there were still two courts. Some of the nobles were on the king's side, others on the side of the queen-mother.

Richelieu had long seen that while the king and his mother held separate courts the country would never be at peace, and he urged Mary de Medici to go to Paris. As for Louis, he was willing to receive his mother if she would forsake the nobles who were continually plotting against his throne.

So, owing largely to Richelieu's influence, in August 1620 Mary de Medici went to Paris, and the revolts of the nobles came to an end.

Luynes was now made Constable of France, although he was quite unfit to lead an army. Richelieu at the same time hoped to be rewarded for the help he had given to the king and the queen-mother.

His heart was set on becoming a cardinal, and the Pope was even now choosing ten of his clergy for this honour. Surely Mary de Medici and de Luynes would speak on his behalf.

The queen-mother did indeed write to the Pope, and so also did the duke, begging that the Bishop of Lucon should be one of the successful candidates.

But at the same time as the Pope received these letters, he also received one from the king, saying that he wished Richelieu still to remain a bishop.

This was the doing of the duke, who, afraid to refuse to use his influence on the bishop's behalf, was yet determined that Richelieu should not become too powerful. It was he who had persuaded the king to write to the Pope.

Louis himself was not anxious that the Bishop of Lucon should be promoted. He believed he understood Richelieu better than the queen-mother.

I know him better than you, madame, he said to his mother, he is a man of unbounded ambition, and in that the king was right.

In 1621 the king marched with his constable and a large army against the daring rebels. But fever crept into his camp and attacked not only many of the soldiers, but the Constable Luynes himself, who died after only three days' illness.

The constable had been hated by the nobles, yet because he was so powerful many had stooped to win his favour. When he lay ill, his power slipping from his grasp, no one cared for him enough to attend to his wants. His own servants would not stay in the room with him, but leaving the door open, went in and out as they pleased, as though the sick man was one of themselves.

The war against the Huguenots still lingered on after the constable's death, until October 1623, when the Edict of Nantes was confirmed.

La Rochelle and Montauban were the only fortified towns left in the hands of the Huguenots. These they were allowed to garrison, and even to shut the gates against the royal troops and the king himself should they so desire.

A year before the war ended Richelieu's wish had come true. He had become a cardinal, and since the death of the Duke of Luynes no one had greater influence with the king than he.

In 1624 the cardinal was asked to attend the king's councils. He was now thirty-nine years of age, tall and frail in body, but with a will that nothing could bend, much less break.

Richelieu begged that as he was delicate he might give Louis his advice while still living at a distance from court. To this the king would not listen, and so Cardinal Richelieu came to Paris. From that day until his death he ruled France.

The new minister had three chief objects in view. He wished above all other things to destroy the Huguenots, to humble the nobles, and to weaken the House of Austria. Louis had married Anne of Austria, and it is not surprising to find that the queen was disliked by the great cardinal.

As has happened so often in this story, the king's favourite soon found that the nobles disliked him just because he was a favourite. Their jealousy awoke, and they eagerly joined the king's brother, Gaston, Duke of Anjou, in a plot against Richelieu's life.

But the cardinal had spies everywhere, and the plot was discovered, the Duke of Anjou meanly saving himself by betraying his companions. For this base act Richelieu persuaded the king to give his brother the Duchy of Orleans and a large pension.

Meanwhile the cardinal began to carry out his plans against the Huguenots by besieging their chief stronghold, La Rochelle.

The Huguenots appealed to England for help, and a fleet led by the Duke of Buckingham at once set sail for France. Queen Anne, who was a friend of Buckingham's, encouraged the duke to thwart Richelieu's plans in every possible way.

But the cardinal had, as I have told you, a relentless will in his thin spare body, and he now bent every nerve to take the besieged city. Germany, Spain, Austria, all were left undisturbed, even the rebellious nobles might do as they pleased until La Rochelle should yield.

The English fleet meantime arrived, but after a fierce fight Buckingham was defeated, and in November 1627 he went home to England. The French had captured many English flags, and these were carried on Christmas Day with great rejoicings to the church of Notre Dame in Paris.

Meanwhile the citizens of La Rochelle made John Guiton mayor of their city. Guiton had once been a merchant, but lately had led a more adventurous life as a sea-pirate. He accepted the trust the citizens offered him, throwing his dagger on the council-table as he did so, and saying:

I accept the honour you have done me on condition that yonder poniard shall serve to pierce the heart of whoever dares to speak of surrender.

Guiton then sent to Richelieu to ask that all the women might leave the town. But the cardinal refused, saying, All the Rochellese shall go out together.

Louis was in the camp with his resolute soldier-cardinal, watching his unflinching face as the heavy winter seas again and again washed away the entrenchments he had ordered to be flung up around the city.

It was the cardinal and not the king who ruled the camp. Under Richelieu's eye the soldiers were as well behaved as on parade. Not a home or a farm in the neighbourhood of the camp was disturbed or plundered, the men being well fed and well disciplined.

All the while that the cardinal worked so persistently to take La Rochelle, he knew that at any moment all his labour might be lost.

It needed but a sea a little rougher than usual, or a stormy west wind, and his barriers would be blown to pieces. It needed but an English admiral more daring than Buckingham, and he might never hope to take the city.

And the citizens of La Rochelle were looking for fresh help from England. Before long another fleet, under the Earl of Denbigh, lay outside the harbour which Richelieu had now succeeded in closing with a solid bulwark of stone. But the English tried in vain to relieve the town.

Twice they attempted to blow up the barricade, but all their efforts were useless, and the citizens of La Rochelle to their dismay saw the English turn and sail away.

By this time Louis had grown tired of the camp, tired too, perhaps, of the influence of his minister, and he had gone back to Paris.

Then, while the king was away, Richelieu had not a moment's peace. No one knew better than the cardinal how fickle Louis was, how weak.

In Paris he would be surrounded by the nobles who were the minister's enemies, by the queen-mother too, who, jealous of Richelieu's influence, was no longer his friend.

The cardinal knew well that there was nothing to prevent his fall save his hold on the unstable king and his own iron will.

But the danger passed. Louis came back to camp, apparently still pleased with his warlike cardinal. He found that La Rochelle was now being starved into submission.

So great was the misery in the town that the gates were opened that the women, children and old men might go out to try to find food.

In their desperate hunger they came timidly to the enemy's camp, but the king ordered them to be driven back into the town, for Louis fought his subjects in other ways than did his father Henry

Even the cardinal was forced to admire the determination of the citizens, and when at length, after holding their city for about twenty-five months, famine forced them to plead for terms, Richelieu was not harsh in his treatment of the brave defenders.

The walls of the city were indeed broken down and all her privileges taken away, save only that the Huguenots were still allowed to worship in their own way.

When Louis entered the conquered town the streets were strewn with the dead, for none had had strength to bury them, while those of the garrison who were still alive were unable to hold a pike, to such weakness had hunger brought the strongest.

The capture of La Rochelle was a great triumph for Richelieu. It increased, if that indeed were possible, his power and influence with the king.

The cardinal rode by his side on a noble war-horse, clad in armour of blue steel, his pistols slung at his saddle-bow.

Abroad, as at home, Richelieu won victories for France, sometimes by his sword, at other times by his pen. But keen-sighted as he was, the cardinal did not notice that the king was growing jealous of his minister's fame.

Little by little Louis began to listen to the queen-mother's complaints about the cardinal and to the slanders of his enemies.

At length, when both king and minister had returned from Italy, Louis seemed to fall completely under the influence of his mother, and actually signed an order sending Richelieu into exile.

No sooner had he done so than he began to wonder how he would get on without the minister on whom he had depended so long and so entirely.

Wishing to forget the matter, the king rode off to hunt, and instead of returning to the Louvre, he stayed all night at the palace at Versailles.

Meanwhile Mary de Medici, giving no thought to the fickle character of her son, did not hide her triumph at the cardinal's fall.

She called her friends around her, promising that this post should be given to one and that to another. Together with Queen Anne she told the court that Richelieu would even now be preparing for flight, if he had not already fled, and there were few who did not rejoice that the great cardinal's power had come to an end.

The queen-mother's joy, as well as that of the court, was short-lived. For the cardinal, knowing as usual what was going on around him, hastened at once to Versailles and demanded to be taken to the king.

Louis was perhaps more glad than sorry to see his minister, yet at first he found it difficult to look in his face.

The cardinal had been in the room but a few moments before the king was sure that he had indeed been foolish to dream of dismissing his powerful servant.

The order banishing Richelieu was speedily counter-signed, and Louis, with something like a sigh of relief, put himself once again under his minister's influence.

Rumours soon reached Paris that the cardinal was with the king, and restored to his favour.

Then indeed there was confusion at court, the queen-mother and her friends seeing how foolish they had been to think that they had thus easily got rid of the great cardinal. Henceforth November 11, 1680, the day on which Mary de Medici had made her great mistake, was known as the Day of Dupes, a dupe being one who has been deceived. Richelieu now saw more clearly than ever that as long as the queen-mother was at court, her intrigues would never cease. As he could not order her to leave Paris, he himself left the capital with the king. Louis must not again be left alone to struggle against or yield to the queen-mother's influence.

Mary de Medici followed the cardinal to Compiegne, where he and the king had stayed to rest for the night, and thus Richelieu gained his end.

Early the next morning, while the queen-mother, tired with her hurried journey, still slept, the cardinal and the king rode back in hot haste to Paris. When the awoke it was to find that she was alone in Compiegne.

From Paris, Louis wrote to his mother asking her not to return, his request being really a command. Mary de Medici, banished from the French court, wandered first to one foreign country and then to another, receiving only a cold welcome from strangers.

Although she was the mother of a king, she soon had neither friends nor money, and at length she took rooms in the house of a shoemaker at Cologne. Sixty years before, the great painter Rubens had been born in this very house. Here Mary de Medici died, sad and alone, save for one servant who attended to her needs.

It was not until she was dead that Louis seemed to remember that Mary de Medici was his mother. Then he ordered her body to be brought to France, where amid great pomp it was laid to rest.

The cardinal had still to guard against the plots of those who hated him, and the favours showered upon him by the king did not tend to lessen the number of his enemies.

While Richelieu was created a duke, a peer, and also made Governor of Brittany, the other nobles found that positions of trust were gradually taken from them, and their power decreased on every possible opportunity. So they resolved to make one more effort to crush their enemy.

The revolt washed by Henry de Montmorency, though he had received gifts from both the king and the minister. It seemed that nothing could save the country from civil war, for the provinces had only been waiting for a leader to fly to arms.

But the cardinal was swift as ever to check the conspirators, and almost before their plans were formed they seemed to be discovered.

Montmorency was in Languedoc with a band of soldiers when the king's army overtook him. A fierce battle was fought, but the son of the old constable of France was taken, covered with wounds. His rank could not save him from his fate. He had proved a traitor to his king, so he was tried and executed in 1682. Even his enemies were sorry for the brave soldier who went to his death proud and unashamed.

Richelieu was now at the height of his power, and his enemies at home being crushed, he had time to turn to foreign affairs.

In Germany the Thirty Years' War was being fought. It was a religious war, carried on by the Protestant princes in Germany against their emperor, who was a Catholic.

Richelieu, who in France had fought against the Huguenots, now took the side of the Protestants, promising to raise four large armies and to send them to the help of the German princes.

At first the French soldiers were beaten by the great German generals. In 1638, however, the tide began to turn, and the French armies won several battles near the Rhine and also in Italy, while three years later the French were everywhere triumphant.

Turenne, a young French general who afterwards became famous, won his first success in this war with Germany.

At home one more plot was made against the life of the great minister. It was arranged by Cinq-Mars, a mere lad, who was a favourite with the king. That he might overthrow Richelieu, Cinq-Mars even entered into a secret treaty to betray his country to Spain.

Richelieu, who was never strong, was at this time suffering from a severe illness. Both he and the king, who was also ailing, were travelling by different ways toward the Spanish frontier.

The cardinal, though ill, was as alert as ever, and knew all the details of Cinq-Mars' plot. Louis also knew something of his young favourite's plans, and Cinq-Mars believed that the king would uphold his treachery. But the time had long gone by when Louis would fail his minister, even though at times he might grow restless under his control, as the sharp eyes of Cinq-Mars had seen.

Knowing that the cardinal was ill, the king sent him a kind and reassuring message, lest he should be troubled about Cinq-Mars' behaviour.

Richelieu on receiving the king's message, at once sent him a copy of the secret treaty which Cinq-Mars had dared to make with Spain.

This decided the king. He ordered the young favourite to be arrested. Then, hastening to the cardinal, he conferrred on him the title of Lieutenant-General of the Realm, with powers almost equal to his own.

But Richelieu did not long enjoy his new dignity. Already he was slowly dying. His servants carried him to a barge, that he might be taken quietly up the Rhone to Lyons.

Behind him, in another barge, were his two prisoners, Cinq-Mars and De Thou. De Thou, though innocent, had been condemned with his friend. Up the river the barges slowly went their way, the cardinal, like the Roman conqueror of old, leading his prisoners to death. When they reached Lyons the young men were beheaded as traitors.

Richelieu then returned to Paris, but he was so weak that he had to be carried in a litter.

It was a sad procession that slowly wended its way along the streets, for not a voice was raised to cheer the dying cardinal. The people of Paris had never learned to love, but only to dread the hard, relentless ruler of their country and their king.

On the 2nd December 1642 the cardinal became so ill that prayers were offered in all the churches for his recovery.

When Louis came to say good-bye to his minister, who had served him so long and so well, Richelieu said, I have this satisfaction, that I have never deserted the king, and that I leave his kingdom exalted and his enemies abased.

He then recommended Cardinal Mazarin to his master, saying, I believe him to be capable of serving the king.

As the sacrament was brought to him, the sick man stretched out his hand and said, There is my Judge, before whom I shall soon appear; I pray Him with all my heart to condemn me if I have ever had any other aim than the welfare of religion and of the State.

Cardinal Richelieu died on the 4th December 1642, and Louis lived only a few months after his great minister.

The king's little son, who was barely four years old, was christened while his father lay dying.

What is your name, my son? asked Louis

My name is Louis, answered the child.

Not yet, my son, not yet, murmured the dying king.

But Louis did not seem sorry to die. He lay in his own room, his windows open, looking toward the Abbey of St. Denis. Let me see my last resting-place, he said as his courtiers gathered around his bed.

In the glad month of May 1648, Louis laid down his crown, and his little son became in truth Louis

The little king, who had learned his lesson well, told the members that he had come to show his goodwill but his uncle, the Duke of Orleans, would say all that was necessary.

Queen Anne was then made regent. As her chief adviser she chose Cardinal Mazarin, although he had been a faithful servant of Richelieu, whom for many years she had so bitterly disliked.

The nobles were not at all pleased with the regent's choice, for Mazarin was an Italian, who could not even speak French like a Frenchman. But neither their displeasure nor their plots did Mazarin much harm, and before long he was the real ruler of France.

When Louis died, war was still going on between France and Spain. Spain thought that now the great cardinal was dead it would be easier to beat the French armies. She therefore laid siege to Rocroy, a town on the borders of Flanders.

The young Duke of Enghien, who was barely twenty-two years of age, commanded the French army. It was he who later was known as the Great Condé.

Dying with impatience to fight, the young duke led his army so close to the Spanish troops that it was impossible to avoid a battle, though older heads than his would have deemed it wiser to wait.

The night before the struggle began Enghien sat over the camp-fire talking with his officers, and only in the early morning did he snatch a little sleep.

No sooner was he awake than he led his men to battle. Mark him as he flies to victory or death. He was seen almost in the same moment, driving in the enemy's right, rallying the half-beaten French, putting to flight the victorious Spaniards, striking terror everywhere and dumbfounding with his flashing looks those who escaped from his blows.

With such a leader the French quickly routed the right and the left wings of the Spanish troops. There was still a solid square of Spanish infantry, which until now had proved invincible on every battlefield.

Three times the Duke of Enghien threw himself against this solid Spanish wall, three times he was beaten back. For the fourth time he rallied his men and dashed upon the enemy, and then at length the dreaded square broke to pieces, and the Spanish soldiers were slain in thousands. Slain, for they would neither retreat nor ask for quarter.

The battle of Rocroy took place in the month of May 1643.

Two years later the Duke of Enghien, along with Marshal Turenne, who you remember fought in the Thirty Years' War, won two great battles.

In one of these the duke fought with his usual daring and rashness, so that two horses were killed under him, and but for the greater caution of Marshal Turenne the victory would have been lost.

Success after success made the Duke of Enghien ever more ambitious. He was already one of the richest, haughtiest nobles in France, and Cardinal Mazarin began to fear that when peace was made Enghien would come to Paris and wrest from him his power.

In 1648 the Peace of Westphalia brought the Thirty Years' War to an end, and the duke, now by his father's death the Prince of Condé, did indeed return to France.

Meanwhile Mazarin was growing more and more unpopular. He wasted the money Richelieu had saved, and then laid new taxes on the people. At length, when he declared that all provisions brought into the capital by land or by water would be taxed, the Parliament of Paris refused to allow this new burden to be laid upon the citizens.

Anne of Austria was so angry with the Parliament for resisting her minister's decree that she ordered Broussel, who had led the revolt, to be arrested.

But Broussel was beloved by the people of Paris, and no sooner did they hear that he was arrested than they shut their shops, barricaded the streets, and began to rush up and down, shouting, Liberty and Broussel! Liberty and Broussel!

The regent, finding that the citizens were determined to have their way, was forced to yield and set Broussel free. But she was too angry to stay in Paris among her rebellious subjects. Taking with her Mazarin and the little king, she left the capital and went to St. Germain. The palace there was unfurnished, with scarcely a bed fit for the queen to sleep on, yet she did not appear to notice any discomforts. She seemed to have left all her anxieties behind her at Paris.

Meanwhile, in 1648, a foolish strife called the War of the Fronde had begun to occupy the nobles and citizens of Paris. You may wonder why this war was called the War of the Fronde. A fronde was a sling used by the little street-boys of Paris in their mimic battles, and the battles of the Fronde were sometimes no more serious than the combats of the little boys of Paris.

It was rare for the citizens to fight side by side with the nobles, and at first they thought it was a great honour. They never doubted that the lords were serious in their efforts to free Paris from the tyranny of the regent and Mazarin. But soon the citizens began to see that the skirmishes between the Royalists and the Frondeurs were more for fun and laughter than anything else, while the funds which the people had given to the Frondeurs were wasted on banquets and balls. It was true that the court ladies, among whom was Mademoiselle de Montpensier, better known as La Grande Mademoiselle, invited the citizens to their assemblies, but this honour scarcely atoned for their wasted money.

At length Matthew Mole, the President of the Parliament, went to the regent and tried to arrange terms of peace. He was not very successful, and when he went back to Paris the mob threatened to kill him, although he had always done all he could to help them.

Soon after this the queen-mother, grown tired of her exile, made peace with the Parliament and returned to Paris. The old Fronde, as it was called, now came to an end.

The Prince of Condé came to the capital with the regent, and she would fain have kept the haughty noble at her side. But the prince hated Mazarin too much to stay with the regent, so he founded a separate party for himself. The Prince of Condé's party was called the Young Fronde, and to it belonged the young and discontented nobles.

As Condé had deserted her, the regent persuaded Turenne to take the command of the Royalist troops.

Then the Young Fronde, with Condé at its head, assembled an army, hoping to overpower Turenne and seize Paris.

The prince had thrown up a great earthwork, near the gate of St. Antoine, to protect his men. Here Turenne attacked him, took the earthwork and steadily pushed Condé backward. It seemed that the prince must either be taken or killed.

La Grande Mademoiselle was in Paris with the troops of her father, the Duke of Orleans, encouraging the Fronde with all her strength. Condé was in a pitiable state, she tells us. He had two finger-breadths of dust on his face, and his hair all matted. His collar and shirt were covered with blood, although he was not wounded. His breastplate was riddled all over and he held his sword-bare in his hand, having lost the scabbard.

You see a man in despair: I have lost all my friends, said the prince to mademoiselle.

La Grande Mademoiselle told him that his friends were not so seriously wounded as he thought, and after having comforted the great soldier, she sent him back to his men, while she hastened to the Bastille.

Here she ordered the commander to load the guns which were directed upon the city, and to fire as soon as she was gone.

She then went quickly to the gate of St. Antoine. When Prince Condé's men saw La Grande Mademoiselle, they shouted, Let us do something that will astonish them; our retreat is secure. Here is mademoiselle at the gate, she will have it opened for us if we are hard pressed.

At that moment the cannon of the Bastille sent ball after ball crashing down upon the royal troops, until they were thrown into confusion.

The Prince of Condé seized the moment to make a fresh effort, and he and his men reached the gate of St. Antoine, which mademoiselle had thrown wide open. Thus the prince and his men reached safety within the walls of the city, and were able to make it their own.

But the Prince of Condé was so cruel to the citizens that they soon revolted against him and made peace with the regent.

Condé, too proud to ask for pardon at her hands, accepted a post in the Spanish army, and thus the war of the Young Fronde came to an end in 1653.

The Prince of Condé and Turenne were now on opposite sides, and fought against each other in Spain and Flanders.

As a rule Turenne was more than a match for the prince, but in 1656 Condé, at the head of the Spanish troops, defeated the French.

Meanwhile, Mazarin having made a treaty with England, Cromwell promised to send his well-trained Ironsides to help the French against their Spanish foes.

In 1658 the last battle in this war was fought on the sand-dunes near Dunkirk.

Condé saw that the Spanish troops had encamped on the shifting sand-banks, and urged their commander to move to more solid ground. The Spanish officer refused, and Condé knew that his chance of victory was so much the less.

Turning to the young Duke of Gloucester, the son of Charles , who was serving in the Spanish army, Condé said, My lord, did you ever see a battle?

No, prince, answered the English lad. Well, then, you are going to see one lost, answered Condé.

As the prince foresaw, so it was. At the Battle of the Dunes the Spanish were totally defeated, and soon after they begged for peace, which was made in 1659 at the Treaty of the Pyrenees.

By this treaty it was agreed that Louis should many Maria, the Infanta of Spain, but that the two crowns of France and Spain should never be worn by the same king. The marriage took place in 1661, and shortly after Cardinal Mazarin died. His great wealth he left to be divided between his seven nieces. He also founded a college for the education of children of noble birth, and to this college he bequeathed his splendid library.

Now that Mazarin was dead, the king's turn had come, and he soon showed that he did indeed mean to be master.

Never was there a king who worked as Louis worked. He had heard of the Sluggard Kings of long ago, and had no patience with them, saying petulantly, I do not like those Do-Nothing kings who were led by the nose.

Eight hours a day this busy monarch gave to the work of the State, his councillors being little more than clerks.

Nothing was allowed to be signed without Louis's permission.

I warn you, he said gravely to his secretaries, not to sign anything, even a safety-warrant or passport, without my command, and to report every day to me personally.

At first the courtiers laughed to one another at the industry of their king, thinking it was but a passing mood. But soon they grew wiser, seeing Louis meant to persevere. And indeed, for fifty-four long years, Louis carried the burden he had lifted on to his own shoulders without a murmur.

His work brought its own reward, as work well done will always do. Even of the first early days after the death of Mazarin, he wrote, I found myself quite another being. I discovered in myself what I had no idea of. Then it dawned upon me that I was king and was born to be.

Mazarin had had insight enough to foretell the true character of the young king, who, while the cardinal was alive, had seemed so indolent.

He will set off late, but will go farther than others, he said. He has in him the stuff of four kings and one honest man.

For several years before the death of the cardinal, Fouquet had been Minister of Finance, that is, he had looked after the public money of the kingdom.

Mazarin had warned the king that Fouquet was dishonest, using public money for his own purposes, while the queen-mother had not scrupled to call him a thief.

One of Louis 's first acts was to study the finances of the State. He found that Fouquet's public accounts were not correct, and that he had gathered together a large amount of wealth for his own use.

Indeed Fouquet, hoping to win the favour of the king, asked Louis to a splendid banquet at his country house. Here Louis saw for himself the reckless extravagance of the feast, as well as the pictures, the statues and other treasures which the minister had bought with the money he had filched from the State.

The splendour surrounding Fouquet roused the king's jealousy as well as his anger. He ordered the minister to be arrested and his papers examined. It was said that among them was a plot against the king's life.

So Fouquet was tried on a charge of treason, and found guilty. He was then sent to prison and kept in a dreary dungeon for the rest of his life.

Colbert, a simple burgher and an honest business man, now took Fouquet's place. He reduced the taxes which were driving the people to desperation, yet in a few years he had increased the money in the king's treasury. This he did by encouraging the industries of the country, among others silk, glass and china. He also ordered a large fleet to be built, as well as harbours and roads. You see, in these days the Minister of Finance had a great deal to do with spending the public money as well as filling the king's treasury.

In Colbert, Louis had a servant after his own heart, save that sometimes the luxury and extravagance of the court drove the minister to complain to the king himself.

A useless banquet at a cost of a thousand crowns causes me incredible pain, he once wrote to Louis. The right thing to do, sire, is to grudge five sous for unnecessary things, and to throw millions about when it is for your glory.

It was useless, however, for Colbert to speak to the king of economy, for, though Louis worked hard, he knew how to enjoy himself when work was over.

He spent huge sums of money on transforming the hunting-lodge at Versailles into a beautiful palace, and when the building was finished he gave balls and banquets that cost fortunes.

Soon, too, foreign wars began to engross the king's attention, and on these wars he spent more money than he had spent on his pleasures.

In 1665 the King of Spain died, and Louis at once claimed the Spanish provinces of Flanders and Brabant for his wife, the Infanta Maria, though at his marriage he had given up all right to any Spanish possessions.

The Spanish king was only a little boy of four years old, but his ministers refused the demands of the French king. So in 1667 Louis assembled a large army, and sent it under General Turenne to seize Flanders and Brabant.

Turenne had little fighting to do, for town after town threw open its gates to the great general.

But Louis was ambitious, and could not now be content with these provinces. The glory of war had become a passion, so that the year after Flanders and Brabant had been taken by Turenne, the king assembled another large army, giving the command this time to the Prince of Condé, who had been reconciled to his country.

Into Franche Comté, a country belonging to Spain, but which was called Franche or Free because it really ruled itself, marched the French army under the Great Condé.

Franche Comté lay between Switzerland and Burgundy, and Condé took care that no rumour of his march should reach the country before he arrived. Stealing quietly upon the inhabitants, he speedily forced them to surrender.

Other countries now began to be alarmed at the greed with which Louis snatched up new dominions for France. So England, Sweden and Holland entered into a Triple Alliance, determined to force him to make peace with Spain.

In 1668 Louis, finding these three great Powers against him, signed, with no good grace, the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle, by which he gave back Franche Comté to the Spaniards.

But if the Dutch expected to escape the wrath of the French king for interfering with his schemes, they soon found out their mistake. Before many years had passed, Louis raised a large army, and, with Turenne and Condé at its head, sent it into the Netherlands.

With the French army there was also a soldier called General Martinet, who drilled his soldiers so sternly, and whose discipline was so severe, that his name has come down to us as a byword. So if some day you hear a stern school-master or a strict colonel called a regular Martinet, you will know from whom the strange name comes.

It was in 1672 that Louis sent his army into the Netherlands. At that time the President of the Dutch Republic was the Prince of Orange, who was soon to become William , King of England.

When he heard that the French had taken all the frontier towns and had besieged Amsterdam, the prince ordered the dikes to be broken down and the sluices to be opened. When this was done the sea rushed in over the country, right up to the walls of Amsterdam, and the Dutch fleet was able to sail to the relief of the city.

Even Louis could not help admiring the resolute courage of the Dutch, who had sacrificed so much rather than yield to the enemy.

The war still dragged on until 1674, when Louis, with Holland still in arms against him, was forced to withdraw. But the king did not yet mean to return to France. Instead he again marched into Franche Comté, and for the second time took it from the Spaniards. General Turenne he sent across the Rhine to fight against the Germans.

The great general marched through one of the most beautiful provinces of the Rhine, called the Palatinate, destroying the towns, the villages, the farms, the vineyards, so that for years the peasants hated his name. This cruelty is the one stain on the name of the French general.

In 1675 Montecuculi, a great German commander, was sent to punish the French. The two armies met at Sasbach, on which town Turenne had forced the Germans to fall back.

General Turenne was very sure of victory, and, as he gave his men his last orders before the battle began, he cried, I have them, they shall not escape again.

The battle began. Turenne sat under a great tree, up which he had ordered an old soldier to climb, to tell him of the enemy's movements.

At length a message came begging Turenne to join his men, who were sore pressed. The general sent reinforcements, and a little later leaped upon his horse and galloped toward his troops.

I don't at all want to be killed to-day, he is said to have kept repeating, as he drew rein in a hollow to avoid the balls of the enemy.

Alas! as he moved forward to look at the German defences a ball struck him. He went on a few paces and then fell from his horse, dead.

His soldiers, seeing that their general was killed, were so grieved that their bitter cries were heard two leagues away.

Montecuculi knew what the cry meant, and halted, taking off his helmet as he said, To-day a man has fallen who did honour to man.

Without its leader the French army was soon beaten, and forced to retreat before the victorious Germans.

The new commander of the French army was the Duke of Luxemburg, who defeated William of Orange on land, while at sea the French were also victorious over the Dutch fleet. Then in 1678 Louis took Ghent and Ypres, when the Dutch in despair begged for peace. So the Treaty of Nimeguen was signed by France and Holland, while a little later Spain also agreed to the treaty, giving up to the French king Franche Comté, as well as eleven Flemish towns. Two years later the Emperor of Austria also made peace with Louis, who then went back to Paris to receive the adoring worship of his subjects.

They, pleased with their king's victories, called him Louis the Great, not staying to think if he had any real right to the title. Whether he was generous or unselfish, pitiful or just, did not trouble them at all.

The glory he had won in battle brought glory to their country, and so they worshipped Louis the Great, and erected a statue of him in the great square of Paris. There he was to be seen, seated upon his throne, the peoples he had conquered in chains around his feet.

A few years after the Peace of Nimeguen, Louis's wife, Maria Theresa, died. The poor queen had never been very happy, as the king had often neglected her or treated her with scorn. For many years he had admired Madame de Maintenon, one of his children's governesses, and he now married her. Her conversation was so charming, her wit so sparkling, that she gained great influence over the king. Though she was never called the Queen of France, yet she was queen in all but name, and through Louis she ruled the country.

Madame de Maintenon was a strict Catholic, and gave the king no rest until, in 1685, he promised to revoke the Edict of Nantes. She had no idea of the terrible outbreak of persecution that this would cause. The Edict, you remember, had been granted to the Huguenots by Henry , and allowed them almost all the rights enjoyed by Catholics.

Now, however, Louis revoked the Edict, ordering all Protestant ministers to leave France, and forbidding any worship save that of the Catholic Church.

The Huguenots themselves were not allowed to leave the country, but dreading the persecutions which they knew awaited them, numbers managed to escape to Holland or England.

Linen weavers, woollen weavers, silk weavers, all the industrious folk of France settled down to their looms and trades in the new homes to which they had been forced to flee. England and Holland were the richer for their presence, France the poorer for their loss.

That it was difficult to escape, that if they were captured they would become galley slaves, kept few from trying to leave the country. For even their homes were now no longer their own. The king's cruel soldiers entered them when they chose, and were often encouraged by their captains to behave as rudely as they pleased.

Let me tell you of one woman who, driven to desperation, determined to escape. Every gate was guarded, every road watched. How could it be done? At last she had an idea. Going to an ironmonger, she begged him to pack her inside a load of iron rods.

It was done, and the rods were taken to the customhouse to be weighed, the merchant paying for the unwieldy package in the usual way. In this strange manner the woman escaped from France, the rods not being unpacked until she was six miles from the frontier.

Many slipped out of the country by travelling at night, while others made their way to the coast, bribing rough sailors to take them away in their boats, anywhere on the rough seas, so only that they might escape the cruel soldiers. Louis, with all his titles to greatness, was really very foolish, because he lost many of his most industrious citizens, who worked hard and paid their taxes with good grace.

The princes of Europe were indignant with Louis for his persecution of so many simple, industrious folk, and in 1686 the German princes, with Austria, Sweden, and even Spain, joined together in the League of Augsburg to punish the French king.

Louis speedily assembled an army, and before his enemies could prevent it, he sent it, under General Luxemburg, into the beautiful country of the Palatinate, which Turenne had once before destroyed. Again the farms were pulled down, the fields and the vineyards trampled on and ruined, while the peasants were left to wander homeless and hungry.

The Germans were thoroughly roused, for this was the second time the French had overrun the Palatinate. So they made a Grand Alliance with William of Orange, who was now King of England, and he came with a large army to help the Germans in their war against France.

Again and again Luxemburg defeated the English, but William was too skilful a general to let the French gain much good from their victories.

For three years the war lasted, then, the misery in both France and England being great, peace was made at Ryswick in 1697. Louis was forced to acknowledge William as King of England, and to give up all the towns he had won in the Netherlands and beyond the Rhine.

You may wonder why the French monarch agreed to such hard terms. It was because a new ambition had taken hold of Louis, and he cared for little save only this new desire, which was to wear the crown of Spain.

Charles who was King of Spain, was dying without an heir to succeed to his great kingdom. Louis, having married the eldest sister of the Spanish king, thought that he had a right to the crown, in spite of having promised that the same king should never rule at the same time over France and Spain.

The Emperor of Austria had married the Spanish king's youngest sister, and he also thought he had a right to the throne that would so soon be empty.

But when the Spanish king died in 1700, it was found that he had made a will, leaving his kingdom to the Duke of Anjou, the grandson of Louis

The French king's heart had been set on wearing the crown of Spain himself. But he saw that his family and his country would reap the glory if his grandson ruled, so the Duke of Anjou was sent to Madrid to claim his inheritance.

But although Louis might be content, the princes of Europe were not. They had no wish to see Spain under the French king's control. William too, had cause for anger with Louis, who, instead of acknowledging his claims as he had promised to do, declared that the Pretender, the son of James was King of England.

So another Grand Alliance was formed against Louis by William and the princes of Europe. This was the beginning of the War of the Spanish Succession.

William died in 1702, while preparations for war against Louis were still going on. England kept true to the Grand Alliance, and sent the Duke of Marlborough with an army to carry on the war in Flanders.

Of all the great victories won by Marlborough you can read in your English history. Perhaps the most terrible battle in the long War of the Spanish Succession was in 1709 when, although the French were defeated, they fought so bravely that more English than French were left slain upon the battlefield.

Twice Louis bent his pride to ask for peace, so terrible was the distress in France, caused by war and famine. But as each time the condition of the Allies was that his grandson should not be allowed to keep the Spanish throne, Louis determined to go on fighting.

From this time—1708—the fortune of war changed, and the French army gained many victories. Marlborough's enemies at once began to clamour for the return of the English general, and before long he was ordered home.

Still the war went on, until 1713, when the Peace of Utrecht at length brought it to an end, and Louis was forced to promise that no King of France should ever sit on the Spainish throne.

Two years before the Peace of Utrecht great trouble befell the French king. His son, the dauphin, died in 1711. Then his grandson, the Duke of Burgundy, became dauphin, but the following year he, his wife and their eldest child, all died of fever. There was now left as heir to the throne only their younger son Louis, a delicate child of five years old.

Louis was nearly seventy-seven years old when these sorrows overtook him. The shock brought on an illness from which he knew that he would not recover.

His servants wept, seeing their master so ill, but Louis turning to them said, Why do you weep; did you think I would live for ever?

Sending then for his little great-grandson, he said, My child, you are going to be a great king! Try to preserve peace with your neighbours. I have been too fond of war—do not imitate me in that, any more than in the too great expenses I have incurred. Try to relieve your people, which I have been so unfortunate as not to be able to do.

Thus, after a long reign of seventy-two years, Louis died.

So hungry had the people been during the reign of Louis that mobs of starved skeletons had gone out to Versailles and clamoured at the palace gates for bread.

Once, in their desperate hunger, the people mobbed the carriage of Madame de Maintenon, for there were stories abroad that she hoarded grain and sold it at a high price. The people believed that while they starved, she was amassing a large fortune.

As for clothes, the peasants had not a crown's worth on their back. Then, as now, the French countryman wore a cotton blouse, but in these hard times it was almost the only upper garment he could afford.

Louis being only five years old when his father died, the Duke of Orleans was chosen as regent.

The mother of the duke had a strange story to tell of her son when he was a little baby.

The fairies, she said, were invited to be present at his birth. Each gave to the little duke a gift-courage, good temper, strength, and many another kindly grace.

But one wicked fairy had not been invited to the birthday feast, which made her very angry.

However, uninvited though she was, she too came, leaning upon her stick, to see the baby-prince.

She could not take away the gifts the other fairies had given to the child, but she could spoil them, which indeed she did. For she decreed that he should never know how to use his birthday graces.

As the Duke of Orleans grew to be a man, it seemed as if this fairy-tale was true. For although the duke was both clever and strong, although he loved music and pictures, and was at the same time as gallant as a soldier may be, yet little by little he allowed his love of beauty to grow dim, his courage to grow faint. He spent his days and nights at feasts and revelries, and became always more lazy and unable to work.

To help him govern France, the new regent kept by his side Dubois, who had once been his tutor, and who became, through his old pupil's favour, a bishop, a cardinal, and at length Prime Minister of France.

Dubois was a little lean man, with a light-coloured wig and the look of a weasel. He had encouraged the bad habits of the duke, and was himself as wicked as his pupil. But he was too clever to neglect his work, and he soon showed that he could manage the affairs of the kingdom.

The minister knew that Philip , King of Spain, hated the regent, and would be glad of any excuse to make war upon France. He determined, therefore, to win the support of England, Holland and Austria, and shortly after the death of Louis xiv. he had the joy of seeing these three countries join France in a Quadruple Alliance against Spain. Philip knew that it was useless to struggle against these combined powers, so after a short war he made peace.

The little king, Louis , was meanwhile being educated by Abbé Fleury, a good and wise man. When, in 1723, he was thirteen years old, the lad was considered of age; so a regent being no longer necessary, the Duke of Orleans resigned his post.

The king then made the Duke of Bourbon, a grandson of the Great Condé, his Prime Minister, but the duke was lazy and wicked, and ruled entirely by his favourites, who were never of noble birth.

One of these favourites persuaded the Duke of Bourbon to break off the marriage which had been arranged between the king and the eldest daughter of the King of Spain. The infanta had already been sent to France to be brought up as the bride of Louis But now she was rudely sent back to Spain, while the king was married to Maria, daughter of the exiled King of Poland.

Philip was naturally very indignant when his daughter was sent back to Spain, and it was plain that the foolish minister had done his best to provoke war between the two countries.

But when Bourbon added to his stupidity by increasing the already heavy taxes, he was dismissed from the court, with the consent of the king. Cardinal Fleury, Louis's old and honest tutor, then became Prime Minister.

The nation rejoiced, for Fleury was known to be both kind and just. But although he did all he could to help the people, the old man could not save France from the suffering which the selfishness of her kings had brought upon her.

In the time of Louis , as I told you, the people had little or no money to buy food. In the time of Louis the misery among the peasants increased. Many of them had now neither barley nor oaten bread to eat, but only grass.

One day the Duke of Orleans, touched by the wretchedness of the peasants, flung a loaf made of bracken upon the kings council-table, saying, See, sire, this is what your subjects eat. To such a pitch had misery driven the people that, when the king drove through the streets of Paris, they crowded around the royal carriage, crying in their hunger, Bread! Bread!

Even the cold, careless nature of Louis was moved, and when he got back to the palace he dismissed all his gardeners, saying that henceforth he would keep fewer servants. But that did not give the hungry people food, while the poor gardeners were left to starve as did the peasants.

You will soon read more about these starving peasants, but now I will tell you about a brave woman who was the mother of one of the most unhappy Queens of France.

About this time—1740—Charles , the Emperor of Austria, died.

It had been agreed among the princes of the royal House of Austria that the emperor's daughter, Maria Theresa, should succeed her father. Maria Theresa was at this time only twenty-three years old, but beautiful and brave as a princess should be.

She needed all her courage too, for, in spite of their agreement, portions of the Austrian Empire were claimed by five different princes.

Silesia was seized by Frederick the Great, while France, eager to have a share in the great prize, sent an army into Austria. This was the beginning of the War of the Austrian Succession.

Before long Maria Theresa was forced to leave Vienna, on which town the French army was now advancing.

She fled to Hungary, and called upon the nobles of the country to meet her. When they had assembled, Maria Theresa came to them, dressed in black, carrying in her arms her little son, who was barely six months old.

Holding out the child to the nobles, the beautiful young queen cried, I am abandoned by my friends, I am pursued by my enemies, attacked by my relatives, and I have no help but in your fidelity and courage. We, my son and I, look to you for our safety.

Almost before the queen had ceased speaking, the nobles had drawn their swords from their sheaths and flashed them above their heads, shouting as one man, Let us die for our king, Maria Theresa!

The beautiful queen thanked them through her tears, and withdrew with her little child.

Then the Hungarian nobles gathered together all their wild mountain followers, and with a great force fell upon the enemy, fighting so fiercely that the French army was nearly destroyed.

Fleury, the quiet old minister of France, who would fain have saved his country from war, was so distressed at the terrible defeat of the army that he grew ill and died in 1743, at the age of ninety.

The king was sorry to lose his old tutor, but being thirty-three years of age, he declared that he would now be his own Prime Minister.

Never was a king less fitted to rule than Louis Yet for a little while he roused himself from his sluggish ways and joined his army, which had just been defeated by the English and Germans at Dettingen. George of England was present at this battle, for he had himself come to fight for Maria Theresa, whose empire, in spite of all her brave Hungarian nobles could do, was still insecure.

That their lazy, pleasure-loving king should show some interest in his soldiers, pleased the whole French nation. And when the people heard that he had visited the soldiers' hospital and tasted the soup and the bread which were made for the sick, their delight knew no bounds.

But before Louis had been long with his army, he fell seriously ill.

The king's danger was noised abroad throughout Paris, writes a great man named Voltaire, and everybody gets up, runs about in confusion, not knowing whither to go. The churches open at dead of night, nobody takes any more note of time, bed-time or day-time, or meal-time. Paris was beside itself. The people cried, "If he should die, it will be for having marched to our aid." Prayers were offered in the churches, the priests weeping as they prayed, the people responding with nothing but sobs and cries.

It was on the 8th August 1744 that Louis was taken ill; by the 19th all danger was over.

The courier who brought the good news to Paris was embraced and almost stifled by the people. They kissed his horse, they escorted him in triumph. All the streets resounded with a shout of joy.

Louis the Well-beloved, as the people now began to call their king, was told of the joy of his subjects.

Ah, how sweet it is to be loved, said Louis. What have I done to deserve it And that was a question which no one was able to answer.

On the eve of the battle the king was in good spirits saying to those around him that it was a long time since a King of France had had his son with him on the battlefield, not, indeed, since the battle of Poitiers.

The commander of the French army was Marshal Saxe who was ill, yet determined to fight even when he was unable to sit his horse. He was, indeed, drawn about in a carriage of osier-work during the latter part of the battle.

It was near the village of Fontenoy, in May 1745, that the French flung themselves in the path of the Dutch and English allies, determined that a battle should be fought.

Close to the village was a ravine held by the French but which the English made up their mind should be theirs.

The Duke of Cumberland ordered his men to advance. Thirty or forty abreast, the English soldiers marched forward as steady as though they were on parade.

From right and left the French cannon played upon them, until whole rows of men fell to the ground. But their places were quickly filled, while steadily the English soldiers marched onward, dragging with them their guns.

At length the English reached the very centre of the French army, and Marshal Saxe began to fear that the king and the dauphin were in danger. He begged them to withdraw from the battlefield, but Louis refused.

Then, urged on by the king himself. Marshal Saxe and the French guards made a determined attack on the solid ranks of the enemy, while their guns still played upon the whole length of the French column.

Had the English at that moment had a great general to direct them, the day might still have been theirs. As it was, after reaching the centre of the French army they hesitated, not knowing what to do next, and before the renewed attack of Marshal Saxe they turned and fled. The French had won the battle of Fontenoy.

This victory so encouraged the French that they took town after town in Holland and Flanders, until the English and Dutch sued for peace.

So, in 1748, peace was signed at Aix-la-Chapelle. All the conquests that had been made during the war were given up, while Maria Theresa was recognised as Queen of Hungary.

After this Louis went back to his palace at Versailles, where he shut himself up, away from his subjects, and as the years passed, saw them less and less.

It was now that he fell under the influence of a clever woman called Madame de Pompadour, who for twenty years ruled France.

The court ladies were indignant that Madame de Pompadour should have so much power. She was of humble birth, they were nobly born, and in their eyes it was more fitting that they should influence the king that this lowly favourite. But they did not dare to show their dislike to her.

The courtiers, too, were forced to be polite to Madame de Pompadour, for she had many gifts to give to those who pleased her. It is true that she often sold the offices of State to whoever offered the largest sum, yet any one who had offended her might be willing to pay the largest sum in vain.

While she ruled France the court lived more gaily every year, spending large sums of money on its amusements and luxuries. And all the while the nobles were feasting the people were starving.

Sometimes a lord more fearless than the others would brave Madame de Pompadour's anger, and try to rouse Louis from his indolence by telling him how his people were suffering, and how his kingdom was being ruined by the extravagance of his favourite.

But the king had not enough energy even to resent such language. Listlessly he would answer, It (meaning his kingdom) will last as long as I live; those who come after me may do the best they can.

After the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle, France had no wars to add to her misery for eight years. Then, in 1756, the Seven Years' War began, in which England and Prussia fought against France and Austria.

Frederick King of Prussia, was a strong and resolute soldier, with whom the French officers, who had been idling their time at the court of Madame de Pompadour, were utterly unfit to cope.

At first, it is true, the French won two or three victories, but before long the Prussians, with only a small part of their army, completely defeated them at Rosbach.

Three years later they lost town after town, and at length in despair the French army fled from the enemy, and leaving eleven thousand soldiers behind as prisoners, succeeded in crossing the Rhine. Even then it could not escape the fury of the Prussians, who followed, and, overtaking the French at Crefeld, forced them to fight. Again they were defeated, and before 1758 they had lost all their possessions on the Rhine, both banks having been seized by the Germans.

One more great battle was fought at Minden, in August 1759, when six regiments of English soldiers marched straight at the centre of the French army, which was ten thousand strong.

The French charged repeatedly, but the English still advanced, steadily, persistently, and actually put to flight the strong body of cavalry which formed the chief strength of the French army.

While these battles were being fought in Germany, the French were also fighting against the English in India and in Canada.

It is of the war in Canada that I wish to tell you now. Canada at this time belonged to France, as did also a large tract of country called Louisiana. Unfortunately the British colonies were so placed that they could not add to their possessions without encroaching on French territory.

Accordingly the British looked sullenly at their neighbours' land, wishing to add it to their own. When they had an opportunity they took French ports, seized French ships, and did all they could to harass their neighbours, while the French longed to drive the British out of Canada altogether.

At last, in 1756, war broke out.

Pitt, who was Prime Minister in England, resolved to put an end to the French power, and sent a young officer called General Wolfe to Canada with an army of eight thousand men.

Wolfe had orders to take Quebec, the capital, for if Quebec fell the French would soon be driven out of the rest of their dominions.

The Canadians were already worn out by conflicts with the English, yet they rose as one man to defend their city.

Even old men and children of twelve years of age, who might have stayed at home without shame, came into the French camp and begged to be allowed to help.

Quebec was built on a high rock, and looked down upon the river St. Lawrence. The town was defended by the brave French general, Montcalm.

For a month, encouraged by their commander, Quebec held out against the repeated assaults of the English. General Wolfe began to grow ill with anxiety lest he should be unable to take the town. He wrote home that he had only a choice of difficulties left.

There was one path to the city which was carelessly guarded, the French thinking that no army would attempt to climb so steep and rough a road. Sometimes we read that this path was up the face of an apparently impassable cliff, but those who have seen it tell us that it was scarcely so formidable as that.

This difficult path was the one Wolfe chose by which to reach the city.

One dark night, when there was no moonlight to show what was going on, Wolfe ordered his soldiers to embark in boats that were already drawn up close to the bank of the St. Lawrence. Silently the men embarked, silently they were rowed across to the other side, the boats going backward and forward until the whole army stood beneath the town they had come to capture.

Qui vive?  (Who goes there?) cried a sentinel, as the soldiers landed. The British officers answered in such perfect French that the sentinel paid no more attention to the intruders, thinking they were a convoy with long-expected provisions.

On and up the steep pathway the English soldiers then began to scramble. At each step the way seemed steeper, yet with little foothold the men struggled on, getting ever a little nearer and a little nearer to the summit. Quietly as they moved, it was not possible to reach the top unnoticed.

All at once a sentinel, posted on the heights, caught the rustle of leaves, the fall of stones, and quick as lightning his voice rang out, Qui vive?  and at the same moment a shot was fired down into the gloom.

But it was too late to hope to stop the English soldiers. On and up they swarmed, and when day broke the English army was drawn up ready for battle on the Plains of Abraham, as the heights were called.

If General Montcalm was dismayed to see the position that his enemy had gained, he showed no fear. Fiercely and courageously he attacked the foe. General Wolfe was wounded, but he paid no attention save to wrap his handkerchief round his wrist, as he went on fighting.

Again he was struck, but still he fought on. A third ball hit him, and this time, sorely wounded, he fell to the ground.

General Wolfe was dying. His officers could do nothing to save him.

Suddenly one of them cried, See, they run, they run!

Who run? asked the dying soldier, raising himself with a great effort.

The French, sir, answered the officer.

Then I am content to die, murmured Wolfe as he fell back and breathed his last.

General Montcalm was also killed, and the town, left without a leader, surrendered.

Thus the French lost Quebec, and with Quebec Canada.

In England this victory caused great joy, but in France the people were dismayed, and it may be also ashamed that they had sent no help to their brave countrymen over the seas.

In 1763 the Seven Years' War came to an end, and a treaty was signed at Paris by which France had to give up to England nearly all that she had ever owned in Canada, as well as the towns she had conquered in India, retaining only a few trading-stations. The Peace of Paris showed plainly that the glory of war had departed from the French.

The year after this treaty Madame de Pompadour died. Calamity after calamity then overtook the king. In 1765 the dauphin died, leaving a little son of eleven years old heir to the throne. Soon after this the queen also died, and for a time it seemed that Louis, sobered by his losses, meant to rouse himself from his selfish ways.

But he soon forgot his new resolutions, finding another favourite to take the place of Madame de Pompadour, and then allowing her to manage his kingdom while he enjoyed his selfish ease.

A few years later, in 1774, Louis died of smallpox, not even mourned by those who had once named him the Well-beloved.

Kings owe no account of their conduct save to God alone, Louis had been used to say to his courtiers. But it may be that beneath his breath he would sometimes add, It is just He whom I fear.

During the reign of Louis a great man named Voltaire lived and wrote. His books, as well as those of Rousseau, who followed him, moulded the thoughts of the French people.

When Voltaire was a lad he was left a legacy on condition that the money should be spent on books. This was no hardship, but a joy to the boy, who even in those early days loved literature.

While he was still a youth he used to give little supper parties. We are all princes or poets, he cried in sheer delight, as he looked round the table upon his friends. You may guess the kind of lad he was by the companions he had invited.

As he grew older Voltaire got into trouble through his writings. Seeing the indolence and folly of Louis , he said, among other bold things, that the country would be better without a king. For this he was sent to the Bastille, and afterwards exiled.

For three years Voltaire lived in England, the pen never dropping from his busy fingers. When he went back to France he gradually became the idol of the people.

In his old age he lived withdrawn from the noise and gaiety of Paris, but when he was eighty-four years of age he returned to the capital to receive the homage of the people. He had always dearly loved their homage, and now it was lavished on the tottering old man to his heart's content. He was fêted, he was taken to the theatre, where one of his own plays was performed. When Voltaire appeared in his box, the whole house rose with shouts of welcome, while a garland was placed on his head by the chief actor. He tried to resist the honour in vain, then, seeing himself crowned, he wept tears of joy.

When all was over he got into his carriage to go home. But the people, in their wild enthusiasm, threw themselves upon the horses and kissed them, while one or two youthful poets tried to unyoke the animals that they might draw the carriage themselves. In this they were unsuccessful, and the old man was allowed to drive away, followed by the loud hurrahs of the people.

Two months later, in May 1778, Voltaire was dead.

In the reign of Louis you will see in what a terrible way the people fought to gain the liberty of which Voltaire had written in many of his books.

The young monarch was anxious to rule well, and so he called to his side a man who he believed could help him. This was Count de Maurepas, who was seventy years old.

Twenty-five years before the count had been sent away from the court by Madame de Pompadour. During these years he had studied the writings of great men, but he had not learned the secret of their wisdom.

The count believed, however, that all men, rich and poor, were equal, and that the rich had no right to oppress the poor. He made Turgot, a man who wished to put into practice the new ideas he had learned from Voltaire and Rousseau, Minister of Finance.

But though the young king wished to rule well, he was weak and easily led. Thus it was that he changed his ministers so often that they had not time to carry out the reforms which they had planned.

As the years passed, it seemed to Louis a hopeless task to try to improve the condition of his people. Little by little his interest in them passed away, and he showed no care for anything, save to hunt and to work at a forge which he had had set up in the palace.

As a boy Louis was awkward but intelligent; when he became a man he grew fat and dull, and showed little concern even when calamity after calamity overtook him.

The king's wife, Marie Antoinette, was the daughter of the brave Queen of Hungary, Maria Theresa. She had inherited her mother's pride and obstinate nature, but she was, in these early days, what Maria Theresa had never been—foolish, vain, and extravagant.

Marie Antoinette had been married when she was only fifteen years old. She had come to France a merry, happy girl, ready for fun and frolic wherever they were to be found.

From the beginning she disliked the formal ways of the French court. When she became queen on the death of Louis , the older court ladies hastened to congratulate her. The girl-queen was amused at the strange, stiff manners of these dames, no less than at what seemed to her their old-fashioned garments and odd head-gears, and she made no effort to hide her amusement.

Forgetful of the respect due to those who were older than herself, as well as of her queenly dignity, Marie Antoinette almost laughed in the faces of the astonished ladies. And they never forgave her for the lack of courtesy with which she treated them.

Moreover, the queen had no wish to attend the long and stately banquets given by these ladies of noble birth, and so she went her own wilful, girlish way. She chose her favourites where she willed, she dressed as she liked, not as the etiquette of the court demanded, and she gave banquets and fêtes which were happy and informal, but which cost a great deal of money.

While the young queen spent her days in merry frolics and her evenings at balls or at theatres and dainty supper parties, the people of France were still starving, as they had done in former reigns. Only now they were less inclined to bear their misery in silence.

In their hunger and distress the Parisians accused the young queen of many things which she never did, for although she was thoughtless, which was wrong and was the cause of much trouble in France, she was not deliberately unkind.

But the people were quite sure that the queen used public money for her balls and fêtes. They even accused her of sending French money to her relatives in Austria, although she knew that the Austrians were hated by the French nation. She had persuaded the king, too, to spend large sums on a diamond necklace which she greatly coveted, so said the angry, famine-stricken people.

The king was devoted to Marie Antoinette, but the people of France were indignant on his behalf, believing that the queen cared little for him.

It is true that his wife showed slight interest in her husband's amusements.

Louis loved to hunt or to work at his forge more than anything else. He would spend long days at the chase or long hours over his forge, making locks and keys, and then, tired out, would go to bed and sleep soundly, while Marie Antoinette, paying little heed to her husband's ways, continued to play cards, to go to theatres and to masked balls.

Sometimes, in the evening, Louis would come into the queen's brightly lit apartments, but, tired with his day's hunting, he would not try to make himself pleasant to Marie Antoinette or her gay friends. Unaccustomed, too, to such society, he would soon withdraw to a window and stand there, carelessly tapping the panes with his fingers, until the queen would reprove him sharply for his unkingly ways.

The king was really loved by his people, but toward the queen the feeling of dislike was changing into an ever-increasing hatred.

As you know, the Parisian mob was always ready with nicknames, so now, because Marie Antoinette feasted while they had no food, they called her the Baker's Wife. And because she belonged to Austria, a country they hated, the mob would also scornfully name her the Austrian. Money was scarce, and for the deficiency or want of money the poor queen was blamed, while in mockery they gave her yet another name, calling her Madame Deficit.

Thus the people let themselves grow careless of the dignity of their royal family. And the insolent crowd would wander about the streets shouting such foolish rhymes as this:

The day, alas, was not far off when Marie Antoinette would have been glad had she been free to cross the frontiers of France.

Yet for all her foolish, wayward ways the queen had, as I told you, a kind heart. When, in 1773. the people were perishing from cold, the king sent sledges to them filled with logs, and the queen gladly helped him in his charities.

But her kindness and, as troubles thickened, her thoughtfulness for others, could not soften the hearts of the people. Always she seemed to them to be the cause of their misery, and their hatred followed her even to her death.

Turgot, as I told you, was made Minister of Finance at the beginning of the reign of Louis , and at first the king did all he could to support his minister.

The minister needed support, for before long he brought on his head the anger of the queen, the nobles, and the people.

Marie Antoinette's anger was easy to understand, for the Minister of Finance cut down the expenses of the royal household, and she could no longer spend as much as she pleased on balls and fêtes.

The dislike of the nobles was as easily explained, because after Turgot began to take charge of the finances, their salaries were reduced, and some of their useless offices were swept away altogether.

As for the people, they hated Turgot because he had always some new scheme on hand by which he hoped to make them better citizens, and they grew tired of his reforms, wishing only to be left alone to live as they pleased.

But the minister's greatest enemy was the Parliament of Paris, which Louis had banished, but which Louis now in 1774 recalled.

Again and again this Parliament refused to sign the reforms which Turgot had at heart.

Once the king was present, listening to the members as they fought against Turgot's wish that the taxes should be more equally divided, and that the nobles should bear their proper share.

Suddenly the king's voice startled lawyers and courtiers alike.

Come, said Louis, I see there are only Monsieur Turgot and I who love the people, and without another word the king himself signed the new measure the minister had laid before the Parliament of Paris.

When the nobles came with tales about Turgot, trying to make Louis distrust his minister, he still stood by him.

People may say what they like, said the king with unusual earnestness, but he is an honest man.

Little by little the queen's dislike of the minister who had spoiled her fêtes, and the jealousy of the nobles, began to tell upon the king. Perhaps, too, he was growing tired of Turgot's never-ending reforms.

However that may be, in 1776 Turgot was dismissed, and in spite of all that the minister had tried to do, the peasants in the country, and the poor folk in Paris, were still starving.

The new Minister of Finance was a banker named Necker. At first he was more successful than Turgot had been, and he even made the taxes less heavy.

But war broke out in 1778 between North America and England, and when France determined to send help to the Americans, Necker found it almost impossible to provide money to raise a French fleet and send an army to help his country's allies. He was therefore dismissed.

But in 1789 the people demanded that Necker should be recalled. As there was now no money in the Treasury, the minister persuaded Louis to call together the States-General to discuss the situation.

Now in the States-General there were nobles and priests. But there was also a Third Estate, as it was called, which was composed of the deputies of the people, and the deputies of the people numbered many more than the nobles and priests added together.

The winter before the States-General met was a terrible one. There was no bread to be had, and famine stared the country in the face.

Louis and Marie Antoinette did what they could to help the poor of Paris, and for a little while the hatred against the queen was forgotten.

For months before, the queen had scarcely been able to go into Paris. Angry looks had followed her if she dared to drive through the streets, while if she ventured into a theatre she was hissed. The head of the policemen had even warned her that he might not be able to save her from the sudden violence of the mob.

Now hatred was for a little while destroyed by gratitude, for the queen had helped to feed the starving mob.

It was winter, and the snow lay thick on the streets. The fickle people rolled the snow into huge balls, and then shaped the balls into images of the king and queen. They even sang verses in praise of Marie Antoinette, and when she ventured to the theatre they cheered her lustily.

Yet the queen was not happy. A foreboding of evil hung over her. She knew that the meeting of the States-General was no good omen, that it threatened, indeed, the power of her husband the king.