 Many were the distinguished guests and many were wild Ninon's seventeenth century charms; she who inspired the prose of a worthy female adversary: But how dangerous she is, this Ninon! Her zeal to pervert the young men is on a par with a certain whip master, Monsieur Saint-Germain. For the one called de l'Enclos, or sweet prison, understood that the desire to surrender increased in measure with the element of danger present in the moment of surrendering oneself, body and soul, to her mastery. "Yes," she informed an enraptured gathering of eager male proselytes one cool, autumn afternoon, "if your finely-clad bodies were as solid as your spirits, then few of you would have much to boast about, would you?" The youths sighed and each begged to be put to her test, but the arrestingly beautiful Ninon was unwilling to demonstrate the wisdom of her famous words: That which is striking and beautiful is not always good, but that which is Good is always striking. She would make them each wait their turn and bear the heavy burden of her disregard, for twenty-eight Rue des Tournelles was the house where torment and longing were pounded together on her anvil to produce pleasure, and the more noble sentiments were wedded to baser strategies aimed at winning a territory known to many as submission. Even the Great Condé sent a delegation of Grand Musketeers to her door as tribute, but Ninon laughed at the gift, displaying a peerless wit. "Tell your master, that it takes a hundred times more spirit to be a great woman, than to command thousands of men in battle." Her quarrel with divinity was much discussed, for she had dared even to criticize the Creator. The adoring philosopher, St. Evremond, had asked his Minerva, "Dear Mistress, are you not truly a believer in your heart?" whereupon proud Ninon replied, "Most certainly not, for as I discern the situation, if God was determined to give women wrinkles, He might at least have put them on the soles of her feet." The intellectual prostrated himself at the altar of her heels, kissed the rosettes adorning pretty, felt shoes and vowed eternal devotion. Yet lavishly embroidered costumes, jewels and human bibelots do not a goddess sate. ,br> Immortality is the prize of all prizes, and Ninon was desirous of a place amongst those stars that graced the inky Parisian firmament; therefore, when the Dutch astronomer, Christiaan Huygens arrived in the City of Lilies with his own invention, the telescope, an intrigued Queen summoned the scientist to twenty-eight Rue des Tournelles. "Teach me the language of the night sky, monsieur, and great will be your reward," Ninon decreed. "Bring me the knowledge of Eternity, dedicate a pattern above to my glory, and my attention will be reserved for you alone." "Serving the fair de l'Enclos is an honor," vowed the gentleman from the North, removing a plain justacorps and loosening the jabot about his neck before stripping to the waist. "We shall most certainly study the constellations of Chiron, yet only after..." "The flail," she smiled knowingly. "Yes, monsieur, I do believe your arrival a most fortuitous circumstance, indeed." Thus the pair endeavored to more greatly appreciate the work of the other, each caught-up in the mechanics of passionate concentration coupled with a reckless abandon - the recipe of Ninon's salon which had made her a chef of the emotions worthy the elevated rank of one such as the culinary genius, Vatel. Soon, the rumor mill of the Parisian life stream was grinding out gossip concerning the practitioner of logic, overcome by the mistress of the single-tail, and all tongues were reciting Huygens poetic tribute: Elle a cinq instruments ‘dont je suis amoureux, 'les deus premières ses mains, 'les deux autres, ses yeux. "Whatever does the mad scientist mean by that?" the young swains cried. "Five, he claims five: She has five instruments which transport me, the first two her hands, the second two her eyes. Huygens lists but four attributes of our peerless Ninon; what is this fifth device?" And when Ninon heard of their silly prattle, she smiled, remembering her philosopher's bowed head, his sweet tears falling upon her Savonnerie carpet. Yes, she laughed, yes, let them all wonder, for when a star shape graced the new maps of the heavens bearing her name - the Sceptre and Hand of Justice - she and the other goddesses alone would understand, as was befitting a memorial to her magnificence. Ninon bent the fifth instrument into an arc and within its curvature, measured her divinely planned placement between Cygnus and Andromeda.  
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