Александр Дюма
Louise de la Valliere
Chapter XLII. The Skin of the Bear
Colbert handed the duchesse the letter, and gently drew aside the chair behind which she was standing; Madame de Chevreuse, with a very slight bow, immediately left the room. Colbert, who had recognized Mazarin’s handwriting, and had counted the letters, rang to summon his secretary, whom he enjoined to go in immediate search of M. Vanel, a counselor of the parliament. The secretary replied that, according to his usual practice, M. Vanel had just that moment entered the house, in order to give the intendant an account of the principal details of the business which had been transacted during the day in parliament. Colbert approached one of the lamps, read the letters of the deceased cardinal over again, smiled repeatedly as he recognized the great value of the papers Madame de Chevreuse had just delivered – and burying his head in his hands for a few minutes, reflected profoundly. In the meantime, a tall, loosely-made man entered the room; his spare, thin face, steady look, and hooked nose, as he entered Colbert’s cabinet, with a modest assurance of manner, revealed a character at once supple and decided, – supple towards the master who could throw him the prey, firm towards the dogs who might possibly be disposed to dispute its possession. M. Vanel carried a voluminous bundle of papers under his arm, and placed it on the desk on which Colbert was leaning both his elbows, as he supported his head.
“Good day, M. Vanel,” said the latter, rousing himself from his meditation.
“Good day, monseigneur,” said Vanel, naturally.
“You should say monsieur, and not monseigneur,” replied Colbert, gently.
“We give the title of monseigneur to ministers,” returned Vanel, with extreme self-possession, “and you are a minister.”
“Not yet.”
“You are so in point of fact, and I call you monseigneur accordingly; besides you are seigneur for me, and that is sufficient; if you dislike my calling you monseigneur before others, allow me, at least, to call you so in private.”
Colbert raised his head as if to read, or try to read, upon Vanel’s face how much or how little sincerity entered into this protestation of devotion. But the counselor knew perfectly well how to sustain the weight of such a look, even backed with the full authority of the title he had conferred. Colbert sighed; he could not read anything in Vanel’s face, and Vanel might possibly be honest in his professions, but Colbert recollected that this man, inferior to himself in every other respect, was actually his master in virtue of the fact of his having a wife. As he was pitying this man’s lot, Vanel coldly drew from his pocket a perfumed letter, sealed with Spanish wax, and held it towards Colbert, saying, “A letter from my wife, monseigneur.”
Colbert coughed, took, opened and read the letter, and then put it carefully away in his pocket, while Vanel turned over the leaves of the papers he had brought with him with an unmoved and unconcerned air. “Vanel,” he said suddenly to his protege, “you are a hard-working man, I know; would twelve hours’ daily labor frighten you?”
“I work fifteen hours every day.”
“Impossible. A counselor need not work more than three hours a day in parliament.”
“Oh! I am working up some returns for a friend of mine in the department of accounts, and, as I still have spare time on my hands, I am studying Hebrew.”
“Your reputation stands high in the parliament, Vanel.”
“I believe so, monseigneur.”
“You must not grow rusty in your post of counselor.”
“What must I do to avoid it?”
“Purchase a high place. Mean and low ambitions are very difficult to satisfy.”
“Small purses are the most difficult ones to fill, monseigneur.”
“What post have you in view?” said Colbert.
“I see none – not one.”
“There is one, certainly, but one need be almost the king himself to be able to buy it without inconvenience; and the king will not be inclined, I suppose, to purchase the post of procureur-general.”
At these words, Vanel fixed his peculiar, humble, dull look upon Colbert, who could hardly tell whether Vanel comprehended him or not. “Why do you speak to me, monseigneur,” said Vanel, “of the post of procureur-general to the parliament; I know no other post than the one M. Fouquet fills.”
“Exactly so, my dear counselor.”
“You are not over fastidious, monseigneur; but before the post can be bought, it must be offered for sale.”
“I believe, Monsieur Vanel, that it will be for sale before long.”
“For sale! What! M. Fouquet’s post of procureur-general?”
“So it is said.”
“The post which renders him so perfectly invincible, for sale! Ha, ha!” said Vanel, beginning to laugh.
“Would you be afraid, then, of the post?” said Colbert, gravely.
“Afraid! no; but – ”
“Are you desirous of obtaining it?”
“You are laughing at me, monseigneur,” replied Vanel. “Is it likely that a counselor of the parliament would not be desirous of becoming procureur-general?”
“Well, Monsieur Vanel, since I tell you that the post, as report goes, will be shortly for sale – ”
“I cannot help repeating, monseigneur, that it is impossible; a man never throws away the buckler, behind which he maintains his honor, his fortune, his very life.”
“There are certain men mad enough, Vanel, to fancy themselves out of the reach of all mischances.”
“Yes, monseigneur; but such men never commit their mad acts for the advantage of the poor Vanels of the world.”
“Why not?”
“For the very reason that those Vanels are poor.”
“It is true that M. Fouquet’s post might cost a good round sum. What would you bid for it, Monsieur Vanel?”
“Everything I am worth.”
“Which means?”
“Three or four hundred thousand francs.”
“And the post is worth – ”
“A million and a half, at the very lowest. I know persons who have offered one million seven hundred thousand francs, without being able to persuade M. Fouquet to sell. Besides, supposing it were to happen that M. Fouquet wished to sell, which I do not believe, in spite of what I have been told – ”
“Ah! you have heard something about it, then; who told you?”
“M. de Gourville, M. Pelisson, and others.”
“Very good; if, therefore, M. Fouquet did wish to sell – ”
“I could not buy it just yet, since the superintendent will only sell for ready money, and no one has a million and a half to put down at once.”
Colbert suddenly interrupted the counselor by an imperious gesture; he had begun to meditate. Observing his superior’s serious attitude, and his perseverance in continuing the conversation on this subject, Vanel awaited the solution without venturing to precipitate it.
“Explain to me the privileges which this post confers.”
“The right of impeaching every French subject who is not a prince of the blood; the right of quashing all proceedings taken against any Frenchman, who is neither king nor prince. The procureur-general is the king’s right hand to punish the guilty; the office is the means whereby also he can evade the administration of justice. M. Fouquet, therefore, would be able, by stirring up parliament, to maintain himself even against the king; and the king could as easily, by humoring M. Fouquet, get his edicts registered in spite of every opposition and objection. The procureur-general can be made a very useful or a very dangerous instrument.”
“Vanel, would you like to be procureur-general?” said Colbert, suddenly, softening both his look and his voice.
“I!” exclaimed the latter; “I have already had the honor to represent to you that I want about eleven hundred thousand francs to make up the amount.”
“Borrow that sum from your friends.”
“I have no friends richer than myself.”
“You are an honest and honorable man, Vanel.”
“Ah! monseigneur, if the world would only think as you do!”
“I think so, and that is quite enough; and if it should be needed, I will be your security.”
“Do not forget the proverb, monseigneur.”
“What is it?”
“That he who becomes responsible for another has to pay for his fancy.”
“Let that make no difference.”
Vanel rose, bewildered by this offer which had been so suddenly and unexpectedly made to him. “You are not trifling with me, monseigneur?” he said.
“Stay; you say that M. Gourville has spoken to you about M. Fouquet’s post?”
“Yes; and M. Pelisson, also.”
“Officially so, or only through their own suggestion?”
“These were their very words: ‘The parliament members are as proud as they are wealthy; they ought to club together two or three millions among themselves, to present to their protector and leader, M. Fouquet.’”
“And what did you reply?”
“I said that, for my own part, I would give ten thousand francs if necessary.”
“Ah! you like M. Fouquet, then!” exclaimed Colbert, with a look of hatred.
“No; but M. Fouquet is our chief. He is in debt – is on the high road to ruin; and we ought to save the honor of the body of which we are members.”
“Exactly; and that explains why M. Fouquet will be always safe and sound, so long as he occupies his present post,” replied Colbert.
“Thereupon,” said Vanel, “M. Gourville added, ‘If we were to do anything out of charity to M. Fouquet, it could not be otherwise than most humiliating to him; and he would be sure to refuse it. Let the parliament subscribe among themselves to purchase, in a proper manner, the post of procureur-general; in that case, all would go well; the honor of our body would be saved, and M. Fouquet’s pride spared.’”
“That is an opening.”
“I considered it so, monseigneur.”
“Well, Monsieur Vanel, you will go at once, and find out either M. Gourville or M. Pelisson. Do you know any other friend of M. Fouquet?”
“I know M. de la Fontaine very well.”
“La Fontaine, the rhymester?”
“Yes; he used to write verses to my wife, when M. Fouquet was one of our friends.”
“Go to him, then, and try and procure an interview with the superintendent.”
“Willingly – but the sum itself?”
“On the day and hour you arrange to settle the matter, Monsieur Vanel, you shall be supplied with the money, so do not make yourself uneasy on that account.”
“Monseigneur, such munificence! You eclipse kings even – you surpass M. Fouquet himself.”
“Stay a moment – do not let us mistake each other: I do not make you a present of fourteen hundred thousand francs, Monsieur Vanel; for I have children to provide for – but I will lend you that sum.”
“Ask whatever interest, whatever security you please, monseigneur; I am quite ready. And when all your requisitions are satisfied, I will still repeat, that you surpass kings and M. Fouquet in munificence. What conditions do you impose?”
“The repayment in eight years, and a mortgage upon the appointment itself.”
“Certainly. Is that all?”
“Wait a moment. I reserve to myself the right of purchasing the post from you at one hundred and fifty thousand francs profit for yourself, if, in your mode of filling the office, you do not follow out a line of conduct in conformity with the interests of the king and with my projects.”
“Ah-h!” said Vanel, in an altered tone.
“Is there anything in that which can possibly be objectionable to you, Monsieur Vanel?” said Colbert, coldly.
“Oh! no, no,” replied Vanel, nervously.
“Very good. We will sign an agreement to that effect whenever you like. And now go as quickly as you can to M. Fouquet’s friend, obtain an interview with the superintendent; do not be too difficult in making whatever concessions may be required of you; and when once the arrangements are all made – ”
“I will press him to sign.”
“Be most careful to do nothing of the kind; do not speak of signatures with M. Fouquet, nor of deeds, nor even ask him to pass his word. Understand this: otherwise you will lose everything. All you have to do is to get M. Fouquet to give you his hand on the matter. Go, go.”
Chapter XLIII. An Interview with the Queen-Mother
The queen-mother was in the bedroom at the Palais Royal, with Madame de Motteville and Senora Molina. King Louis, who had been impatiently expected the whole day, had not made his appearance; and the queen, who was growing impatient, had often sent to inquire about him. The moral atmosphere of the court seemed to indicate an approaching storm; the courtiers and the ladies of the court avoided meeting in the ante-chambers and the corridors in order not to converse on compromising subjects. Monsieur had joined the king early in the morning for a hunting-party; Madame remained in her own apartment, cool and distant to every one; and the queen-mother, after she had said her prayers in Latin, talked of domestic matters with her two friends in pure Castilian. Madame de Motteville, who understood the language perfectly, answered her in French. When the three ladies had exhausted every form of dissimulation and of politeness, as a circuitous mode of expressing that the king’s conduct was making the queen and the queen-mother pine away through sheer grief and vexation, and when, in the most guarded and polished phrases, they had fulminated every variety of imprecation against Mademoiselle de la Valliere, the queen-mother terminated her attack by an exclamation indicative of her own reflections and character. “Estos hijos!” said she to Molina – which means, “These children!” words full of meaning on a mother’s lips – words full of terrible significance in the mouth of a queen who, like Anne of Austria, hid many curious secrets in her soul.
“Yes,” said Molina, “children, children! for whom every mother becomes a sacrifice.”
“Yes,” replied the queen; “a mother sacrifices everything, certainly.” She did not finish her phrase; for she fancied, when she raised her eyes towards the full-length portrait of the pale Louis XIII., that light once more flashed from her husband’s dull eyes, and his nostrils grew livid with wrath. The portrait seemed animated by a living expression – speak it did not, but it seemed to threaten. A profound silence succeeded the queen’s last remark. La Molina began to turn over ribbons and laces on a large work-table. Madame de Motteville, surprised at the look of mutual intelligence which had been exchanged between the confidant and her mistress, cast down her eyes like a discreet woman, and pretending to be observant of nothing that was passing, listened with the utmost attention to every word. She heard nothing, however, but a very insignificant “hum” on the part of the Spanish duenna, who was the incarnation of caution – and a profound sigh on that of the queen. She looked up immediately.
“You are suffering?” she said.
“No, Motteville, no; why do you say that?”
“Your majesty almost groaned just now.”
“You are right; I did sigh, in truth.”
“Monsieur Valot is not far off; I believe he is in Madame’s apartment.”
“Why is he with Madame?”
“Madame is troubled with nervous attacks.”
“A very fine disorder, indeed! There is little good in M. Valot being there, when a very different physician would quickly cure Madame.”
Madame de Motteville looked up with an air of great surprise, as she replied, “Another doctor instead of M. Valot? – whom do you mean?”
“Occupation, Motteville, occupation. If any one is really ill, it is my poor daughter.”
“And your majesty, too.”
“Less so this evening, though.”
“Do not believe that too confidently, madame,” said De Motteville. And, as if to justify her caution, a sharp, acute pain seized the queen, who turned deadly pale, and threw herself back in the chair, with every symptom of a sudden fainting fit. Molina ran to a richly gilded tortoise-shell cabinet, from which she took a large rock-crystal bottle of scented salts, and held it to the queen’s nostrils, who inhaled it wildly for a few minutes, and murmured:
“It is hastening my death – but Heaven’s will be done!”
“Your majesty’s death is not so near at hand,” added Molina, replacing the smelling-bottle in the cabinet.
“Does your majesty feel better now?” inquired Madame de Motteville.
“Much better,” returned the queen, placing her finger on her lips, to impose silence on her favorite.
“It is very strange,” remarked Madame de Motteville, after a pause.
“What is strange?” said the queen.
“Does your majesty remember the day when this pain attacked you for the first time?”
“I remember only that it was a grievously sad day for me, Motteville.”
“But your majesty did not always regard that day as a sad one.”
“Why?”
“Because three and twenty years ago, on that very day, his present majesty, your own glorious son, was born at the very same hour.”
The queen uttered a loud cry, buried her face in her hands, and seemed utterly prostrated for some minutes; but whether from recollections which arose in her mind, or from reflection, or even with sheer pain, was doubtful. La Molina darted a look at Madame de Motteville, so full of bitter reproach, that the poor woman, perfectly ignorant of its meaning, was in her own exculpation on the point of asking an explanation, when, suddenly, Anne of Austria arose and said, “Yes, the 5th of September; my sorrow began on the 5th of September. The greatest joy, one day; the deepest sorrow the next; – the sorrow,” she added, “the bitter expiation of a too excessive joy.”
And, from that moment, Anne of Austria, whose memory and reason seemed to be suspended for the time, remained impenetrable, with vacant look, mind almost wandering, and hands hanging heavily down, as if life had almost departed.
“We must put her to bed,” said La Molina.
“Presently, Molina.”
“Let us leave the queen alone,” added the Spanish attendant.
Madame de Motteville rose; large tears were rolling down the queen’s pallid face; and Molina, having observed this sign of weakness, fixed her black vigilant eyes upon her.
“Yes, yes,” replied the queen. “Leave us, Motteville; go.”
The word “us” produced a disagreeable effect upon the ears of the French favorite; for it signified that an interchange of secrets, or of revelations of the past, was about to be made, and that one person was de trop in the conversation which seemed likely to take place.
“Will Molina, alone, be sufficient for your majesty to-night?” inquired the French woman.
“Yes,” replied the queen. Madame de Motteville bowed in submission, and was about to withdraw, when suddenly an old female attendant, dressed as if she had belonged to the Spanish court of the year 1620, opened the door, and surprised the queen in her tears. “The remedy!” she cried, delightedly, to the queen, as she unceremoniously approached the group.
“What remedy?” said Anne of Austria.
“For your majesty’s sufferings,” the former replied.
“Who brings it?” asked Madame de Motteville, eagerly; “Monsieur Valot?”
“No; a lady from Flanders.”
“From Flanders? Is she Spanish?” inquired the queen.
“I don’t know.”
“Who sent her?”
“M. Colbert.”
“Her name?”
“She did not mention it.”
“Her position in life?”
“She will answer that herself.”
“Who is she?”
“She is masked.”
“Go, Molina; go and see!” cried the queen.
“It is needless,” suddenly replied a voice, at once firm and gentle in its tone, which proceeded from the other side of the tapestry hangings; a voice which made the attendants start, and the queen tremble excessively. At the same moment, a masked female appeared through the hangings, and, before the queen could speak a syllable she added, “I am connected with the order of the Beguines of Bruges, and do, indeed, bring with me the remedy which is certain to effect a cure of your majesty’s complaint.” No one uttered a sound, and the Beguine did not move a step.
“Speak,” said the queen.
“I will, when we are alone,” was the answer.
Anne of Austria looked at her attendants, who immediately withdrew. The Beguine, thereupon, advanced a few steps towards the queen, and bowed reverently before her. The queen gazed with increasing mistrust at this woman, who, in her turn, fixed a pair of brilliant eyes upon her, through her mask.
“The queen of France must, indeed, be very ill,” said Anne of Austria, “if it is known at the Beguinage of Bruges that she stands in need of being cured.”
“Your majesty is not irremediably ill.”
“But tell me how you happen to know I am suffering?”
“Your majesty has friends in Flanders.”
“Since these friends, then, sent you, mention their names.”
“Impossible, madame, since your majesty’s memory has not been awakened by your heart.”
Anne of Austria looked up, endeavoring to discover through the mysterious mask, and this ambiguous language, the name of her companion, who expressed herself with such familiarity and freedom; then, suddenly, wearied by a curiosity which wounded every feeling of pride in her nature, she said, “You are ignorant, perhaps, that royal personages are never spoken to with the face masked.”
“Deign to excuse me, madame,” replied the Beguine, humbly.
“I cannot excuse you. I may, possibly, forgive you, if you throw your mask aside.”
“I have made a vow, madame, to attend and aid all afflicted and suffering persons, without ever permitting them to behold my face. I might have been able to administer some relief to your body and to your mind, too; but since your majesty forbids me, I will take my leave. Adieu, madame, adieu!”
These words were uttered with a harmony of tone and respect of manner that disarmed the queen of all anger and suspicion, but did not remove her feeling of curiosity. “You are right,” she said; “it ill-becomes those who are suffering to reject the means of relief Heaven sends them. Speak, then; and may you, indeed, be able, as you assert, to administer relief to my body – ”
“Let us first speak a little of the mind, if you please,” said the Beguine – “of the mind, which, I am sure, must also suffer.”
“My mind?”
“There are cancers so insidious in their nature that their very pulsations cannot be felt. Such cancers, madame, leave the ivory whiteness of the skin unblemished, and putrefy not the firm, fair flesh, with their blue tints; the physician who bends over the patient’s chest hears not, though he listens, the insatiable teeth of the disease grinding onward through the muscles, and the blood flows freely on; the knife has never been able to destroy, and rarely, even temporarily, to disarm the rage of these mortal scourges, – their home is in the mind, which they corrupt, – they gnaw the whole heart until it breaks. Such, madame, are the cancers fatal to queens; are you, too, free from their scourge?”
Anne slowly raised her arm, dazzling in its perfect whiteness, and pure in its rounded outlines as it was in the time of her earlier days.
“The evils to which you allude,” she said, “are the condition of the lives of the high in rank upon earth, to whom Heaven has imparted mind. When those evils become too heavy to be borne, Heaven lightens their burdens by penitence and confession. Thus, only, we lay down our burden and the secrets that oppress us. But, forget not that the same gracious Heaven, in its mercy, apportions to their trials the strength of the feeble creatures of its hand; and my strength has enabled me to bear my burden. For the secrets of others, the silence of Heaven is more than sufficient; for my own secrets, that of my confessor is enough.”
“You are as courageous, madame, I see, as ever, against your enemies. You do not acknowledge your confidence in your friends?”
“Queens have no friends; if you have nothing further to say to me, – if you feel yourself inspired by Heaven as a prophetess – leave me, I pray, for I dread the future.”
“I should have supposed,” said the Beguine, resolutely, “that you would rather have dreaded the past.”
Hardly had these words escaped her lips, than the queen rose up proudly. “Speak,” she cried, in a short, imperious tone of voice; “explain yourself briefly, quickly, entirely; or, if not – ”
“Nay, do not threaten me, your majesty,” said the Beguine, gently; “I came here to you full of compassion and respect. I came here on the part of a friend.”
“Prove that to me! Comfort, instead of irritating me.”
“Easily enough, and your majesty will see who is friendly to you. What misfortune has happened to your majesty during these three and twenty years past – ”
“Serious misfortunes, indeed; have I not lost the king?”
“I speak not of misfortunes of that kind. I wish to ask you, if, since the birth of the king, any indiscretion on a friend’s part has caused your majesty the slightest serious anxiety, or distress?”
“I do not understand you,” replied the queen, clenching her teeth in order to conceal her emotion.
“I will make myself understood, then. Your majesty remembers that the king was born on the 5th of September, 1638, at a quarter past eleven o’clock.”
“Yes,” stammered out the queen.
“At half-past twelve,” continued the Beguine, “the dauphin, who had been baptized by Monseigneur de Meaux in the king’s and your own presence, was acknowledged as the heir of the crown of France. The king then went to the chapel of the old Chateau de Saint-Germain, to hear the Te Deum chanted.”
“Quite true, quite true,” murmured the queen.
“Your majesty’s conferment took place in the presence of Monsieur, his majesty’s late uncle, of the princes, and of the ladies attached to the court. The king’s physician, Bouvard, and Honore, the surgeon, were stationed in the ante-chamber; your majesty slept from three o’clock until seven, I believe.”
“Yes, yes; but you tell me no more than every one else knows as well as you and myself.”
“I am now, madame, approaching that which very few persons are acquainted with. Very few persons, did I say, alas! I might say two only, for formerly there were but five in all, and, for many years past, the secret has been well preserved by the deaths of the principal participators in it. The late king sleeps now with his ancestors; Perronnette, the midwife, soon followed him; Laporte is already forgotten.”
The queen opened her lips as though to reply; she felt, beneath her icy hand, with which she kept her face half concealed, the beads of perspiration on her brow.
“It was eight o’clock,” pursued the Beguine; “the king was seated at supper, full of joy and happiness; around him on all sides arose wild cries of delight and drinking of healths; the people cheered beneath the balconies; the Swiss guards, the musketeers, and the royal guards wandered through the city, borne about in triumph by the drunken students. Those boisterous sounds of general joy disturbed the dauphin, the future king of France, who was quietly lying in the arms of Madame de Hausac, his nurse, and whose eyes, as he opened them, and stared about, might have observed two crowns at the foot of his cradle. Suddenly your majesty uttered a piercing cry, and Dame Perronnette immediately flew to your bedside. The doctors were dining in a room at some distance from your chamber; the palace, deserted from the frequency of the irruptions made into it, was without either sentinels or guards. The midwife, having questioned and examined your majesty, gave a sudden exclamation as if in wild astonishment, and taking you in her arms, bewildered almost out of her senses from sheer distress of mind, dispatched Laporte to inform the king that her majesty the queen-mother wished to see him in her room. Laporte, you are aware, madame, was a man of the most admirable calmness and presence of mind. He did not approach the king as if he were the bearer of alarming intelligence and wished to inspire the terror he himself experienced; besides, it was not a very terrifying intelligence which awaited the king. Therefore, Laporte appeared with a smile upon his lips, and approached the king’s chair, saying to him – ‘Sire, the queen is very happy, and would be still more so to see your majesty.’ On that day, Louis XIII. would have given his crown away to the veriest beggar for a ‘God bless you.’ Animated, light-hearted, and full of gayety, the king rose from the table, and said to those around him, in a tone that Henry IV. might have adopted, – ‘Gentlemen, I am going to see my wife.’ He came to your beside, madame, at the very moment Dame Perronnette presented to him a second prince, as beautiful and healthy as the former, and said – ‘Sire, Heaven will not allow the kingdom of France to fall into the female line.’ The king, yielding to a first impulse, clasped the child in his arms, and cried, ‘Oh, Heaven, I thank Thee!’”
At this part of her recital, the Beguine paused, observing how intensely the queen was suffering; she had thrown herself back in her chair, and with her head bent forward and her eyes fixed, listened without seeming to hear, and her lips moving convulsively, either breathing a prayer to Heaven or imprecations on the woman standing before her.
“Ah! I do not believe that, if, because there could be but one dauphin in France,” exclaimed the Beguine, “the queen allowed that child to vegetate, banished from his royal parents’ presence, she was on that account an unfeeling mother. Oh, no, no; there are those alive who have known and witnessed the passionate kisses she imprinted on that innocent creature in exchange for a life of misery and gloom to which state policy condemned the twin brother of Louis XIV.”
“Oh! Heaven!” murmured the queen feebly.
“It is admitted,” continued the Beguine, quickly, “that when the king perceived the effect which would result from the existence of two sons, equal in age and pretensions, he trembled for the welfare of France, for the tranquillity of the state; and it is equally well known that Cardinal de Richelieu, by the direction of Louis XIII., thought over the subject with deep attention, and after an hour’s meditation in his majesty’s cabinet, he pronounced the following sentence: – ‘One prince means peace and safety for the state; two competitors, civil war and anarchy.’”
The queen rose suddenly from her seat, pale as death, and her hands clenched together:
“You know too much,” she said, in a hoarse, thick voice, “since you refer to secrets of state. As for the friends from whom you have acquired this secret, they are false and treacherous. You are their accomplice in the crime which is being now committed. Now, throw aside your mask, or I will have you arrested by my captain of the guards. Do not think that this secret terrifies me! You have obtained it, you shall restore it to me. Never shall it leave your bosom, for neither your secret nor your own life belong to you from this moment.”
