“You say that it is not believed the child died at Noisy?”
“No, Madame.”
“What did they say about him, then?”
“They said—but, no doubt, they were mistaken—”
“Nay, speak, speak!”
“They said, that one evening, about the year 1645, a lady, beautiful and majestic in her bearing, which was observed notwithstanding the mask and the mantle that concealed her figure—a lady of rank, of very high rank, no doubt—came in a carriage to the place where the road branches off; the very same spot, you know, where I awaited news of the young prince when Your Majesty was graciously pleased to send me there.”
“Well, well?”
“That the boy’s tutor, or guardian, took the child to this lady.”
“Well, what next?”
“That both the child and his tutor left that part of the country the very next day.”
“There, you see there is some truth in what you relate, since, in point of fact, the poor child died from a sudden attack of illness, which makes the lives of all children, as doctors say, suspended as it were by a thread.”
“What Your Majesty says is quite true; no one knows it better than yourself—no one believes it more strongly than myself. But yet, how strange it is—”
What can it now be?
thought the queen.
“The person who gave me these details, who was sent to inquire after the child’s health—”
“Did you confide such a charge to anyone else? Oh, duchesse!”
“Someone as dumb as Your Majesty, as dumb as myself; we will suppose it was myself, Madame; this someone, some months after, passing through Touraine—”
“Touraine!”
“Recognized both the tutor and the child, too! I am wrong, thought he recognized them, both living, cheerful, happy, and flourishing, the one in a green old age, the other in the flower of his youth. Judge after that what truth can be attributed to the rumors which are circulated, or what faith, after that, placed in anything that may happen in the world! But I am fatiguing Your Majesty; it was not my intention, however, to do so, and I will take my leave of you, after renewing to you the assurance of my most respectful devotion.”
“Stay, duchesse; let us first talk a little about yourself.”
“Of myself, Madame! I am not worthy that you should bend your looks upon me.”
“Why not, indeed? Are you not the oldest friend I have? Are you angry with me, duchesse?”
“I, indeed! what motive could I have? If I had reason to be angry with Your Majesty, should I have come here?”
“Duchesse, age is fast creeping on us both; we should be united against that death whose approach cannot be far off.”
“You overpower me, Madame, with the kindness of your language.”
“No one has ever loved or served me as you have done, duchesse.”
“Your Majesty is too kind in remembering it.”
“Not so. Give me a proof of your friendship, duchesse.”
“My whole being is devoted to you, Madame.”
“The proof I require is, that you should ask something of me.”
“Ask—”
“Oh, I know you well—no one is more disinterested, more noble, and truly loyal.”
“Do not praise me too highly, Madame,” said the duchesse, somewhat anxiously.
“I could never praise you as much as you deserve to be praised.”
“And yet, age and misfortune effect a terrible change in people, Madame.”
“So much the better; for the beautiful, the haughty, the adored duchesse of former days might have answered me ungratefully, ‘I do not wish for anything from you.’ Heaven be praised! The misfortunes you speak of have indeed worked a change in you, for you will now, perhaps, answer me, ‘I accept.’ ”
The duchesse’s look and smile soon changed at this conclusion, and she no longer attempted to act a false part.
“Speak, dearest, what do you want?”
“I must first explain to you—”
“Do so unhesitatingly.”
“Well, then, Your Majesty can confer the greatest, the most ineffable pleasure upon me.”
“What is it?” said the queen, a little distant in her manner, from an uneasiness of feeling produced by this remark. “But do not forget, my good Chevreuse, that I am quite as much under my son’s influence as I was formerly under my husband’s.”
“I will not be too hard, Madame.”
“Call me as you used to do; it will be a sweet echo of our happy youth.”
“Well, then, my dear mistress, my darling Anne—”
“Do you know Spanish, still?”
“Yes.”
“Ask me in Spanish, then.”
“Will Your Majesty do me the honor to pass a few days with me at Dampierre?”
“Is that all?” said the queen, stupefied. “Nothing more than that?”
“Good heavens! can you possibly imagine that, in asking you that, I am not asking you the greatest conceivable favor? If that really be the case, you do not know me. Will you accept?”
“Yes, gladly. And I shall be happy,” continued the queen, with some suspicion, “if my presence can in any way be useful to you.”
“Useful!” exclaimed the duchesse, laughing; “oh, no, no, agreeable—delightful, if you like; and you promise me, then?”
“I swear it,” said the queen, whereupon the duchesse seized her beautiful hand, and covered it with kisses. The queen could not help murmuring to herself, “She is a good-hearted woman, and very generous, too.”
“Will Your Majesty consent to wait a fortnight before you come?”
“Certainly; but why?”
“Because,” said the duchesse, “knowing me to be in disgrace, no one would lend me the hundred thousand francs, which I require to put Dampierre into a state of repair. But when it is known that I require that sum for the purpose of receiving Your Majesty at Dampierre properly, all the money in Paris will be at my disposal.”
“Ah!” said the queen, gently nodding her head in sign of intelligence, “a hundred thousand francs! you want a hundred thousand francs to put Dampierre into repair?”
“Quite as much as that.”
“And no one will lend you them?”
“No one.”
“I will lend them to you, if you like, duchesse.”
“Oh, I hardly dare accept such a sum.”
“You would be wrong if you did not. Besides, a hundred thousand francs is really not much. I know but too well that you never set a right value upon your
