“I see, my dear daughter, that you have sorrowed,” said Bossuet, glancing at her with a kindly and yet searching eye.

“I have indeed, your Grace.  All last night I spent in prayer that this trial may pass away from us.”

“And yet you have no need for fear, madame—­none, I assure you.  Others may think that your influence has ceased; but we, who know the king’s heart, we think otherwise.  A few days may pass, a few weeks at the most, and once more it will be upon your rising fortunes that every eye in France will turn.”

The lady’s brow clouded, and she glanced at the prelate as though his speech were not altogether to her taste.  “I trust that pride does not lead me astray,” she said.  “But if I can read my own soul aright, there is no thought of myself in the grief which now tears my heart.  What is power to me?  What do I desire?  A little room, leisure for my devotions, a pittance to save me from want—­what more can I ask for?  Why, then, should I covet power?  If I am sore at heart, it is not for any poor loss which I have sustained.  I think no more of it than of the snapping of one of the threads on yonder tapestry frame.  It is for the king I grieve—­for the noble heart, the kindly soul, which might rise so high, and which is dragged so low, like a royal eagle with some foul weight which ever hampers its flight.  It is for him and for France that my days are spent in sorrow and my nights upon my knees.”

“For all that, my daughter, you are ambitious.”

It was the Jesuit who had spoken.  His voice was clear and cold, and his piercing gray eyes seemed to read into the depths of her soul.

“You may be right, father.  God guard me from self-esteem.  And yet I do not think that I am.  The king, in his goodness, has offered me titles—­ I have refused them; money—­I have returned it.  He has deigned to ask my advice in matters of state, and I have withheld it.  Where, then, is my ambition?”

“In your heart, my daughter.  But it is not a sinful ambition.  It is not an ambition of this world.  Would you not love to turn the king towards good?”

“I would give my life for it.”

“And there is your ambition.  Ah, can I not read your noble soul?  Would you not love to see the Church reign pure and serene over all this realm—­to see the poor housed, the needy helped, the wicked turned from their ways, and the king ever the leader in all that is noble and good?  Would you not love that, my daughter?”

Her cheeks had flushed, and her eyes shone as she looked at the gray face of the Jesuit, and saw the picture which his words had conjured up before her.  “Ah, that would be joy indeed!” she cried.

“And greater joy still to know, not from the mouths of the people, but from the voice of your own heart in the privacy of your chamber, that you had been the cause of it, that your influence had brought this blessing upon the king and upon the country.”