“But surely—­surely this could never be,” she said at last, “Why should we plan that which can never come to pass?”

“And why?”

“What King of France has married a subject?  See how every princess of Europe stretches out her hand to him.  The Queen of France must be of queenly blood, even as the last was.”

“All this may be overcome.”

“And then there are the reasons of state.  If the king marry, it should be to form a powerful alliance, to cement a friendship with a neighbour nation, or to gain some province which may be the bride’s dowry.  What is my dowry?  A widow’s pension and a work-box.”  She laughed bitterly, and yet glanced eagerly at her companions, as one who wished to be confuted.

“Your dowry, my daughter, would be those gifts of body and of mind with which heaven has endowed you.  The king has money enough, and the king has provinces enough.  As to the state, how can the state be better served than by the assurance that the king will be saved in future from such sights as are to be seen in this palace to-day?”

“Oh, if it could be so!  But think, father, think of those about him—­ the dauphin, monsieur his brother, his ministers.  You know how little this would please them, and how easy it is for them to sway his mind.  No, no; it is a dream, father, and it can never be.”

The faces of the two ecclesiastics, who had dismissed her other objections with a smile and a wave, clouded over at this, as though she had at last touched upon the real obstacle.

“My daughter,” said the Jesuit gravely, “that is a matter which you may leave to the Church.  It may be that we, too, have some power over the king’s mind, and that we may lead him in the right path, even though those of his own blood would fain have it otherwise.  The future only can show with whom the power lies.  But you?  Love and duty both draw you one way now, and the Church may count upon you.”

“To my last breath, father.”

“And you upon the Church.  It will serve you, if you in turn will but serve it.”

“What higher wish could I have?”

“You will be our daughter, our queen, our champion, and you will heal the wounds of the suffering Church.”

“Ah! if I could!”

“But you can.  While there is heresy within the land there can be no peace or rest for the faithful.  It is the speck of mould which will in time, if it be not pared off, corrupt the whole fruit.”

“What would you have, then, father?”

“The Huguenots must go.  They must be driven forth.  The goats must be divided from the sheep.  The king is already in two minds.  Louvois is our friend now.  If you are with us, then all will be well.”

“But, father, think how many there are!”

“The more reason that they should be dealt with.”

“And think, too, of their sufferings should they be driven forth.”