But it is now time that we should return to the Queen-mother.

Alarmed by the report of firearms within the boundary of the palace, Marie de Medicis, who had not yet completed her toilet, desired Caterina Selvaggio to throw open one of the windows, and to demand the cause of so singular and unpardonable an infraction of the law.  She was obeyed; and the Italian waiting-woman no sooner perceived De Vitry advancing below the apartments of her royal mistress than she inquired of him what had occurred.

“The Marechal d’Ancre has been shot,” was his abrupt reply.

“Shot!” echoed Caterina; “and by whom?”

“By myself,” said De Vitry composedly; “and by the command of the King.”

“Madame!” exclaimed the terrified attendant, as she rushed to the side of the Queen-mother, “M. le Marechal has been killed by order of his Majesty.”

Marie de Medicis started from her seat; her cheeks were blanched, her lips quivered, and she wrung her hands convulsively, as she gasped out, “I have reigned seven years.  I must now think only of a crown in heaven.”

Her attendants, stupified with terror, rapidly gathered round her; and ere long she learnt that her guards had been disarmed, and replaced by those of the King.  She listened vaguely to each successive report, and paced the room with rapid but uncertain steps.  At length she exclaimed vehemently, “I do not regret that my son should have taken the life of Concini, if he believed it necessary to the safety of his kingdom; but his distrust of myself in concealing such a project from my knowledge is more than I can bear.”

When the first violence of her emotion had subsided she sank into a seat, and with clasped hands and drooping head appeared to be absorbed in deep and bitter thought; for at intervals the blood mounted to her brow and burned there for a time, after which she again became pale as ashes, and as motionless as a corpse.  She was still in this attitude when one of her confidential servants imprudently approached her, and inquired how the melancholy event was to be communicated to the Marechale d’Ancre?  “Perhaps,” he incautiously suggested, “your Majesty will condescend to acquaint her with it yourself.”

Marie de Medicis suddenly raised her hand, swept back her dishevelled hair from her face, and fixing her flashing eyes upon the officious gentleman, passionately replied, “I have other things to attend to at this moment.  If no one can tell the Marechale that her husband has been killed, let them sing it to her.  Let me never again hear the name of those people.  I told them long ago that they would do right to return to Italy.  Yes,” she continued, more particularly addressing the Dowager Duchess of Guise, the Princesse de Conti, and the other ladies who were standing near her, “they have at last accomplished my ruin.  I foresaw it; I warned them, but they would not be convinced.  I told Concini that he had no time to lose, but with his habitual self-sufficiency he declared repeatedly that the King became more courteous to him every day.  I was not deceived, however; I charged him not to trust to appearances, for that Louis never said all he thought; he disregarded my words, and he has now involved me in his own destruction.” [287]