an hour, she heard shrill cries behind the doors and the thick tapestries of her chamber.  She ordered her women to open the door, and the Duchesse de Chevreuse, in her night attire, and wrapped in a great cloak, fell, nearly fainting, at the foot of her bed, followed by four of her ladies-in-waiting and three of the women of the bed-chamber.  Her delicate feet were bare, and bleeding from a wound she had received in running.

She cried, weeping like a child, that a pistol-shot had broken her shutters and her window-panes, and had wounded her; she entreated the Queen to send her into exile, where she would be more tranquil than in a country where they wished to assassinate her because she was the friend of her Majesty.

Her hair was in great disorder, and fell to her feet.  It was her chief beauty; and the young Queen thought that this toilette was less the result of chance than might have been imagined.

“Well, my dear, what has happened?” she said to her with sang-froid.  “You look like a Magdalen, but in her youth, and before she repented.  It is probable that if they wish to harm any one here it is I; calm yourself.”

“No, Madame! save me, protect me! it is Richelieu who pursues me, I am sure!”

The sound of pistols, which was then heard more distinctly, convinced the Queen that the terrors of Madame de Chevreuse were not vain.

“Come and dress me, Madame de Motteville!” cried she.  But that lady had completely lost her self-possession, and, opening one of those immense ebony coffers which then answered the purpose of wardrobes, took from it a casket of the Princess’s diamonds to save it, and did not listen to her.  The other women had seen on a window the reflection of torches, and, imagining that the palace was on fire, threw jewels, laces, golden vases, and even the china, into sheets which they intended to lower into the street.  At this moment Madame de Guemenee arrived, a little more dressed than the Duchesse de Chevreuse, but taking events still more tragically.  Her terror inspired the Queen with a slight degree of fear, because of the ceremonious and placid character she was known to possess.  She entered without curtseying, pale as a spectre, and said with volubility: 

“Madame, it is time to make our confession.  The Louvre is attacked, and all the populace are arriving from the city, I have been told.”

Terror silenced and rendered motionless all the persons present.

“We shall die!” exclaimed the Duchesse de Chevreuse, still on her knees.  “Ah, my God! why did I leave England?  Yes, let us confess.  I confess aloud.  I have loved—­I have been loved by—­”

“Well,” said the Queen, “I do not undertake to hear your confession to the end.  That would not perhaps be the least of my dangers, of which, however, you think little.”

The coolness of Anne of Austria, and this last severe observation, however, restored a little calm to this beautiful personage, who rose in confusion, and perceiving the disordered state of her toilet, went to repair it as she best could in a closet near by.