“Dona Stefania,” said the Queen to one of her women, the only Spaniard whom she had retained, “go seek the captain of the guards.  It is time that I should see men at last, and hear something reasonable.”

She said this in Spanish, and the mystery of this order, spoken in a tongue which the ladies did not understand, restored those in the chamber to their senses.

The waiting-woman was telling her beads, but she rose from the corner of the alcove in which she had sought refuge, and hastened to obey her mistress.

The signs of revolt and the evidences of terror became meantime more distinct.  In the great court of the Louvre was heard the trampling of the horses of the guards, the orders of the chiefs, the rolling of the Queen’s carriages, which were being prepared, should it be necessary to fly.  The rattling of the iron chains dragged along the pavement to form barricades in case of an attack, hurried steps in the corridor, the clash of arms, the confused cries of the people, which rose and fell, went and came again, like the noise of the waves and the winds.  The door once more opened, and this time it was to admit a very charming person.

“I expected you, dear Marie,” said the Queen, extending her arms to the Duchesse de Mantua.  “You have been more courageous than any of us; you are attired fit to be seen by all the court.”

“I was not in bed, fortunately,” replied the young Princesse de Gonzaga, casting down her eyes.  “I saw all these people from the windows.  O Madame, Madame, fly!  I implore you to escape by the secret stairway, and let us remain in your place.  They might take one of us for the Queen.”  And she added, with tears, “I have heard cries of death.  Fly, Madame!  I have no throne to lose.  You are the daughter, the wife, and the mother of kings.  Save yourself, and leave us here!”

“You have more to lose than I, ‘m’amaie’, in beauty, youth, and, I hope, in happiness,” said the Queen, with a gracious smile, giving the Duchess her beautiful hands to kiss.  “Remain in my alcove and welcome; but we will both remain there.  The only service I accept from you, my sweet child, is to bring to my bed that little golden casket which my poor Motteville has left on the ground, and which contains all that I hold most precious.”

Then, as she took it, she whispered in Marie’s ear: 

“Should any misfortune happen to me, swear that you will throw it into the Seine.”

“I will obey you, Madame, as my benefactress and my second mother,” Marie answered, weeping.

The sound of the conflict redoubled on the quays, and the windows reflected the flash of the firearms, of which they heard the explosion.  The captain of the guards and the captain of the Swiss sent for orders from the Queen through Dona Stefania.

“I permit them to enter,” said the Queen.  “Stand aside, ladies.  I am a man in a moment like this; and I ought to be so.”  Then, raising the bed-curtains, she continued, addressing the two officers: