Marie de Mantua was importuned with the profound salutations and Oriental elegancies of this foreigner and his suite.  Whenever he passed before her, he thought himself called upon to address a compliment to her in broken French, awkwardly made up of a few words about hope and royalty.  She found no other means to rid herself of him than by repeatedly putting her handkerchief to her nose, and saying aloud to the Queen: 

“In truth, Madame, these gentlemen have an odor about them that makes one quite ill.”

“It will be desirable to strengthen your nerves and accustom yourself to it,” answered Anne of Austria, somewhat dryly.

Then, fearing she had hurt her feelings, she continued gayly: 

“You will become used to them, as we have done; and you know that in respect to odors I am rather fastidious.  Monsieur Mazarin told me, the other day, that my punishment in purgatory will consist in breathing ill scents and sleeping in Russian cloth.”

Yet the Queen was very grave, and soon subsided into silence.  Burying herself in her carriage, enveloped in her mantle, and apparently taking no interest in what was passing around her, she yielded to the motion of the carriage.  Marie, still occupied with the King, talked in a low voice with the Marechale d’Effiat; each sought to give the other hopes which neither felt, and sought to deceive each other out of love.

“Madame, I congratulate you; Monsieur le Grand is seated with the King.  Never has he been so highly distinguished,” said Marie.

Then she was silent for a long time, and the carriage rolled mournfully over the dead, dry leaves.

“Yes, I see it with joy; the King is so good!” answered the Marechale.

And she sighed deeply.

A long and sad silence again followed; each looked at the other and mutually found their eyes full of tears.  They dared not speak again; and Marie, drooping her head, saw nothing but the brown, damp earth scattered by the wheels.  A melancholy revery occupied her mind; and although she had before her the spectacle of the first court of Europe at the feet of him she loved, everything inspired her with fear, and dark presentiments involuntarily agitated her.

Suddenly a horse passed by her like the wind; she raised her eyes, and had just time to see the features of Cinq-Mars.  He did not look at her; he was pale as a corpse, and his eyes were hidden under his knitted brows and the shadows of his lowered hat.  She followed him with trembling eyes; she saw him stop in the midst of the group of cavaliers who preceded the carriages, and who received him with their hats off.

A moment after he went into the wood with one of them, looking at her from the distance, and following her with his eyes until the carriage had passed; then he seemed to give the man a roll of papers, and disappeared.  The mist which was falling prevented her from seeing him any more.  It was, indeed, one of those fogs so frequent on the banks of the Loire.