“Yes; no doubt he knows it, or has foreseen it.  He permits it; he authorizes it, to compromise me in the King’s eyes, and keep him forever separated from me.  He would complete my humiliation.”

“But the King has not loved him for two years; he loves another.”

The Queen smiled; she gazed some time in silence upon the pure and open features of the beautiful Marie, and her look, full of candor, which was languidly raised toward her.  She smoothed back the black curls which shaded her noble forehead, and seemed to rest her eyes and her soul in looking at the charming innocence displayed upon so lovely a face.  She kissed her cheek, and resumed: 

“You do not suspect, my poor child, a sad truth.  It is that the King loves no one, and that those who appear the most in favor will be the soonest abandoned by him, and thrown to him who engulfs and devours all.”

“Ah, mon Dieu! what is this you tell me?”

“Do you know how many he has destroyed?” continued the Queen, in a low voice, and looking into her eyes as if to read in them all her thoughts, and to make her own penetrate there.  “Do you know the end of his favorites?  Have you been told of the exile of Baradas; of that of Saint-Simon; of the convent of Mademoiselle de la Fayette, the shame of Madame d’Hautfort, the death of Chalais?  All have fallen before an order from Richelieu to his master.  Without this favor, which you mistake for friendship, their lives would have been peaceful.  But this favor is mortal; it is a poison.  Look at this tapestry, which represents Semele.  The favorites of Louis XIII resemble that woman; his attachment devours like this fire, which dazzles and consumes her.”

But the young Duchess was no longer in a condition to listen to the Queen.  She continued to fix her large, dark eyes upon her, dimmed by a veil of tears; her hands trembled in those of Anne of Austria, and her lips quivered with convulsive agitation.

“I am very cruel, am I not, Marie?” continued the Queen, in an extremely sweet voice, and caressing her like a child from whom one would draw an avowal.  “Oh, yes; no doubt I am very wicked!  Your heart is full; you can not bear it, my child.  Come, tell me; how do matters stand with you and Monsieur de Cinq-Mars?”

At this word grief found a vent, and, still on her knees at the Queen’s feet, Marie in her turn shed upon the bosom of the good Princess a deluge of tears, with childish sobs and so violent an agitation of her head and her beautiful shoulders that it seemed as if her heart would break.  The Queen waited a long time for the end of this first emotion, rocking her in her arms as if to appease her grief, frequently repeating, “My child, my child, do not afflict yourself thus!”

“Ah, Madame!” she exclaimed, “I have been guilty toward you; but I did not reckon upon that heart.  I have done wrong, and I shall perhaps be punished severely for it.  But, alas! how shall I venture to confess to you, Madame?  It was not so much to open my heart to you that was difficult; it was to avow to you that I had need to read there myself.”