“O Madame!” exclaimed Marie de Mantua to the Queen, “do you see this storm coming up from the south?”

“You often look in that direction, ’ma chere’,” answered Anne of Austria, leaning on the balcony.

“It is the direction of the sun, Madame.”

“And of tempests, you see,” said the Queen.  “Trust in my friendship, my child; these clouds can bring no happiness to you.  I would rather see you turn your eyes toward Poland.  See the fine people you might command.”

At this moment, to avoid the rain, which began to fall, the Prince-Palatine passed rapidly under the windows of the Queen, with a numerous suite of young Poles on horseback.  Their Turkish vests, with buttons of diamonds, emeralds, and rubies; their green and gray cloaks; the lofty plumes of their horses, and their adventurous air-gave them a singular eclat to which the court had easily become accustomed.  They paused for a moment, and the Prince made two salutes, while the light animal he rode passed gracefully sideways, keeping his front toward the princesses; prancing and snorting, he shook his mane, and seemed to salute by putting his head between his legs.  The whole suite repeated the evolution as they passed.  The Princesse Marie had at first shrunk back, lest they should see her tears; but the brilliant and flattering spectacle made her return to the balcony, and she could not help exclaiming: 

“How gracefully the Palatine rides that beautiful horse! he seems scarce conscious of it.”

The Queen smiled, and said: 

“He is conscious about her who might be his queen tomorrow, if she would but make a sign of the head, and let but one glance from her great black almond-shaped eyes be turned on that throne, instead of always receiving these poor foreigners with poutings, as now.”

And Anne of Austria kissed the cheek of Marie, who could not refrain from smiling also; but she instantly sunk her head, reproaching herself, and resumed her sadness, which seemed gliding from her.  She even needed once more to contemplate the great clouds that hung over the chateau.

“Poor child,” continued the Queen, “thou dost all thou canst to be very faithful, and to keep thyself in the melancholy of thy romance.  Thou art making thyself ill with weeping when thou shouldst be asleep, and with not eating.  Thou passest the night in revery and in writing; but I warn thee, thou wilt get nothing by it, except making thyself thin and less beautiful, and the not being a queen.  Thy Cinq-Mars is an ambitious youth, who has lost himself.”

Seeing Marie conceal her head in her handkerchief to weep, Anne of Austria for a moment reentered her chamber, leaving Marie in the balcony, and feigned to be looking for some jewels at her toilet-table; she soon returned, slowly and gravely, to the window.  Marie was more calm, and was gazing sorrowfully at the landscape before her, the hills in the distance, and the storm gradually spreading itself.