“Lord, pardon us the blood that will be shed!  We combat the wicked and the impious.”  Then, raising his voice, “My friend, the cause of virtue will triumph,” he said; “it alone will triumph.  God has ordained that the guilty treaty should not reach us; that which constituted the crime is no doubt destroyed.  We shall fight without the foreigners, and perhaps we shall not fight at all.  God will change the heart of the king.”

“’Tis the hour! ’tis the hour!” exclaimed Cinq-Mars, his eyes fixed upon the watch with a kind of savage joy; “four minutes more, and the Cardinalists in the camp will be crushed!  We shall march upon Narbonne!  He is there!  Give me the pistol!”

At these words he hastily opened the tent, and took up the match.

“A courier from Paris! an express from court!” cried a voice outside, as a man, heated with hard riding and overcome with fatigue, threw himself from his horse, entered, and presented a letter to Cinq-Mars.

“From the Queen, Monseigneur,” he said.  Cinq-Mars turned pale, and read as follows: 

M. De Cinq-Mars:  I write this letter to entreat and conjure you to restore to her duties our well-beloved adopted daughter and friend, the Princesse Marie de Gonzaga, whom your affection alone turns from the throne of Poland, which has been offered to her.  I have sounded her heart.  She is very young, and I have good reason to believe that she would accept the crown with less effort and less grief than you may perhaps imagine.

It is for her you have undertaken a war which will put to fire and sword my beautiful and beloved France.  I supplicate and implore you to act as a gentleman, and nobly to release the Duchesse de Mantua from the promises she may have made you.  Thus restore repose to her soul, and peace to our beloved country.

   The Queen, who will throw herself at your feet if need be,

Anne.

Cinq-Mars calmly replaced the pistol upon the table; his first impulse had been to turn its muzzle upon himself.  However, he laid it down, and snatching a pencil, wrote on the back of the letter;

   Madame:  Marie de Gonzaga, being my wife, can not be Queen of Poland
   until after my death.  I die.

Cinq-Mars.

Then, as if he would not allow himself time for a moment’s reflection, he forced the letter into the hands of the courier.

“To horse! to horse!” cried he, in a furious tone.  “If you remain another instant, you are a dead man!”

He saw him gallop off, and reentered the tent.  Alone with his friend, he remained an instant standing, but pale, his eyes fixed, and looking on the ground like a madman.  He felt himself totter.

“De Thou!” he cried.

“What would you, my friend, my dear friend?  I am with you.  You have acted grandly, most grandly, sublimely!”