"I remember only that it was a grievously sad day for me, Motteville."
"But your majesty had not always regarded that day a sad one."
"Why?"
"Because three and twenty years before, on that very day, his present majesty, your own glorious son, was born at the very same hour."
The queen uttered a loud cry, buried her face in her hands, and seemed utterly lost for some minutes; but whether from recollections which arose in her mind, or from reflection, or even from sheer pain, it was of course uncertain. La Molina darted almost a furious look at Madame de Motteville, which was so full of bitter reproach, that the poor woman, perfectly ignorant of its meaning, was, in her own exculpation, on the point of asking an explanation of its meaning; when, suddenly Anne of Austria arose and said, "Yes, the 5th of September; my sorrow began on the 5th of September. The greatest joy, one day; the deepest sorrow the next:—the sorrow," she added, "the bitter expiation of a too excessive joy."
And, from that moment, Anne of Austria, whose memory and reason seemed to have become entirely suspended for a time, remained impenetrable, with vacant look, mind almost wandering, and hands hanging heavily down, as if life had almost departed.
"We must put her to bed," said La Molina.
"Presently, Molina."
"Let us leave the queen alone," added the Spanish attendant.
Madame de Motteville rose; large and glistening tears were fast rolling down the queen's pallid face; and Molina, having observed this sign of weakness, fixed her black vigilant eyes upon her.