“I expected you, dear Marie,” said the Queen, extending her arms to the Duchesse de Mantua. “You have been more courageous than any of us; you are attired fit to be seen by all the court.”
“I was not in bed, fortunately,” replied the young Princesse de Gonzaga, casting down her eyes. “I saw all these people from the windows. O Madame, Madame, fly! I implore you to escape by the secret stairway, and let us remain in your place. They might take one of us for the Queen.” And she added, with tears, “I have heard cries of death. Fly, Madame! I have no throne to lose. You are the daughter, the wife, and the mother of kings. Save yourself, and leave us here!”
“You have more to lose than I, ‘m’amaie’, in beauty, youth, and, I hope, in happiness,” said the Queen, with a gracious smile, giving the Duchess her beautiful hands to kiss. “Remain in my alcove and welcome; but we will both remain there. The only service I accept from you, my sweet child, is to bring to my bed that little golden casket which my poor Motteville has left on the ground, and which contains all that I hold most precious.”
Then, as she took it, she whispered in Marie’s ear:
“Should any misfortune happen to me, swear that you will throw it into the Seine.”
“I will obey you, Madame, as my benefactress and my second mother,” Marie answered, weeping.
The sound of the conflict redoubled on the quays, and the windows reflected the flash of the firearms, of which they heard the explosion. The captain of the guards and the captain of the Swiss sent for orders from the Queen through Dona Stefania.
“I permit them to enter,” said the Queen. “Stand aside, ladies. I am a man in a moment like this; and I ought to be so.” Then, raising the bed-curtains, she continued, addressing the two officers:
“Gentlemen, first remember that you answer with your heads for the life of the princes, my children. You know that, Monsieur de Guitaut?”
“I sleep across their doorway, Madame; but this disturbance does not threaten either them or your Majesty.”