“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!”
“De Thou!” he cried again, in a hollow voice, and fell with his face to the ground, like an uprooted tree.