Mademoiselle de Hautefort, speaking in her usual quiet manner, entreated him to be calm.
“Am I forgiven?” said he in a faltering voice, looking the picture of despair. “Will you still trust me?”
“Yes, yes, Sire. I am ashamed to answer such a question. Your Majesty has given me no offence.”
Louis reseated himself.
“It is to prepare you for an unexpected event that I wish to talk to you. It is possible that I may shortly leave Compiègne suddenly and secretly. I must tear myself away from you for a while.”
“Leave the Court, Sire! What do you mean?”
“The quarrels between my mother and Richelieu are more than I can endure. They must end. One must go—I will not say which. You can guess. I am assured by Richelieu, who has information from all parts of France, that her Majesty is hated by the people. She is suspected of a knowledge of my great father’s death; she has abused her position. No one feels any interest in her fate.”
“But, surely, your Majesty feels no pleasure in knowing that it is so, even if it be true, which I much doubt.”
“Well, her Majesty has deserved little favour of me,” replied he with indifference. “Richelieu tells me that her exile would be a popular act——”
“Her exile, Sire! You surely do not contemplate the exile of your own mother?”