A sudden dizziness, an overwhelming conviction of something new and strange in her position, sobered the passion of Marie de’ Medici the instant the King was gone. She stood motionless where he had left her, save that her uplifted arm dropped to her side. A mournful look—the shadow of coming misfortunes—clouded her face. Silent and dejected, the tears streaming from her eyes, she withdrew. When she had reached her own apartments, she commanded that no one should be admitted.
That same day the King left Compiègne, taking with him only two attendants. No one knew whither he was gone.
Early the next morning the Queen-mother’s ladies were startled by the appearance of Cardinal Richelieu in her anteroom. It was long since he, who was wont never to be absent from her service, had been seen there.
“Tell her Majesty,” he said to the Duchesse d’Epernon, “that I am come on urgent state business, by the express command of the King, and that I must speak with her in person.”
After some delay he was admitted into the Queen’s apartment.
Marie de’ Medici wears a long robe of black velvet, and a widow’s coif upon her head. She looks old, worn, and anxious; she is neither imperious nor angry. She begins to realise that power is passing from her; she is intensely curious, not to say alarmed, as to what the intelligence may be, of which the Cardinal is the bearer; and she now secretly repents that she has quarrelled with him.
The Cardinal wears a close-fitting black soutane bound with purple, and a beretta of the same colour on his head; he has nothing of the churchman in his appearance. He is still a young man, upright in figure and easy in manner, attractions which he owes to his early military training. He has piercing black eyes, light brown hair that lies straight upon his forehead, and a pale, thoughtful face, already lined with wrinkles. His closely shutting mouth, thin-lipped and stern, expresses inflexible determination. His manners are composed, almost gentle; his voice melodious. He has not yet become the imperious autocrat—the merciless butcher of the chivalrous nobles of France—of after years. Chalais and Montmorenci have not yet fallen by his order on the scaffold; and Cinq-Mars is a precocious lad, living with his mother on the banks of the Loire. Without vanity he knows that he has genius to conceive great deeds, and industry to elaborate every necessary detail. Already the consciousness of growing greatness forces itself upon him. The incompetence of the King, his indolent acquiescence in all his measures, the jealousy between Louis and his mother whom the King has hitherto not dared to check, his alienation from the young Queen his wife, open before Richelieu’s mental vision a vista of almost boundless power. Now he stands in the presence of his early benefactress, the sovereign to whom he would have been faithful, had such fidelity been consistent with the welfare of France and his own ambition. Spite of habitual self-control, he is greatly moved at her forlorn condition. He still hopes that he may save her from an overwhelming calamity.
Richelieu advances to where the Queen-mother is seated beside the hearth, and after making a profound obeisance waits for her to address him.
“You bear to me a message from my son. What can he have to say to me, that he cannot speak himself?” Marie asks with dignity.
“Nothing, my most gracious mistress,” replies Richelieu, almost submissively, “if your Majesty will deign to be guided by my counsel.”