“Ma foi” replied the Duchess, after having reperused the letter contained in the despatch, “even I could not have contrived it better. Here is the Cardinal craving a private audience of your Majesty in the absence of the King. It will be a declaration in form—such as he made to me.”
“A declaration to me, Duchess? He would not dare——”
“Madame, he has been a soldier, and has passed his life along with a great queen. He believes himself irresistible. Who knows if Marie de’ Medici did not tell him so?” Anne of Austria looked displeased. “Pardon me, Madame, this saucy Cardinal, whom I call the Court-knave, makes me forget myself. Your Majesty must receive him graciously.”
“Yes, he shall come,” cried Anne; “he shall come and pay for his audacity, the hypocrite! But tell me, Duchess, tell me instantly, how can I best revenge myself? I have a long account to settle. Shall I command my valets, Laporte and Putange, to hide behind the arras and beat him until he is half dead?”
“No, Madame, that would be too dangerous; he might cut off your head in revenge, à la reine Anne Boleyn. We must mortify him—wound his vanity: no vengeance equal to that with a man like the Cardinal. He is intensely conceited, and proud of his figure. He imagines that he is graceful and alluring—perhaps he has been told so by her Majesty—I beg your pardon, Madame”—and the Duchess stopped and pursed up her lips, as if she could say more but dared not.
“Did Marion de l’Orme betray him?” asked the Queen slily, “or do you speak on your own knowledge?”
“I have it!” cried Madame de Chevreuse—not noticing the Queen’s question—and her mischievous eyes danced with glee. “I will meet him when he comes to-morrow, and persuade him to appear in the dress of a Spaniard, out of compliment to you. Stay, he shall dance, too, and we will provide a mandoline to accompany his voice. I will tell him that you have long admired him in secret, and that if he appears in so becoming a costume he is sure to be well received. A Spanish costume, too, for he knows how you adore Spain, the spy—then he shall dance a sarabande, a bolero à l’Espagnol, or sing——”
“Ha! ha! Duchess, you are impayable” and the Queen laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks. “But will he be fool enough to believe you? If he does, I will kill him with scorn, the daring Cardinal!” and Anne of Austria drew herself up, looked into an opposite mirror, shook her golden curls, and laughed again.
The next morning, at the hour of the Queen’s lever, the Cardinal arrived. The Duchesse de Chevreuse met him and conducted him to a room near the Queen’s saloon. She carefully closed the door, begged him to be seated, and, with an air of great mystery, requested him to listen to her before his arrival was announced to her Majesty. The Cardinal was greatly taken aback at finding himself alone with the Duchess. She looked so seductive; the dark tints of her luxuriant hair, hanging about her neck and shoulders, harmonised so well with her brunette complexion, her brown eyes bent smilingly upon him, her delicate robe clinging to her tall figure, that he was almost tempted to repent his infidelity to her, and that he had come for any other than for her.
“Your eminence is surprised to see me,” said she, smiling, and speaking in the softest voice, and with the utmost apparent frankness, “but I am not in the least jealous,” and she shook her finger at him.