The Duchess and Mademoiselle de Hautefort fling their arms round her.
“Bear up, Madame, the worst is over. Be only firm; they can prove nothing,” whispers the Duchess. “There is not a tittle of evidence against you.”
“Ah, but, my friend, you forget that the King is eager to repudiate me. Mademoiselle de Hautefort knows it from his own lips.”
“He cannot, without proofs of your guilt,” the Duchess answers resolutely. “There are none. And if he does, qu’importe? Why mar that queenly brow with sorrow, and wrinkle those delicate cheeks with tears? Be like me, Madame, a citizen of the world—Madrid, Paris, London—what matters? The sun shines as brightly in other lands as here. Life and love are everywhere. You are young, beautiful, courageous. To see you is to love you. Swords will start from their scabbards to defend you. Your exile in your brother’s Court will be a triumph. You will rule all hearts; you will still be the sovereign of youth, of poetry, and of song!”
As she speaks the Duchess’s countenance beams with enthusiasm. Anne of Austria shakes her head sorrowfully, and is silent.
“You are happy, Duchess, in such volatile spirits,” says Mademoiselle de Hautefort contemptuously, her eyes all the while fixed on her royal mistress; “but I cannot look on the disgrace of the Queen of France as though it were the finale to a page’s roundelay.”
The sound of many heavy coaches thundering into the inner court of the convent puts a stop to further conversation.
“The council is assembling!” exclaims the Duchess.
At these words the Queen rises mechanically; her large eyes, dilated and widely open, are fixed on vacancy, as though the vision of some unspoken horror, some awful disaster, had risen before her. She knows it is the crisis of her life. From that chamber she may pass to banishment, prison, or death. For a moment her mind wanders. She looks round wildly. “Spare me! spare me!” she murmurs, and she wrings her hands. “Alas! I am too young to die!” Then collecting her scattered senses, she moves forward with measured steps. “I am ready,” she says, in a hollow voice. “Unbar the door.”