"Speak," whispers the Duchesse de Chevreuse in her softest voice, "it will relieve you. In what manner did our royal mistress dismiss you?"
"Late last evening," answers Mademoiselle de Hautefort, in a tremulous voice, stopping every now and then to sigh, and to wipe the tears that streamed from her eyes. "Mademoiselle de Motteville and I were assisting the Queen at her coucher. As is our habit we were conversing familiarly with her. The Queen was undressed, and just preparing to get into bed. She had only her last prayer to say, for she lives on prayer, like a true saint." Madame de Noailles draws down the corners of her mouth and scarcely endeavours to hide her derision. Even the Duchesse de Chevreuse smiles. "Mademoiselle de Motteville and her sister the Comtesse de Jars, and Mademoiselle de Beaumont, had just left the anteroom from whence they had been speaking with the Queen. I was on my knees before her taking off her shoes. All at once I remembered that a gentleman, who attends upon the ladies in waiting, called Nédo, a Breton—you know him, Duchess?"—Madame de Chevreuse answered that she did,—"had asked me to obtain a better appointment for him." Mademoiselle de Hautefort pauses. The scene seems to rise before her, and a fresh fit of violent sobbing prevents her from speaking. "Alas!" she exclaims at last, "why—why did I presume to trouble her Majesty for such a trifle? A stranger to me, too! I have lost what was dearer to me than life—herself. She refused me," continues Mademoiselle de Hautefort, "I was nettled. Oh, Duchess," says she, turning to Madame de Chevreuse, "how often have you borne my hasty temper! How I reproach myself now! That temper has ruined—undone me!"
"What would Monsieur le Maréchal de Schomberg say if he heard you?" asks Madame de Noailles slily.
"Do not name him to me," cries Mademoiselle de Hautefort impatiently. "Schomberg is nothing to me in comparison with the Queen. Had I remained with her, I could never, never have married!"
"Well, you will now," and the Duchess laughs. "But what happened? Do go on."
"Alas! I lost my temper. I was irritated at her Majesty refusing me so small a favour. I told her she had forgotten the claims of her old friends, who had suffered so much in her service."
"That was wrong, ungenerous," interposes Madame de Chevreuse. "A favour ceases to be a favour, if it be made a subject of reproach; besides——"
"Ah! I know it too well!" and Mademoiselle de Hautefort almost groans with anguish; "and it is that which breaks my heart; it is my own fault. The Queen, in one moment, became more excited than I had ever seen her. Her face turned crimson, she threw herself on her bed, commanded me to close the curtains, and to retire. I disobeyed her. I could not help it. I cast myself on the ground within the ruelle of her bed. I clasped my hands. I told her I called God to witness of my love, my devotion to her. I implored her to recall the past, to remember his Majesty Louis XIII."
"Ah! you were very wrong," exclaims Madame de Chevreuse; "most impolitic, most undutiful. You have a good heart, mademoiselle, but you are too impulsive."
"It is true," answers Mademoiselle de Hautefort, humbly. "Her Majesty grew more and more displeased, she said that she must have me know she would allow no one about her who did not love and respect her; then she went on to say that I had made observations upon her valued servant, Cardinal Mazarin, which were very displeasing to her. I replied too hastily that it was my care for her honour that had made me do so; that reports were circulating injurious to her, and that I longed to see the departure of a minister whose presence compromised her."