It is Twelfth-night. Anne of Austria is spending the evening in her closet, watching the King and his brother, the Duc d'Anjou—both dressed in character—struggle on the floor over the remains of the cake from which they had dug the "bean" and the "ring." Louis XIV. is a handsome boy, docile yet spirited; Philip of Anjou is puny, peevish, and cowardly.
Anne of Austria leans against the back of a chair, and watches the two boys. Her ladies watch her. There is a strange rumour that her Majesty is to leave Paris that very night. To look into her placid face, such an idea seems absurd. By-and-by, Mazarin and some of the princes of the blood come in to ask her pleasure for the morrow. They do not remain, as there is a supper at the Maréchal de Grammont's in honour of the day. When they are gone, the Queen turns to Madame de la Trémouille.
"I shall go to-morrow to the Val de Grâce. Give orders that everything may be ready for me. Call Beringhen; it is time for his Majesty and the Duke to go to bed."
The King at once comes forward to bid his mother good night. The Duke begins to cry.
"What is it, my son?" says the Queen.
"I want, Madame, to go with you to the Val de Grâce to-morrow—do let me!" and he kneels and kisses her hand.
"If I go, my son, I promise to take you. Now, good night, Philip," and she raises him in her arms, and kisses him; "do not keep his Majesty waiting."
She retires early. Those ladies who do not sleep at the Palais Royal leave, and the gates are closed.
At three o'clock in the morning, Mademoiselle de Montpensier, at the Palace of the Luxembourg, is awakened by a violent knocking. She rouses her women, and orders them to see who is there. It is a messenger from the Queen.