“I will tell your Majesty all that has happened,” replied the Count; “and as I have a boon to ask, I think I must represent my sufferings in your Majesty’s cause in the most tremendous colours. But without a jest, I have had little to undergo beyond a forced attendance at the Cardinal’s fête, where the only hard word I received was from L’Angeli, the Duke of Enghien’s fool, who, seeing my riding-dress, asked if I were Puss in Boots.” De Blenau then shortly related all that had occurred during his stay in Paris. “And thus, Madam,” he added, “you see that Chavigni has kept his word; for had it not been for that promise, I doubt not I should have been even now comfortably lodged in the Bastille, with a table at his Majesty’s expense.”
The Queen mused for a moment without making any reply; but from her countenance it seemed that she was not a little troubled by what she had heard.
“De Blenau,” said she at length, in a calm but melancholy voice, “there is something concealed here. The Cardinal has deeper plans in view. As Marie de Bourbon told you, they are plotting my ruin. When first I entered France, that man of blood and treachery resolved to make me his slave. He flattered my tastes, he prevented my wishes, like an insidious serpent he wound himself into my confidence; and I was weak enough to dream that my husband’s minister was my best friend. With as much vanity as insolence, he mistook condescension for love. He sought his opportunity, and dared to insult my ears with his wishes. I need not tell you, De Blenau, what was my reply; but it was such as stung him to the soul. He rose from where he had been kneeling at my feet, and threatened such vengeance, that, as he said, my whole life should be one long succession of miseries. Too truly has he kept his word."—The Queen paused, and as was often her custom when any circumstance called her memory back to the bitter events of her past life, fell into a deep reverie, from which it was not easy to rouse her.
“Too much of this,” said she at length; “we must look to the present, De Blenau. As the mother of two princes, Richelieu both hates and fears me; and I see that they are plotting my ruin. But yours shall not be involved therein.—De Blenau, you must fly till this storm has passed by.”
“Pardon me, madam,” replied the Count, “but in this I cannot yield your Majesty that obedience I would willingly show under any other circumstances. I cannot, I must not fly. My own honour, madam, requires that I should stay; for if flight be not construed into an evidence of guilt, it may at least be supposed a sign of cowardice.”
“Indeed, indeed! De Blenau,” said the Queen, earnestly, “you must do as I require; nay,” she added, with a mixture of sweetness and dignity, “as I command. If they can prove against you that you have forwarded letters from me to my brother the King of Spain, they will bring you to the block, and will most likely ruin me.”
“I trust to the promise your Majesty gave me when first I undertook to have those letters conveyed to your royal brother King Philip,” answered De Blenau: “you then pledged to me your word that they were alone of a domestic nature, and that they should always continue so, without ever touching upon one subject of external or internal policy, so that my allegiance to my king, and my duty to my country, should alike remain pure and inviolate. I doubt not that your Majesty has pointedly kept this promise; and De Blenau will never fly, while he can lay his hand upon his heart and feel himself innocent.”
“Yes, but remember, my good youth,” replied the Queen, “that this Cardinal,—my husband’s tyrant rather than his subject,—has commanded me, his Queen, to forbear all correspondence with my brother, and has narrowly watched me to prevent that very communication between Philip and myself, which your kindness has found means to procure. Remember too his remorseless nature; and then judge whether he will spare the man who has rendered his precautions vain.”
“Madam,” replied De Blenau, “I do not fear; nothing shall make me fly. Though there be no bounds to what the Cardinal dare attempt, yet his power does not extend to make me a coward!”
“But for my sake,” still persevered Anne of Austria, labouring to persuade him to a measure on which she too well knew his safety depended. “Remember, that if there be proved against me even so small a crime as having sent those letters, my ruin is inevitable, and there are modes of torture which will wrench a secret from the most determined constancy.”