“Well then,” said Richelieu, rising haughtily from his chair while he spoke, “in so doing you have committed misprision of treason, and are therefore banished from this court and kingdom for ever; and if within sixteen days from this present, you have not removed yourself from the precincts of the realm, you shall be considered guilty of high treason, and arraigned as such, inasmuch as, according to your own confession, you have knowingly and wilfully, after a decree in council against it, concealed and abetted a correspondence between persons within the kingdom of France, and a power declaredly its enemy.”
As the Cardinal uttered his sentence in a firm, deep, commanding voice, the King, who had at first listened to him with a look of surprise, and perhaps of anger, soon began to feel the habitual superiority of Richelieu, and shrunk back into himself, depressed and overawed: the Queen pressed her hand before her eyes; and Chavigni half raised himself, as if to speak, but instantly resumed his seat as his eye met that of the Cardinal.
It was Mademoiselle de Hauteford alone that heard her condemnation without apparent emotion. She merely bowed her head with a look of the most perfect resignation. “Your Eminence’s will shall be obeyed,” she replied, “and may a gracious God protect my innocent Mistress!” Thus saying, she again took her place behind the Queen’s chair, with hardly a change of countenance—always pale, perhaps her face was a little paler but it was scarcely perceptible.
“And now,” continued Richelieu in the same proud manner, assuming at once that power which he in reality possessed,—“and now let us proceed to the original matter, from which we have been diverted to sweep away a butterfly. Your Majesty confesses yourself guilty of treason, in corresponding with the enemies of the kingdom. I hold in my hand a paper to that effect, or something very similar, all drawn from irrefragable evidence upon the subject. This you may as well sign, and on that condition no farther notice shall be taken of the affair; but the matter shall be forgotten as an error in judgment.”
“I have not confessed myself guilty of treason, arrogant Prelate,” replied the Queen, “and I have not corresponded with Philip of Spain as an enemy of France, but as my own brother. Nor will I, while I have life, sign a paper so filled with falsehoods as any one must be that comes from your hand.”
“Your Majesty sees,” said Richelieu, turning to the King, from whom the faint sparks of energy he had lately shown were now entirely gone. “Is there any medium to be kept with a person so convicted of error, and so obstinate in the wrong? And is such a person fit to educate the children of France? Your Majesty has promised that the Dauphin and the Duke of Anjou shall be given into my charge.”
“I have,” said the weak Monarch, “and I will keep my promise.”
“Never! never!” cried the Queen vehemently, “never, while Anne of Austria lives! Oh, my Lord!” she exclaimed, advancing, and casting herself at the feet of the King; with all the overpowering energy of maternal love, “consider that I am their mother!—Rob me not of my only hope,—rob me not of those dear children who have smiled and cheered me through all my sorrows. Oh, Louis! if you have the feelings of a father, if you have the feelings of a man, spare me this!”
The King turned away his head, and Richelieu, gliding behind the throne, placed himself at the Queen’s side. “Sign the paper,” said he, in a low deep tone, “sign the paper, and they shall not be taken from you.”
“Any thing! any thing! but leave me my children!” exclaimed the Queen, taking the pen he offered her. “Have I your promise?”