“Come hither, my wild rose,” said the Queen, as she saw her enter. “Here is a letter from De Blenau, full of sad news indeed. His situation is perilous in the extreme; and though I am the cause of all, I do not know how to aid him.”
Pauline turned pale, but cast down her eyes, and remained without speaking.
“Surely, Pauline,” said the Queen, misinterpreting her silence, “after the explanations I gave you some days ago, you can have no farther doubt of De Blenau’s conduct?”
“Oh no indeed! Madam,” replied Pauline, vehemently, “and now that I feel and know how very wrong those suspicions were, I would fain do something to atone for having formed them.”
“Thou canst do nothing, my poor flower,” said the Queen, with a melancholy smile. “However, read that letter, and thou wilt see that something must soon be done to save him, or his fate is sealed. De Blenau must be informed that I have acknowledged writing to my brother, and all the particulars connected therewith; for well I know that Richelieu will not be contented with my confession, but will attempt to wring something more from him, even by the peine forte et dure.”
Pauline read, and re-read the letter, and each time she did so, the colour came and went in her cheek, and at every sentence she raised her large dark eyes to the Queen, as if inquiring what could be done for him. Each of the Queen’s ladies was silent for a time, and then each proposed some plan, which was quickly discussed and rejected, as either too dangerous, or totally impracticable. One proposed to bribe the Governor of the Bastille to convey a letter to De Blenau, but that was soon rejected: another proposed to send Laporte, the Queen’s valet de chambre, to try and gain admittance; but Laporte had once been confined there himself, and was well known to all the officers of the prison: and another mentioned Seguin, Anne of Austria’s surgeon; but he also was not only too well known, but it appeared, from what De Blenau had informed the Queen of his conference with Richelieu, that the very words of the message which had been sent by him on the night of the young Count’s rencontre with the robbers, had been communicated to the Cardinal; and the whole party forgot that Louise, the soubrette, had been present when it was delivered.
In the mean while, Pauline remained profoundly silent, occupied by many a bitter reflection, while a thousand confused schemes flitted across her mind, like bubbles floating on a stream, and breaking as soon as they were looked upon. At length, however, she started, as if some more feasible plan presented itself to her thoughts——“I will go!” exclaimed she,—“Please your Majesty, I will go.”
“You, Pauline!” said the Queen, “you, my poor girl! You know not the difficulties of such an undertaking. What say you, Madame de Beaumont?”
“That I am pleased, Madam, to see my child show forth the spirit of her race,” replied the Marchioness. “Nor do I doubt of her success; for sure I am Pauline would not propose a project which had no good foundation.”
“Then say how you intend to manage it,” said the Queen, with little faith in the practicability of Pauline’s proposal. “I doubt me much, my sweet girl, they will never let you into the Bastille. Their hearts are as hard as the stones of the prison that they keep, and they will give you no ingress for love of your bright eyes.”