"His Majesty is here?" interposed Chartres, sternly.
"Naturally," she replied, with curling lip.
"And M. de Richelieu?"
"I have the honor, Monseigneur."
Richelieu spoke from the doorway of his bedroom, where he stood, quite still, a little stiffer than usual, eyeing de Chartres as though he would have impressed something upon him. Perhaps Monseigneur understood. At any rate, the hesitation became a pause, and the pause grew into a hopeless stillness as the Duchesse de Châteauroux turned slowly about and faced the companion of these last days.
"Du Plessis—you—" she faltered, actually unsuspecting, speaking as if to a companion in trouble.
"Madame," he responded, brokenly.
"Can you—do nothing? Have you no help?" she whispered.
Richelieu bent his head. "Nothing."
Maurepas smiled sarcastically, but no one noticed it. Fitz-James of Soissons advanced into the room, his robes trailing, his manner lofty and severe.