Her thoughts raced at a fever pace; she saw the towers of Exeter, the first thing she could remember; she saw the mean room in Paris where her girlhood had been spent and the waves tossing in the channel as she stood on the deck of the ship by her mother’s side: a man in cut velvet was there–George Villiers, the first man to profess himself mad for love of her.
Then masques, festivals, adorations, ballets danced with the King, snatched interviews with De Guiche, passionate letters from De Vardes, hunting parties with M. de Lorraine, little scenes with Monsieur, with the Queen Mother,–her last great triumph only a few days ago–and now?
Not the end? Oh, God! Oh, Christ! Not the end!
“She is better,” whispered Madame de la Fayette, seeing her lie still.
She opened her poor tortured blue eyes.
“The pain is always the same,” she said, “only I have no strength to complain.”
Then after a moment–
“Is there no remedy for this agony?”
They wept and whispered and talked. Monsieur was in the ante-chamber. The doctors seemed bewildered, frightened; one felt her pulse; it was beating furiously. She complained of heat though she had tossed the bedclothes off and torn open her night-gown; but there were so many people in the room, and they pressed so close to the bed that she obtained little air.