“To the King—by the private way!” and, the Italian leading, we followed the Queen-Mother through the door by which she had entered the cabinet, and along a passage lighted by a small lamp at its extreme end. Here we came to another door, which Bentivoglio opened with a master-key, and, free of this, found ourselves at the base of a wide stairway that led to the apartments of the King.
All was in light—in white, dazzling light. There was a quick word of command, a flash of steel, the guard of the King’s Carabiniers presented arms, and Richelieu stepped forward, no longer the reckless soldier, but the suave courtier. The Star of the Order gleamed upon his silver cuirass, his short scarlet cloak was thrown back over his broad shoulders, and the blood-red plumes of his hat swept the polished flooring as he bowed before the Medicis.
“The King—my son—how is he?” asked Catherine.
“But as before, madame. His Majesty has asked for your Grace twice.”
The Queen-Mother crossed herself, and, preceded by Richelieu and followed by us, began to ascend the stairs, at the head of which we could see a gaily dressed group assembled, and among them some ladies, maids of honor, no doubt, to the reigning Queen.
The balustrade terminated in a square column of veined granite, upon which was set a marble Aphrodite, one arm outstretched as if casting a flower. From the rear of the party, where I was with Bentivoglio, who had dropped to my side, the lights made the goddess burn a rose-red, as if the statue were a living, palpitating thing. And, as I looked, a figure moved out of the throng above us, and stood beside the Venus; the figure of a woman, tall and stately, with deep, sleepy eyes and passionate lips, a living embodiment of the artist’s dream.
The Italian nudged me, for he saw too. “The Limeuil,” he whispered, “for whom your Condé will lose his honor.”
Ay! The words were almost prophetic, for it was for the sake of this woman before us that Condé, he for whom we were risking so much, trailed the honor of Bourbon in the dust, and broke the true heart of his wife, casting aside the priceless ruby for the sham, glittering crystal. If ever man was a moral murderer, he was; but he died like a gentleman and a soldier, while I—no, I dare not cast a stone!
And even as I write this there comes to me the memory of that grim story of the field of Jarnac, of that last devoted charge, for the sweet peril of Christ and the Fatherland, of Montesquieu’s deed of blood, and of that red sunset when Anjou stood in doubt and hesitation before a stripped and mangled corpse.
And there came a cry from those around, “She comes! She comes!” and a tall, veiled woman stepped slowly forward through the battle-worn group. Casting aside her veil, she looked long, with cold, hard eyes, on the disfigured features of the dead, and suddenly she laughed—a laugh that chilled the blood of all—as she pointed in triumph with her jewelled hand to the thing at her feet.