ANNE OF AUSTRIA seated herself beside a fire which burnt on the hearth. She signed to her attendants to withdraw.

“Send hither to me the Duchesse de Chevreuse, if she has returned to the chÂteau,” said she to one of the pages in waiting. Then Anne drew from her bosom the letter she had just received. “It is incredible,” said she, speaking to herself, “that he should so compromise himself! Pride has turned his brain. Now it is my turn, Monsieur le Cardinal.” The Duchess entered hastily. “Read, ma belle, read,” cried Anne, holding out the despatch to her, “the fates favour us. Let us a lay a trap for this wicked prelate.”

“Ma foi” replied the Duchess, after having reperused the letter contained in the despatch, “even I could not have contrived it better. Here is the Cardinal craving a private audience of your Majesty in the absence of the King. It will be a declaration in form—such as he made to me.”

“A declaration to me, Duchess? He would not dare——”

“Madame, he has been a soldier, and has passed his life along with a great queen. He believes himself irresistible. Who knows if Marie de’ Medici did not tell him so?” Anne of Austria looked displeased. “Pardon me, Madame, this saucy Cardinal, whom I call the Court-knave, makes me forget myself. Your Majesty must receive him graciously.”

“Yes, he shall come,” cried Anne; “he shall come and pay for his audacity, the hypocrite! But tell me, Duchess, tell me instantly, how can I best revenge myself? I have a long account to settle. Shall I command my valets, Laporte and Putange, to hide behind the arras and beat him until he is half dead?”

“No, Madame, that would be too dangerous; he might cut off your head in revenge, À la reine Anne Boleyn. We must mortify him—wound his vanity: no vengeance equal to that with a man like the Cardinal. He is intensely conceited, and proud of his figure. He imagines that he is graceful and alluring—perhaps he has been told so by her Majesty—I beg your pardon, Madame”—and the Duchess stopped and pursed up her lips, as if she could say more but dared not.

“Did Marion de l’Orme betray him?” asked the Queen slily, “or do you speak on your own knowledge?”

“I have it!” cried Madame de Chevreuse—not noticing the Queen’s question—and her mischievous eyes danced with glee. “I will meet him when he comes to-morrow, and persuade him to appear in the dress of a Spaniard, out of compliment to you. Stay, he shall dance, too, and we will provide a mandoline to accompany his voice. I will tell him that you have long admired him in secret, and that if he appears in so becoming a costume he is sure to be well received. A Spanish costume, too, for he knows how you adore Spain, the spy—then he shall dance a sarabande, a bolero À l’Espagnol, or sing——”

“Ha! ha! Duchess, you are impayable” and the Queen laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks. “But will he be fool enough to believe you? If he does, I will kill him with scorn, the daring Cardinal!” and Anne of Austria drew herself up, looked into an opposite mirror, shook her golden curls, and laughed again.

The next morning, at the hour of the Queen’s lever, the Cardinal arrived. The Duchesse de Chevreuse met him and conducted him to a room near the Queen’s saloon. She carefully closed the door, begged him to be seated, and, with an air of great mystery, requested him to listen to her before his arrival was announced to her Majesty. The Cardinal was greatly taken aback at finding himself alone with the Duchess. She looked so seductive; the dark tints of her luxuriant hair, hanging about her neck and shoulders, harmonised so well with her brunette complexion, her brown eyes bent smilingly upon him, her delicate robe clinging to her tall figure, that he was almost tempted to repent his infidelity to her, and that he had come for any other than for her.

“Your eminence is surprised to see me,” said she, smiling, and speaking in the softest voice, and with the utmost apparent frankness, “but I am not in the least jealous,” and she shook her finger at him.

The Cardinal reddened, and looked confused.

“Do you, then, Duchess, guess on what errand I have come?”

“Perfectly, perfectly; when I heard you had requested a private audience in the absence of the King, I understood the rest.”

“Perhaps I have been indiscreet,” said Richelieu, and he sighed, “but I was anxious to explain my position to the Queen. I fear that she misconceives me; that she looks on me as her enemy; that she imagines that I prejudice the King against her. I desire to explain my feelings to her; they are of a mixed nature.”

“So I would suppose,” answered Madame de Chevreuse, primly, almost bursting with suppressed laughter.

“Do you think, then, madame, that her Majesty might be induced to lay aside her silence, her reserve? Are you authorised to admit me to her presence?”

“I am, Cardinal.”

Richelieu’s face flushed deep, his eyes glistened.

“To a certain extent,” continued the Duchess, “the Queen is gratified by your homage. Her Majesty has noted your slim yet manly form, your expressive eyes. She admires your great talents.”

“Do I dream?” exclaimed Richelieu. “You, madame, are indeed magnanimous. I feared that you might be indignant at what you might consider my inconstancy.”

“No, Cardinal, you could not be inconstant, for you were never loved.”

Richelieu started.

“By me—I mean to say, your eminence. You really should spare me,” added she, affectedly; “but I suppose I must speak. Anne of Austria, the daughter of a hundred kings, the wife of your Sovereign, secretly loves you, monseigneur. It is astonishing your extraordinary penetration never discovered this before. Since you went into the Church you must have grown modest; but love is blind, says the motto,” and the Duchess was obliged to hold her handkerchief to her face to hide her laughter.

“What words of ecstacy do you utter, adorable Duchess! But you must be aware of the coldness, the insulting scorn which the lovely Queen has hitherto shown towards me. How could I venture to guess——”

“Ah, Cardinal, it is easy to see you are not so advanced in the art of love as of politics. Let me advise you to read Ovid—a little of The Art of Love—pour vous remettre. Did you learn so little, then, from her late Majesty, Marie de’ Medici, as not to know that where most Cupid triumphs he most conceals his wicked little person? That very coldness and scorn you speak of are but proofs of the Queen’s passion. But let me tell you one thing: the Queen fears you may deceive—betray her; and you must excuse her in this, when you remember, monseigneur, certain tales of treachery—all utterly false, of course—but then pardon a woman’s fears. You must, to speak plainly, give her some undoubted proof of your love.”

“Madame, you cannot doubt after what I have just heard that I can hesitate in promising to do all and everything my royal mistress can desire.”

The Duchess confessed afterwards to the Queen, that it was with the utmost difficulty she could keep her countenance, so absolutely farcical were his transports.

“Have a care what you promise,” said the Duchess to the Cardinal; “the Queen is very bizarre, and perhaps may require something impracticable.”

“Madame,” replied Richelieu, “to me nothing in this realm is impracticable; speak only her Majesty’s wishes, and I hasten to obey them.”

“Well, then, to-night you must come at dusk to her apartments.” The Cardinal bounded from his chair with delight. “To-night; but not in this sombre, melancholy dress; you must wear a toilette a little convenable to the part you hope to act—something brilliant, gaudy—un pantalon vert, par exemple.” The Cardinal started. “At your knees little bells must be fastened. You must have a velvet jacket, scarlet scarf, and, in fact, all the et cÆteras of a Spanish dress. It will please the Queen, and pay her a delicate compliment, to which, believe me, she will not be insensible.”

All this time Richelieu had listened to the Duchess in an agony of surprise and amazement. “But, madame,” said he, at length, “this is impossible. I, a dignitary of the Church, a Cardinal. Much as I desire to show my devotion to the Queen, she herself cannot expect from me so strange, so extraordinary a proof——”

“Certainly, monseigneur, it is an extreme proof of your devotion, and as such the Queen will regard it. She will be gratified, and at the same time will be thoroughly convinced of your sincerity. However, pray do as you please,” and the Duchess shrugged her shoulders; “I merely mention her Majesty’s wishes; you are quite at liberty to refuse. I shall therefore,” and she rose, “report your refusal.”

“Stop, Duchess, stop, I entreat you!” interrupted Richelieu, “you are so precipitate! I will—I must! (But what a fearful degradation! I, the prime minister of France, a prince of the Church, to appear in the disguise of a mountebank!) Ah, madame, her Majesty is too hard on me; but I adore, I worship her too much to refuse. Yes,—her wishes are my law; I cannot, I dare not refuse. Tell the Queen, at twilight this evening, I will present myself in her apartments.”

The Duchess waited no longer, but flew to acquaint the Queen with her success. Neither could for a long time articulate a single syllable, they were so overcome with laughter. Music was introduced behind the arras, for the Cardinal was to be prevailed on to dance a sarabande. Then they impatiently awaited the moment of his arrival. At last, enveloped in a Spanish cloak that entirely concealed his dress, the Cardinal entered. He was hastily rushing towards the Queen—Heaven only knows with what intentions—when Madame de Chevreuse interposed:

“Not yet, Cardinal—not yet; you must show us your dress first, then you must dance a sarabande, a bolero—something. Her Majesty has heard of your accomplishments and insists on it.”

“Yes,” cried Anne of Austria, “I insist on it, monseigneur, and have provided the music accordingly.”

The violins now struck up. Richelieu looked confounded. He was almost on the point of rushing out, when a few words whispered to him by the Duchess arrested him; they acted like a charm. Casting one deep, impassioned glance at the Queen, who sat at a little distance reposing on a couch, ravishing in beauty, her rosy lips swelling with ill-suppressed scorn, he threw down his cloak, displaying his extraordinary dress, bells, scarlet scarf and all, and began to dance—yes, to dance!

Poor man! he was no longer young, and was stiff from want of practice; so after a few clumsy entrechats and pirouettes, he stopped. He was quite red in the face and out of breath. He looked horribly savage for a few moments. The music stopped also, and there was a pause. Then he advanced towards the Queen, the little bells tinkling as he moved.

“Your Majesty must now be convinced of my devotion. Deign, most adorable Princess, to permit me to kiss that exquisite hand.”

The Queen listened to him in solemn silence. The Duchess leaned behind her couch, a smile of gratified malice on her face. The Cardinal, motionless before them, awaited her reply. Then Anne of Austria rose, and, looking him full in the face, measured him from head to foot. Anger, contempt, and scorn flashed in her eyes. At last she spoke—ineffable disgust and disdain in her tone—“Your eminence is, I rejoice to see, good for something better than a spy. I had hitherto doubted it. You have diverted me immensely. But take my advice; when you next feel inclined to pay your addresses to the Queen of France, get yourself shut up by your friends for an old fool. Now you may go.”

Richelieu, who had gradually turned livid while the Queen spoke, waited to hear no more. He covered himself with his cloak and rushed headlong from the room.