IN the old Chateau of Chantilly was a long gallery, which went by the name of the Cours aux cerfs, from the number of stags’ heads which appeared curiously sculptured upon the frieze, with their long branching horns projecting from the wall, and so far extended on both sides as to cross each other and form an extraordinary sort of trellis-work architrave, before they reached the ceiling.

The windows of this gallery were far apart, and narrow, admitting but little light into the interior, which, being of a dingy stone colour, could hardly have been rendered cheerful even by the brightest sunshine; but which, both from the smallness of the windows and the projection of a high tower on the other side of the court, was kept in continual shadow, except when in the longest days of summer the sun just passed the angle of the opposite building and threw a parting gleam through the last window, withdrawn as quickly as bestowed.

But at the time I speak of, namely, two days after the Queen’s arrival at Chantilly, no such cheering ray found entrance. It seemed, indeed, a fit place for melancholy imaginings; and to such sad purpose had Anne of Austria applied it. For some time she had been standing at one of the windows, leaning on the arm of Madame de Beaumont, and silently gazing with abstracted thoughts upon the open casements of the corridor on the other side, when the figures of Richelieu and Chavigni, passing by one of them, in their full robes, caught her eye; and withdrawing from the conspicuous situation in which she was placed, she remarked to the Marchioness what she had seen, and observed that they must be going to the council-chamber.

Thus began a conversation which soon turned to the King, and to his strange conduct, which ever since their arrival had continued in an increasing strain of petulance and ill-temper.

“Indeed, Madam,” said the Marchioness de Beaumont, “your Majesty’s gentleness is misapplied. Far be it from me to urge aught against my King; but there be some dispositions to have their vehemence checked and repelled; and it is well also for themselves, when they meet with one who will oppose them firmly and boldly.”

“Perhaps, De Beaumont,” replied the Queen, “if I had taken that course many years ago, it might have produced a happy effect; but now, alas! it would be in vain; and God knows whether it would have succeeded even then!”

As she spoke, the door of the gallery opened, and an officer of the Council appeared, notifying to the Queen that his Majesty the King demanded her presence in the council-chamber.

Anne of Austria turned to Madame de Beaumont with a look of melancholy foreboding. “More, more, more still to endure,” she said: and then added, addressing the officer, “His Majesty’s commands shall be instantly obeyed; so inform him, Sir.—De Beaumont, tell Mademoiselle de Hauteford that I shall be glad of her assistance too. You will go with me, of course.”

Mademoiselle de Hauteford instantly came at the Queen’s command, and approaching her with a sweet and placid smile, said a few words of comfort to her Royal mistress in so kind and gentle a manner, that the tears rose in the eyes of Anne of Austria.

“De Hauteford!” said she, “I feel a presentiment that we shall soon part, and therefore I speak to you now of what I never spoke before. I know how much I have to thank you for—I know how much you have rejected for my sake—The love of a King would have found few to refuse it. You have done so for my sake, and you will have your reward.”

The eloquent blood spread suddenly over the beautiful countenance of the lady of honour. “Spare me, spare me, your Majesty,” cried she, kissing the hand the Queen held out to her. “I thought that secret had been hidden in my bosom alone. But oh let me hope that, even had it not been for my love for your Majesty, I could still have resisted. Yes! yes!” continued she, clasping her hands, and murmuring to herself the name of a higher and holier King, “yes! yes! I could have resisted!”

The unusual energy with which the beautiful girl spoke, on all ordinary occasions so calm and imperturbable, showed the Queen how deeply her heart had taken part in that to which she alluded; and perhaps female curiosity might have led her to prolong the theme, though a painful one to both parties, had not the summons of the King required her immediate attention.

As they approached the council-chamber, Madame de Beaumont observed that the Queen’s steps wavered.

“Take courage, Madam,” said she. “For Heaven’s sake, call up spirit to carry you through, whatever may occur.”

“Fear not, De Beaumont,” replied the Queen, though her tone betrayed the apprehension she felt. “They shall see that they cannot frighten me.”

At that moment the Huissier threw open the door of the council-chamber, and the Queen with her ladies entered, and found themselves in the presence of the King and all his principal ministers. In the centre of the room, strewed with various papers and materials for writing, stood a long table, at the top of which, in a seat slightly raised above the rest, sat Louis himself, dressed, as was usual with him, in a suit of black silk, without any ornament whatever, except three rows of sugar-loaf buttons of polished jet,—if these could be considered as ornamental. His hat, indeed, which he continued to wear, was looped up with a small string of jewels; and the feather, which fell much on one side, was buttoned with a diamond of some value; but these were the only indications by which his apparel could have been distinguished from that of some poor avouÉ, or greffier de la cour.

On the right hand of the King was placed the Cardinal de Richelieu, in his robes; and on the left, was the Chancellor Seguier. Bouthilliers, Chavigni, Mazarin, and other members of the council, filled the rest of the seats round the table; but at the farther end was a vacant space, in front of which the Queen now presented herself, facing the chair of the King.

There was an angry spot on Louis’s brow, and as Anne of Austria entered, he continued playing with the hilt of his sword, without once raising his eyes towards her. The Queen’s heart sank, but still she bore an undismayed countenance, while the Cardinal fixed upon her the full glance of his dark commanding eyes, and rising from his seat, slightly inclined his head at her approach.

The rest of the Council rose, and Chavigni turned away his eyes, with an ill-defined sensation of pain and regret; but the more subtle Mazarin, ever watchful to court good opinion, whether for present, or for future purposes, glided quietly round, and placed a chair for her at the table. It was an action not forgotten in after days.

A moment’s pause ensued. As soon as the Queen was seated, Richelieu glanced his eye towards the countenance of the King, as if to instigate him to open the business of the day: but Louis’s attention was deeply engaged in his sword-knot, or at least seemed to be so, and the Cardinal was at length forced to proceed himself.

“Your Majesty’s presence has been desired by the King, who is like a God in justice and in equity,” said Richelieu, proceeding in that bold and figurative style, in which all his public addresses were conceived, “in order to enable you to cast off, like a raiment that has been soiled by a foul touch, the accusations which have been secretly made against you, and to explain some part of your conduct, which, as clouds between the earth and the sun, have come between yourself and your royal husband, intercepting the beams of his princely approbation. All this your Majesty can doubtless do, and the King has permitted the Council to hear your exculpation from your own lips, that we may trample under our feet the foul suspicions that appear against you.”

“Lord Cardinal,” replied the Queen, calmly, but firmly, “I wonder at the boldness of your language. Remember, Sir, whom it is that you thus presume to address—The wife of your Sovereign, Sir, who sits there, bound to protect her from insult and from injury.”

“Cease, cease, Madam!” cried Louis, breaking silence. “First prove yourself innocent, and then use the high tone of innocence, if you will.”

“To you, my Lord,” replied the Queen, “I am ready to answer every thing, truly and faithfully, as a good wife, and a good subject; but not to that audacious vassal, who, in oppressing and insulting me, but degrades your authority and weakens your power.”

“Spare your invectives, Madam,” said the Cardinal calmly, “for, if I be not much mistaken, before you leave this chamber you will be obliged to acknowledge all that is contained in the paper before me; in which case, the bad opinion of your Majesty would be as the roar of idle wind, that hurteth not the mariner on shore.”

“My Lord and Sovereign,” said the Queen, addressing Louis, without deigning to notice the Cardinal, “it seems that some evil is laid to my charge; will you condescend to inform me of what crime I am accused, that now calls your Majesty’s anger upon me?—If loving you too well,—if lamenting your frequent absence from me,—if giving my whole time and care to your children, be no crimes, tell me, my Lord, tell me, what I have done.”

“What you have done, Madam, is easily told,” exclaimed Louis, his eyes flashing fire. “Give me that paper, Lord Cardinal;” and passing hastily from article to article of its contents, he continued: “Have you not, contrary to my express command, and the command of the Council, corresponded with Philip of Spain? Have you not played the spy upon the plans of my Government, and caused the defeat of my armies in Flanders, the losses of the Protestants in Germany, the failure of all our schemes in Italy, by the information you have conveyed? Have you not written to Don Francisco de Mello, and your cousin the Archduke? Have you not——”

“Never, never!” exclaimed the Queen, clasping her hands, “never, so help me Heaven!”

“What!” cried Louis, dashing the paper angrily upon the table. “Darest thou deny what is as evident as the sun in the noonday sky? Remember, Madam, that your minion, De Blenau, is in the Bastille, and will soon forfeit his life upon the scaffold, if his obstinacy does not make him die under the question.”

“For poor De Blenau’s sake, my Lord,” replied the Queen,—“for the sake of as noble, and as innocent a man as ever was the victim of tyranny, I will tell you at once, that I have written to Philip of Spain—my own dear brother. And who can blame me, my Lord, for loving one who has always loved me? But I knew my duty better than ever once to mention even the little that I knew of the public affairs of this kingdom: and far less, your Majesty, did I pry into secret plans of State policy for the purpose of divulging them. My letters, my Lord, were wholly domestic. I spoke of myself, of my husband, of my children; I spoke as a woman, a wife, and a mother; but never, my Lord, as a Queen; and never, never as a spy.

“As to De Blenau, my Lord, let me assure you, that before he undertook to forward those letters, he exacted from me a promise, that they should never contain any thing which could impeach his honour, or his loyalty. This, my Lord, is all my crime, and this is the extent of his.”

There was a degree of simplicity and truth in the manner of the Queen, which operated strongly on the mind of Louis. “But who,” said he, “will vouch that those letters contained nothing treasonable? We have but your word, Madam; and you well know that we are at war with Spain, and cannot procure a sight of the originals.”

“Luckily,” replied Anne of Austria, her countenance brightening with a ray of hope, “they have all been read by one whom your Majesty yourself recommended to my friendship. Clara de Hauteford, you have seen them all. Speak! Tell the King the nature of their contents without fear and without favour.”

Mademoiselle de Hauteford advanced from behind the Queen’s chair; and the King, who, it was generally believed, had once passionately loved her, but had met with no return, now fixed his eyes intently upon the pale, beautiful creature, that, scarcely like a being of the earth, glided silently forward and placed herself directly opposite to him. Clara de Hauteford was devotedly attached to the Queen. Whether it sprang from that sense of duty which in general governed all her actions, or whether it was personal attachment, matters little, as the effect was the same, and she would, at no time, have considered her life too great a sacrifice to the interest of her mistress.

She advanced then before the Council, knowing that the happiness, if not the life of Anne of Austria, might depend upon her answer; and clasping her snowy hands together, she raised her eyes towards Heaven, “So help me God at my utmost need!” she said, with a clear, slow, energetic utterance, “no line that I have ever seen of her Majesty’s writing—and I believe I have seen almost all she has written within the last five years—no line that I have seen, ever spoke any thing but the warmest attachment to my Lord the King; nor did any ever contain the slightest allusion to the politics of this kingdom, but were confined entirely to the subject of her domestic life;—nor even then,” she continued, dropping her full blue eyes to the countenance of the King, and fixing them there, with a calm serious determined gaze, which overpowered the glance of the Monarch, and made his eyelid fall—“nor even then did they ever touch upon her domestic sorrows.”

Richelieu saw that the King was moved: he knew also the influence of Mademoiselle de Hauteford, and he instantly resolved upon crushing her by one of those bold acts of power which he had so often attempted with impunity. Nor had he much hesitation in the present instance, knowing that Louis’s superstitious belief in the predictions of the Astrologer had placed the Monarch’s mind completely under his dominion. “Mademoiselle de Hauteford,” said he in a stern voice, “answer me. Have you seen all the letters that the Queen has written to her brother, Philip King of Spain, positively knowing them to be such?”

“So please your Eminence, I have,” replied Mademoiselle de Hauteford.

“Well then,” said Richelieu, rising haughtily from his chair while he spoke, “in so doing you have committed misprision of treason, and are therefore banished from this court and kingdom for ever; and if within sixteen days from this present, you have not removed yourself from the precincts of the realm, you shall be considered guilty of high treason, and arraigned as such, inasmuch as, according to your own confession, you have knowingly and wilfully, after a decree in council against it, concealed and abetted a correspondence between persons within the kingdom of France, and a power declaredly its enemy.”

As the Cardinal uttered his sentence in a firm, deep, commanding voice, the King, who had at first listened to him with a look of surprise, and perhaps of anger, soon began to feel the habitual superiority of Richelieu, and shrunk back into himself, depressed and overawed: the Queen pressed her hand before her eyes; and Chavigni half raised himself, as if to speak, but instantly resumed his seat as his eye met that of the Cardinal.

It was Mademoiselle de Hauteford alone that heard her condemnation without apparent emotion. She merely bowed her head with a look of the most perfect resignation. “Your Eminence’s will shall be obeyed,” she replied, “and may a gracious God protect my innocent Mistress!” Thus saying, she again took her place behind the Queen’s chair, with hardly a change of countenance—always pale, perhaps her face was a little paler but it was scarcely perceptible.

“And now,” continued Richelieu in the same proud manner, assuming at once that power which he in reality possessed,—“and now let us proceed to the original matter, from which we have been diverted to sweep away a butterfly. Your Majesty confesses yourself guilty of treason, in corresponding with the enemies of the kingdom. I hold in my hand a paper to that effect, or something very similar, all drawn from irrefragable evidence upon the subject. This you may as well sign, and on that condition no farther notice shall be taken of the affair; but the matter shall be forgotten as an error in judgment.”

“I have not confessed myself guilty of treason, arrogant Prelate,” replied the Queen, “and I have not corresponded with Philip of Spain as an enemy of France, but as my own brother. Nor will I, while I have life, sign a paper so filled with falsehoods as any one must be that comes from your hand.”

“Your Majesty sees,” said Richelieu, turning to the King, from whom the faint sparks of energy he had lately shown were now entirely gone. “Is there any medium to be kept with a person so convicted of error, and so obstinate in the wrong? And is such a person fit to educate the children of France? Your Majesty has promised that the Dauphin and the Duke of Anjou shall be given into my charge.”

“I have,” said the weak Monarch, “and I will keep my promise.”

“Never! never!” cried the Queen vehemently, “never, while Anne of Austria lives! Oh, my Lord!” she exclaimed, advancing, and casting herself at the feet of the King; with all the overpowering energy of maternal love, “consider that I am their mother!—Rob me not of my only hope,—rob me not of those dear children who have smiled and cheered me through all my sorrows. Oh, Louis! if you have the feelings of a father, if you have the feelings of a man, spare me this!”

The King turned away his head, and Richelieu, gliding behind the throne, placed himself at the Queen’s side. “Sign the paper,” said he, in a low deep tone, “sign the paper, and they shall not be taken from you.”

“Any thing! any thing! but leave me my children!” exclaimed the Queen, taking the pen he offered her. “Have I your promise?”

“You have,” replied he decidedly. “They shall not be taken from you.”

“Well, then!” said Anne of Austria, receiving the paper, “I will sign it; but I call Heaven to witness that I am innocent; and you, gentlemen of the Council, to see that I sign a paper, the contents of which I know not, and part of which is certainly false.” Thus saying, with a rapid hand she wrote her name at the bottom of the page, threw down the pen and quitted the apartment.

The Queen walked slowly, and in silence, to the apartments allotted to her use, without giving way to the various painful feelings that struggled in her bosom; but once arrived within the shelter of her own saloon, she sank into a chair, and burst into a flood of tears. Mademoiselle de Hauteford, who stood beside her, endeavoured in vain for some time to calm her agitation, but at length succeeding in a degree.

“Oh, Clara!” said the Queen, “you have ruined yourself for my sake.”

“I hope, Madam,” replied the young lady, “that I have done my duty, which were enough in itself to reconcile me to my fate; but if I could suppose that I have served your Majesty, I should be more than rewarded for any thing I may undergo.”

“You have served me most deeply on this and every occasion,” answered the Queen; “and the time may come, when the affection of Anne of Austria will not be what it is now,—the destruction of all that possess it.—But why comes Mademoiselle de Beaumont in such haste?” she continued, as Pauline, who had been absent in the gardens of the Palace, and unconscious of all that had lately passed, entered the saloon with hurry and anxiety in her countenance.

“Please your Majesty,” said Pauline, and then suddenly stopped, seeing that the Queen had been weeping. “Proceed, proceed! wild rose,” said Anne of Austria; “they are but tears—drops that signify nothing.”

“As I was walking in the gardens but now,” continued Pauline, “a little peasant boy came up to me, and asked if I could bring him to speech of your Majesty. I was surprised at his request, and asked him what was his business; when he told me that he brought you a letter from the Bastille. This seemed so important that I made bold to take him into the Palace by the private gate, and concealed him in my apartments, till I had informed you of it all.”

“You did right, Pauline, you did right,” replied the Queen. “It must surely be news from De Blenau. Bring the boy hither directly—not by the anteroom, but by the inner apartments—You, Clara, station Laporte at the top of the staircase, to see that no one approaches.”

Pauline flew to execute the Queen’s commands, and in a few minutes a clatter was heard in the inner chamber, not at all unlike the noise produced by that most unfortunate animal a cat, when some mischievous boys adorn her feet with walnut-shells.

The moment after, the door opened, and Pauline appeared leading in a fine curly-headed boy of about ten years old. He was dressed in hodden grey, with a broad leathern belt round his waist, in which appeared a small axe and a knife, while his feet, displaying no stockings, but with the skin tanned to the colour of Russia leather, were thrust into a pair of unwieldy sabots, or wooden-shoes, which had caused the clatter aforesaid.

“Take off his sabots, take off his sabots,” cried the Queen, putting her hands to her ears. “They will alarm the whole house.”

“Dame oui!” cried the boy, slipping his feet out of their incumbrances. “J’avons oubliÉ, et vous aussi, Mademoiselle,” turning to Pauline, who, anxious to hear of De Blenau, would have let him come in, if he had been shod like a horse.

The little messenger now paused for a moment, then having glanced his eye over the ladies at the other end of the room, as if to ascertain to which he was to deliver his credentials, advanced straight to the Queen, and falling down upon both his knees, tendered her a sealed packet.

“Well, my boy,” said Anne of Austria, taking the letter, “whom does this come from?”

“My father, the Woodman of Mantes,” replied the boy, “told me to give it into the Queen’s own hand; and when I had done so, to return straight to him and not to wait, for fear of being discovered.”

“And how do you know that I am the Queen?” asked Anne of Austria, who too often suffered her mind to be distracted from matters of grave importance by trifling objects of amusement. “That lady is the Queen,” she continued, pointing to Madame de Beaumont, and playing upon the boy’s simplicity.

“No, no,” said Charles, the Woodman’s son, “she stands and you sit; and besides, you told them to take off my sabots, as if you were used to order all about you.”

“Well,” rejoined the Queen, “you are right, my boy: go back to your father, and as a token that you have given the letter to the Queen, carry him back that ring;” and she took a jewel from her finger, and put it into the boy’s hand. “Mademoiselle de Beaumont,” she continued, “will you give this boy into the charge of Laporte, bidding him take him from the Palace by the most private way, and not to leave him till he is safe out of Chantilly.”

According to Anne of Austria’s command, Pauline conducted Charles to the head of the staircase, at which had been stationed Laporte, the confidential servant of the Queen, keeping watch to give notice of any one’s approach. To him she delivered her charge with the proper directions, and then returned to the saloon, not a little anxious to learn the contents of De Blenau’s letter. I will not try to explain her sensations. Let those who have been parted from some one that they love, who have been anxious for his safety, and terrified for his danger, who have waited in fear and agony for tidings long delayed—let them call up all that they felt, and tinging it with that shade of romance, which might be expected in the mind of a young, feeling, imaginative, Languedocian girl of 1643, they will have something like a picture of Pauline’s sensations, without my helping them a bit.

“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.”

“I do not intend to make that a plea,” replied Pauline, smiling in youthful confidence; “but I will borrow one of my maid’s dresses, and doubtless shall look as like a soubrette as any one. Claude directs us, here, to ask at the gate for Philip the woodman of Mantes. Now he will most likely be able to procure me admission; and if not, I can but give the message to him and be sent away again.”

“Oh, no, no!” cried the Queen, “give no messages but in the last extremity. How do we know that this Woodman might not betray us, and raise Richelieu’s suspicions still more? If you can see De Blenau, well—— I will give you a letter for him; but if not, only tell the Woodman to inform him, that I have confessed all. If that reach the tyrant’s ears, it can do no harm. Your undertaking is bold, Pauline: think you your courage will hold out?”

The boundaries between emulation and jealousy are very frail, and Madame de Beaumont, who regarded the services which Mademoiselle de Hauteford had rendered the Queen with some degree of envy, now answered for her daughter’s courage with more confidence than perhaps she felt. But Pauline’s plan yet required great arrangement, even to give it the probability of success. With a thousand eyes continually upon their actions, it was no very easy matter even to quit Chantilly without calling down that observation and inquiry which would have been fatal to their project.

To obviate this difficulty, however, it was agreed that Pauline should accompany Mademoiselle de Hauteford, whose sentence of banishment required her immediate presence in Paris, for the arrangement of her affairs. On their arrival in that city, the two ladies were to take up their abode with the old Marchioness de Senecy, one of the Queen’s most devoted adherents, and to determine their future proceedings by the information they received upon the spot.

The greatest rapidity, however, was necessary to any hope of success, and neither Pauline nor Mademoiselle de Hauteford lost any time in their preparations. The Queen’s letter to De Blenau was soon written. Pauline borrowed from her maid Louise, the full dress of a Languedoc peasant, provided herself with a considerable sum of money, that no means might be left untried, and having taken leave of her mother, whose bold counsels tended to raise her spirits and uphold her resolution, she placed herself in the chaise roulante beside Mademoiselle de Hauteford, buoyed up with youthful confidence and enthusiasm.

It was rather an anxious moment, however, as they passed the gates of the Palace, which by some accident were shut. This caused a momentary delay, and several of the Cardinal’s guard (for Richelieu assumed that of a bodyguard amongst other marks of royalty) gathered round the vehicle with the idle curiosity of an unemployed soldiery. Pauline’s heart beat fast, but the moment after she was relieved by the appearance of the old concierge, or porter, who threw open the gates, and the carriage rolled out without any question being asked. Her mind, however, was not wholly relieved till they were completely free of the town of Chantilly, and till the carriage slowly mounting the first little hill, took a slight turn to avoid a steeper ascent, showing them the towers of the chateau and the course of the road they had already passed, without any human form that could afford subject for alarm.

Pauline, seeing that they were not followed, gave herself up to meditations of the future, firmly believing that their departure had entirely escaped the observation of the Cardinal. This, however, was not the case. He had been early informed that one of the Queen’s carriages was in preparation to carry some of the ladies of honour to Paris; but concluding that it was nothing more than the effect of that sentence of banishment which he had himself pronounced against Mademoiselle de Hauteford, he suffered Pauline and her companion to depart without inquiry or obstruction; although some of the many tools of his power had shut the Palace gates, as if by accident, till his decision was known.

As the carriage rolled on, and Pauline reflected in silence upon the task she had undertaken, the bright colouring of the moment’s enthusiasm faded away; the mists in which hope had concealed the rocks and precipices around her path, no longer intercepted her view, and the whole difficulties and dangers to which she exposed herself, presented themselves one after another to her sight. But the original motives still remained in full force. Her deep romantic attachment to De Blenau, her sense of duty to the Queen, and that generosity of purpose which would have led her at any time to risk her life to save the innocent—much more the innocent and loved—of these, nothing could deprive her; and these kept up her resolution, although the very interest which her heart took in the success of her endeavour, made her magnify the dangers, and tremble at the thought of failure.