STRANGE to say, in the manuscript notes from which this true history is derived, there occurs the most extraordinary omission that perhaps ever appeared in the writings of any one pretending to accuracy; and most provoking of all, I have searched memoirs and annals, histories and letters, state papers and private memoranda, and have consulted all sorts of tradition, oral and written, without being enabled to supply from any other source the neglect of the original historian. Who would believe, that, after having interested the reader so deeply in the character of Jacques Chatpilleur, Cuisinier Aubergiste, the writer of the above-mentioned notes would be so inconsiderate, so stupid, so disappointing, as not to say one word concerning the farther progress of the redoubtable vivandier on that night, wherein he achieved the two famous victories recorded in the last volume. But so it is: instead of giving us a pathetic account of the scanty supper he at length contrived to furnish forth for the noble prisoner, or of satisfying our curiosity in regard to the means he employed to appease the wrath of the Governor, the notes skip over the farther proceedings of that entire night, and bring us at once upon the Count de Blenau’s levee the next morning; entering into very minute details concerning the difficulties he encountered in arranging his mustaches, buttoning his pourpoint, &c. without assistance; all of which I shall pass over as contemptible and irrelevant, and below the dignity of authentic history.

With the embarrassment of the Count de Blenau’s mind we have something more to do; and, to tell the truth, the more he reflected upon his situation, the more he was puzzled in regard to his future conduct. A fresh examination, either by Lafemas or some member of the Council, was to be expected speedily, under which he must either still refuse to answer, which would infallibly be followed by the peine forte et dure; or he must acknowledge that the Queen had privily conveyed him an order to confess all, which would involve his royal mistress and himself and Pauline in dangers, the extent of which he hardly knew; or he must reply to the questions he had before refused to answer, and disclose what had been intrusted to his honour, without showing that he was authorized to do so; in which case, the reproach of treachery and cowardice must inevitably fall upon his name. This was a dilemma with three horns, and each very sharp; so that it was difficult to determine which to jump upon, and seemingly impossible to avoid them all. De Blenau was sadly chewing the cud of these bitter doubts, when he heard some one enter the outer chamber; and the moment after, the very privacy of his bedroom was invaded by the Governor, who entered with a countenance pale and agitated; and who, like all people who have something horrible to communicate, begged him not to be alarmed, in a tone that was enough to frighten him out of his wits.

“Alarmed at what?” demanded the Count, summoning courage to encounter the danger, whatever it might be.

“Why, Monsieur de Blenau,” answered the Governor, “you must prepare yourself to meet the Cardinal himself; a messenger has just come to say that he will be here in person without loss of time. He arrived last night at the Palais Cardinal, and brought the King to Paris with him.”

“You seem to hold this Cardinal in some fear,” said De Blenau, almost smiling, amidst his own embarrassment, at the evident terror of the Governor. “I could have wished that he had given me a little more time for consideration; but I am not so frightened at him as you seem to be, who have nothing to do with it.”

“But pray remember, mon cher Comte,” cried the Governor, “that you promised not to betray me to the Cardinal in any case.”

De Blenau’s lip curled with contempt. “I think, you ought to know before this time,” answered he, “that I am not likely to betray any one.—But there seems a noise and bustle in the court, in all probability caused by the arrival of the Cardinal. Go and receive him, and depend upon me.”—Of all misfortunes on the earth, thought De Blenau, the curse of cowardice is the most dreadful.

In a few minutes his supposition respecting the arrival of the Cardinal was confirmed by a summons to appear before the Council in the hall of audience; and with his mind still undecided, he followed the officer across the court to the scene of his former examination. A difference, however, struck him in the present arrangements of the prison, from those which he had before remarked.

The court, instead of being crowded by those prisoners who had the liberty of walking in it, was now entirely void; and, fixed like marble on each side of the door opening into the audience-hall, was a soldier of the Cardinal’s guard, between whom stood a clerk, or greffier, of the council-chamber, seemingly waiting for the approach of the prisoner. As soon as De Blenau was within hearing, the doors were thrown open, and the Clerk pronounced, “Claude Count de Blenau, appear before the King in council.”

“The King!” thought De Blenau; “this Cardinal, not content with taking the King’s guards, must take his title also:”—but passing on through the open doors he entered the hall, where a very different scene presented itself from that which had before met his eyes in the same place.

The whole farther part of the chamber was filled with the officers and attendants of Richelieu: each side, as well as the interstices between the massy pillars that supported the roof, was occupied by a body of the Cardinal’s guard: in the chair at the head of the table sat the King himself with the Prime Minister on his right hand: Chavigni, Bouthilliers, Mazarin and others, occupied seats on either side; and to complete the array appeared several clerks, together with the officers of the prison, leaving only the space of about three feet at the bottom of the table, which remained clear for the prisoner to present himself opposite the throne.

Extraordinary as it was for the King himself to sit upon the examination of a State prisoner, the whole demeanour and conduct of the monarch had undergone a change since the return of Cinq Mars, which astonished those about him more than even his resolution to be present at the council held that morning in the Bastille. Even those who were most accustomed to watch the changes of the King’s variable disposition, would hardly have recollected in the Sovereign, who, with the easy dignity and self-possession of a clear and intelligent mind, presided at the head of the council-table, the same man who in general yielded his very thoughts to the governance of Richelieu, and abandoned all his kingly duties to one whom he appeared both to dislike and dread. But so it was, that, stimulated by some unseen means, Louis seemed at once to have resumed the King; and as soon as De Blenau entered the audience-hall, he at once opened the business of the day himself with all those powers which his mind really possessed when called into activity.

“Monsieur de Blenau,” said the King, “we are glad to see you. We have heard much of you, and that always a good report, from those that we love, and therefore our confidence in your honour and integrity is great. There will be various questions asked of you to-day by the members of the council present, which much affect the welfare of the kingdom, and our own personal happiness; and to these questions we command you, as a good subject and an honest man, to answer truly, and according to your conscience, without any reservation whatsoever.”

Before entering the audience-hall, De Blenau, well knowing that every careless word might be subject to misconstruction, had determined to speak as little as possible; and therefore, merely answering the King’s speech by a profound inclination of the head, he waited in silence for the questions to which he had alluded.

Richelieu, the keen searching glance of whose eyes had been fixed upon him during the whole time, paused for a moment in expectation of a reply; but seeing that he said nothing, the Minister proceeded himself. “I have heard with astonishment, Monsieur de Blenau,” said he, “that you have lately refused to answer questions, to which you had before replied in conversation with me; and I can conceive no reason, Sir, why you should object to give satisfaction on these points one day as much as another.”

“Nor can I conceive,” replied De Blenau, “any reason why your Eminence should cause questions to be put to me again which I had before answered; and that reiteration even while the replies were yet new in your mind.”

“My memory might want refreshing,” answered the Cardinal; “and you must also remember, that the circumstances were very different at the two periods in which those questions were addressed to you. In the first place, you spoke merely in conversation; in the second case, you were a prisoner, and it was therefore necessary that your deposition should be taken from your own mouth.—But all this is irrelevant. The Council is not inclined to take notice of your former contumacy, provided you now reply to what shall be asked you.”

De Blenau was again silent, merely bowing to signify that he comprehended, without pledging himself either to answer or not; and Richelieu proceeded with his questions, placing his hand, as he did so, upon a large packet of open letters which lay on the table before him.

“You have already informed me, Monsieur de Blenau, if I remember rightly,” said the Minister, “that you have, at various times, forwarded letters for the Queen, both by the usual public conveyances and otherwise.”

The King fixed his eyes intently upon the Count, while he replied at once, “I have done so!”

“Can you remember,” continued the Cardinal, “during what period you have been accustomed to send these letters for the Queen? I mean, of what date was the first?”

“I cannot precisely at this moment call to mind,” answered De Blenau, “but it was shortly after your Eminence appointed me, or rather recommended me, to the office of Chamberlain to her Majesty.”

“You see, Sire,” said Richelieu, turning to the King with a meaning glance, “just before the taking of Arras by the Imperialists——”

“Exactly so, your Eminence; I remember it by a circumstance that occurred at the time,” interposed De Blenau, misdoubting the effect of the Cardinal’s comments.

Richelieu gave him a gracious smile for this confirmation of his remark. “Pray, what circumstance was that, Monsieur de Blenau?” demanded he; but his smile was soon clouded by the Count’s reply.

“It was, that the lace lappets, in order to procure which her Majesty wrote that letter to Brussels, were seized at Arras, that city having fallen into the enemy’s hands. The Queen was much grieved thereat. You know, Monseigneur, ladies set great store by their apparel.”

Chavigni smiled, but Richelieu’s brow gathered into a heavy frown, and his reply was in that deep hollow tone of voice, by which alone one could distinguish when he was affected by any powerful feeling. His brow at all times remained calm, except when he sought to awe or intimidate; his eye, too, was under command, scanning the passions of others, and expressing none of his own, but those which he himself wished to appear; but his voice betrayed him, and when internally agitated, it would sink to so low and cavernous a sound, that it seemed as if the dead were speaking. It was in this tone that he answered De Blenau.

“The contents of that letter, Sir, are but too well known by their effects. But I am to conclude, from your observation, that you are as well aware of what the Queen’s letters have contained, as the persons to whom they were addressed.”

“Not so, your Eminence,” replied De Blenau. “The import of that letter I happened to be acquainted with by accident, but I pretend to no farther knowledge.”

“Yes, yes, Sir,” said Richelieu, “it is very evident that you know well to be informed or not on any subject, as it suits your purpose.”

“Nay, Monsieur le Cardinal,” interposed the King, “I think the young gentleman answers with all candour and discretion. We do not seek to perplex him, but to hear the truth; and sure I am that he will not discredit his birth or honour by prevarication.”

“Your Majesty’s own honourable mind does justice to mine,” replied the Count: “I will own that I am guarded in my speech; for surrounded by those who seek to draw matter from my mouth, on which to found some accusation against me, I were a fool to speak freely. Nevertheless, I will answer truly to whatsoever I do answer; and if there should come a question to which I cannot reply without betraying my duty, I will tell no falsehood, but, as I have done before, refuse to answer, and the consequences of my honesty be upon my own head.”

“Well, Sir,” said the Cardinal, “if you have done the harangue with which you are edifying the council, I will proceed with my questions; but first let me tell you, that I am not disposed to be dared with impunity. I think you denied to me that you had ever forwarded any letters to Don Francisco de Mello, Leopold Archduke of Austria, or Philip King of Spain.—Beware what you say, Claude Count de Blenau!”

“If I understand your Eminence rightly,” said the prisoner, “you do not ask me whether I ever did forward such letters, but whether I ever denied to you that I did forward them: in which case, I must reply, that I did deny having expedited any letter to Don Francisco de Mello, but the two other names I never touched upon.”

“Then you acknowledge that you have conveyed letters from the Queen to the Archduke and the King of Spain?” demanded Richelieu.

“I have made no such acknowledgment,” answered De Blenau; “your Eminence puts a forced construction on my words.”

“In vain you turn, Sir, like a rebellious serpent that strives in its windings to escape the hand that grasps it. At once I ask you, have you or have you not, ever, by any means, expedited any letter from the Queen, or other person, to either the Archduke of Austria, or the King of Spain? This, Sir, is a question that you cannot get over!”

The eyes of the whole Council fixed upon the Count as the Cardinal spoke. De Blenau paused for a moment to recollect himself, and then addressed himself directly to the King. “As a good and faithful subject,” he said, “there is a great duty which I owe your Majesty, and I believe I have always performed it as I ought; but as a servant of your royal consort the Queen, I have other duties, distinct, though I hope in no degree opposed to those which bind me to my King. As a man of honour also and a gentleman, I am bound to betray no trust reposed in me, whether that trust seem to me material or not; and though I feel sure that I might at once answer the questions proposed to me by his Eminence of Richelieu without any detriment or discredit to her Majesty, yet so sacred do I hold the confidence of another, that I must decline to reply, whatever be the consequence. However, let me assure you, Sire, that no word or deed of her Majesty the Queen, which has ever come to my ears, has been derogatory to your Majesty’s dignity, or contrary to your interest.”

“Then I am to conclude that you refuse to answer?” said Richelieu sternly: “think, Monsieur de Blenau, before you carry your obstinacy too far.”

“My conduct does not arise in obstinacy,” replied De Blenau, “but from a sense of what is due to my own honour; and unless it can be shown me that it is her Majesty’s desire I should inform your Eminence of all I know respecting her affairs, from henceforth I hold my tongue, and answer no farther questions whatever.”

“Be the consequence on your own head then, young man,” exclaimed the Cardinal. “We will now break up the council.—Monsieur de Blenau, take leave of the sun, for you never see another morrow!”

De Blenau’s courage was unshaken, but yet a cold chilly feeling gathered round his heart as Richelieu bade him take leave of the sun, and rose to break up the council. But still the King kept his seat, and Chavigni, hastily writing a few words on a scrap of paper, handed it to the Cardinal, who, after reading it, appeared to think for a moment, and then again addressed De Blenau. “There is one hope still left for you, Sir: did Monsieur de Chavigni understand you rightly, that if you had the Queen’s command to confess what you know of her affairs, you would answer the questions we put to you?”

De Blenau breathed freely. “Undoubtedly!” replied he; “my honour will then be satisfied, and there will be no subject on which I shall have a reserve.”

“What will you consider a sufficient expression of her Majesty’s commands to that effect?” asked Chavigni: “I know that his Eminence wishes to treat you with all possible lenity, although the mere command of the King in council ought to be sufficient warrant for you to yield any information that may be required.”

“We think differently on many points, Monsieur de Chavigni,” answered De Blenau; “but if you can show me her hand-writing to any order, or if one of the officers of her household will bear me a message from her Majesty to deliver what little I know of her affairs, I will do so without farther hesitation.”

There was now a momentary consultation carried on in a low voice amongst the various members of the council, apparently concerning which of the Queen’s attendants should be sent for; but at length Chavigni whispered to the Cardinal, “Send for La RiviÈre; he is a friend of Lafemas, and will do any thing he is bid.”

“If Monsieur de La RiviÈre bear you the Queen’s commands, will you be satisfied, Sir Count?” demanded Richelieu.

“The Queen’s Gentleman-usher,” said De Blenau; “most assuredly; that will be sufficient.”

“Go yourself, Chavigni,” whispered Richelieu, “and as you come, tell him what to say.—We will wait his arrival,” he proceeded aloud;—“but see, Monsieur de Chavigni, that he communicates with the Queen, and be fully informed of her wishes.”

De Blenau smiled, convinced from his late information through Pauline that the Queen was still at Chantilly, and therefore that though La RiviÈre might be himself in Paris, and ready to swear any thing that the Cardinal dictated, he could have no communication with Anne of Austria, unless, what seemed improbable, she had returned to the capital with the King.

As soon as De Chavigni had retired for the purpose of seeking La RiviÈre, Richelieu ran his eye over some memoranda, as if about to put farther questions to De Blenau; but the King, not noticing these indications of his purpose, addressed the prisoner himself. “Well, Monsieur le Comte,” said he, “while Chavigni is gone, there are two or three points on which I shall be glad to speak with you.”

Richelieu was surprised, and not particularly delighted, thinking that the King was about to continue the examination himself, which might not be conducted precisely in such a manner as to produce the effect he wished; but, in the independent mood with which Louis was affected, he dared not, with all his daring, attempt to interrupt the course of his Sovereign’s proceedings, and therefore remained silent, watching the opportunity of interposing, to give what turn he best could to the interrogatory that appeared about to commence. In the mean while De Blenau bowed his head, calmly prepared to bear the mental torture of a long cross-examination, where every word might be subject to dangerous misconstruction.

“I understand, Monsieur de Blenau,” continued the King, while the whole Council listened with attentive expectation—“I understand that you have the best breed of boar-dogs in France. Pray are they of the Pomeranian or the Exul race?—and how can they be procured?”

Richelieu bit his lip; but to De Blenau the King’s question was like the clearing away of a threatened storm; and habitually attached to the chase, as well as deeply learned in all its mysteries, he was delighted to find that Louis turned the conversation to a subject equally familiar to both.

“Mine are the true Pomeranian breed, Sire,” he replied; “flewed an inch deep, with eyes like Sandarak—would light your Majesty home at night, if by chance you lost your way. In truth, they are only fit for a monarch; and Cinq Mars has now four couple of the best in education for your Majesty, which, when well trained, and recovered from their wildness, he will present to your Majesty in my name; and I humbly hope that you will accept them in aid of your Royal sport.”

“We shall, we shall; and thank you well, Sir Count,” replied the King, smiling most graciously at the prospect of possessing a breed which he had been long seeking for in vain. “Monsieur le Cardinal, do you hear that? We will hunt with them some day. You used to hunt in your day too; have you quite given it over?”

“I have been too much busied, Sire,” answered Richelieu gravely, “in hunting from your Majesty’s dominions Huguenot wolves and Spanish foxes, to pursue other game.”

Louis turned from him with an uneasy shrug, expressive of fully as much distaste for Richelieu’s employments as the statesman experienced for his; and once more addressing De Blenau, he plunged deep into the science of hunting, hawking, and fowling; giving the young Count a thousand receipts, instructions, and anecdotes, which he listened to with the most reverential deference, not only in as much as they proceeded from his Sovereign, but also as coming from the most experienced sportsman of the age.

In the mean while, Richelieu was fain to employ himself in writing notes and memoranda, to allay the spleen and irritation that he felt at what he internally termed the King’s weak trifling; till at length he was relieved by the return of Chavigni, bringing with him the Queen’s Usher, La RiviÈre.

De Blenau well knew that this person, who was by birth just within the rank of a gentleman (which word was then in France one of great significance), had been placed in the service of Anne of Austria for the purpose of acting as a spy upon her, from Richelieu’s fear of her correspondence with Spain; but informed, as the Count now was, of the Queen’s wishes, it was perfectly indifferent to him who appeared on her behalf; his only object being, that his mistress’s commands, publicly expressed, should, in the minds of all, free him from the imputation of having betrayed her.

La RiviÈre looked round him, as he entered, with a glance not altogether free from apprehension; for though Chavigni had given him full instructions and information concerning the services he was sent for to perform, yet there was something so terrible in the idea of the Bastille, that he could hardly keep his limbs from trembling as he passed the gates of the prison.

“Come hither, Monsieur de La RiviÈre,” exclaimed the Cardinal, as soon as he appeared: “We are wasting too much time here.” La RiviÈre approached, and placed himself in the spot to which Richelieu pointed, almost exactly opposite to De Blenau.

The Cardinal then proceeded. “Have you seen her Majesty the Queen since Monsieur de Chavigni informed you of the wishes of the Council?”

“I have, may it please your Eminence,” replied La RiviÈre, in a tremulous voice.

“And what was her Majesty’s reply to our request?” asked Richelieu. “Speak boldly!” he added, in a tone only calculated to reach the ear of the Usher, who stood close beside him, and showed plainly, by his hesitating manner, that he was under the influence of alarm. The Cardinal, however, attributed this to a wrong cause, thinking that La RiviÈre had not really seen the Queen, and was about to play his part, as prompted by Chavigni, but that in all probability he would spoil it by his hesitation.

Just as La RiviÈre was proceeding to answer, however, Chavigni, who had taken his place at the council-table the moment he entered, and had been writing rapidly since, conveyed a slip of paper across to the Cardinal, who raised his hand for the Usher to be silent while he read. The words which his friend had written greatly discomposed the Minister’s plans. They were, “I am afraid it will not succeed: I have seen the Queen, when she not only told La RiviÈre, at once, to command the Count, in her name, to answer every question that related to her, but has given him a letter under her own hand to that effect. She is either innocent, or relies devotedly on De Blenau: whichever is the case, her open conduct will clear her in the mind of the King. Act as you like.”

“What is the matter, Monsieur le Cardinal?” demanded Louis, somewhat impatiently. “Why do we not proceed?”

“Because,” answered Richelieu, “what Monsieur de Chavigni says is right, Sire, though, I confess, it did not strike me before. Shall we not become contemptible in the eyes of the world, by submitting to be dictated to by Monsieur de Blenau? And is it not a gross insult to your Majesty’s power, to obey the commands of the Queen, when he has refused to obey your own? I am sorry that this did not appear to me earlier; but the objection now seems to me so forcible, that I can proceed no farther in this course.”

Louis paused. He was as jealous of the Queen possessing any authority as Richelieu could wish; but in the present instance he was urged, by different motives, in an opposite direction. Some sparks of affection had revived in his bosom towards Anne of Austria, and he wished much to satisfy himself regarding the suspicions which had been urged against her. De Blenau was the dear friend of his favourite Cinq Mars; and his mind also had begun to yield to the arguments of those who sought the destruction of the Minister. But, on the other hand, the habit of being ruled by Richelieu, and the specious arguments he produced, made Louis hesitate:—“What, then, do you intend to do?” demanded he, addressing the Cardinal.

“In the first place, Sire,” replied Richelieu sternly, “I propose to interrogate the prisoner once more, and if his contumacy still continues, let the question be his doom.”

The King’s naturally good feelings and love of justice here at once overcame all doubt. “No, God forbid!” cried he, rousing himself to energy. “What, are we Christians, Monsieur le Cardinal, and shall we put a fellow-creature to the torture, when there is a straight-forward way to gain the information that we want? Fie upon it! No!”

Richelieu’s ashy cheek grew still a shade paler. It was the first time for many a year he had undergone rebuke. He felt that trammels with which he had so long held the King enthralled were but as green lithes twined round the limbs of a giant. He saw that the vast fabric of his power was raised upon a foundation of unsteady sand, and that even then it trembled to its very base.

“Monsieur La RiviÈre, answer the King!” continued Louis, in a dignified tone. “What says the Queen to the request of our Council, that she would command her Chamberlain to answer those questions, in regard to which he has a scruple on her account?”

“Her Majesty says, Sire,” answered La RiviÈre, “that she is most willing to do any thing that will please your Majesty; and she has not only ordered me to command, in her name, Monsieur de Blenau to inform the Council of every thing he knows concerning her conduct; but has also written this letter, with her own hand, to the same effect.” And advancing to the table, he bent his knee before the King, and presented the document of which he was the bearer.

Louis took the letter, and read it through. “This looks not like a guilty conscience,” said he, frowning upon Richelieu. “Give that to Monsieur de Blenau,” he continued to one of the officers. “There, Sir Count, is your warrant to speak freely; and though we think you carry your sense of honour too far, so as to make it dangerous to yourself, and almost rebellious towards us, we cannot help respecting the principle, even though it be in excess.”

“May I always have such a judge as your Majesty!” replied De Blenau. “Most humbly do I crave your royal pardon, if I have been at all wanting in duty towards you. Believe me, Sire, it has proceeded not from any fault of inclination, but from an error in judgment. I have now no farther hesitation, all my duties being reconciled; and, I believe, the best way fully to reply to the questions which have been asked me, will be by telling your Majesty, that I have on several occasions forwarded letters from the Queen, by private couriers of my own, or by any other conveyance that offered. None of these letters have been either to the Archduke, to Don Francisco de Mello, or any other person whatever, connected with the Spanish Government, except her Majesty’s brother, Philip, King of Spain, to whom I have assuredly sent several; but before I ever undertook to do so, her Majesty condescended to give me her most positive promise, and to pledge her Royal word, that the tidings she gave her brother should on all occasions be confined to her domestic affairs, nor ever touch upon the external or internal policy of the Government, so that my honour and allegiance should be equally unsullied. These letters have sometimes remained upon my person for weeks, waiting for the fit opportunity to send them; which circumstance having by some means been discovered, has caused me no small inconvenience at times. Farther, I have nothing to tell your Majesty, but that I have ever heard the Queen express the greatest affection for your Royal person, and the warmest wishes for your public and private welfare; and, on my honour, I have never observed her do, by word or action, any thing which could be construed into a breach of the duty she owes your Majesty, either as her sovereign or her husband.

“You see!” exclaimed the King, turning to Richelieu, as De Blenau concluded; “You see—exactly what she confessed herself—not one tittle of difference.”

The anger of the Cardinal, at finding himself foiled, swept away his political prudence. Irritated and weakened by a wearing disease, he was in no frame of mind to see calmly a scheme he had formed with infinite care, so completely overthrown; and forgetting that the King’s energies were now aroused to oppose him, he resolved to let his vengeance fall on the head of De Blenau as the means of his disappointment. His brow darkened, and his eye flashed, and he replied in that stern and haughty manner which had so often carried command along with it.

“If your Majesty be satisfied, of course so am I, whose sole wish was to purge the lily crown from the profaning touch of strangers. But as for Monsieur de Blenau, he has confessed himself guilty of a crime little short of high treason, in forwarding those letters to a foreign enemy. We have already condemned a woman to exile for a less offence; and therefore the mildest sentence that the Council can pronounce, and which by my voice it does pronounce, is, that Claude Count de Blenau be banished for ever from these realms; and that, if after the space of sixteen days he be found within their precincts, he shall be considered as without the pale of law, and his blood be required at the hand of no man that sheds it!”

There was an indignant spot glowing in the King’s face while Richelieu spoke thus, that Chavigni marked with pain; for he saw that the precipitant haste of the Minister was hurrying his power to its fall.

“Too much of this!” cried Louis angrily. “Lord Cardinal, you forget the presence of the King. Monsieur de Blenau—We, by our royal prerogative, do annul and make void the sentence you have just heard, merely commanding you to retire from this chateau of the Bastille, without holding communication with any persons attached to the Court, and to render yourself within the limits of our province of Bourbon, and there to wait our farther pleasure. The Council is over,” he continued, rising. “Monsieur le Cardinal de Richelieu, by sending the warrant for the Count’s release some time in the day to our Governor of the Bastille, you will merit our thanks.”

The officers cleared the way for the King—the huissiers of the chamber threw wide the doors—and Louis, with a firm and dignified step, proceeded slowly out of the hall, followed by Richelieu, who, thunderstruck and confounded, kept his eyes bent upon the ground, in the silence of deep astonishment. The rest of the Council, equally mute and surprised, accompanied the Cardinal with anxiety in every eye; while the officers of the Bastille and the Count de Blenau remained the sole occupants of the hall of audience.