The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [89]
His Majesty proceeded to the Queen’s apartment and as usual uttered fresh threats against her henchmen and henchwomen. Anne of Austria bowed her head in silence and allowed the torrent to flow on, hoping the spate would eventually spend itself. But this was not what Louis XIII had in mind; His Majesty wanted a discussion from which he might glean some information. For he was convinced that the Cardinal was brooding over some one of those terrible surprises he knew only too well how to spring. His Majesty gained his end by dint of persistent accusation.
Exhausted by these vague attacks, the Queen protested: “Why do you not tell me what is on your mind? What have I done? What sort of crime am I supposed to have committed? Surely Your Majesty cannot make all this to-do over a letter I wrote my brother?”
The King, at a loss for an answer, decided to divulge the news he had intended to spring upon her at the last moment.
“Madame,” the King said with dignity, “there will soon be a ball at the Hôtel de Ville. In order to do honor to our worthy aldermen, I propose that you appear in ceremonial costume; I am particularly eager that you wear the diamond studs which I gave you on your birthday. That is my answer.”
The answer was terrible indeed. Anne of Austria imagined that Louis XIII knew all and that the Cardinal had prevailed upon him to employ this protracted eight-day pretense, which in any case was quite in keeping with his nature. She blanched, leaned on the console for support and looked up in silent terror. His Majesty kept his eyes riveted on that slender, admirable hand, now bloodless and as though of wax.
“You understand, Madame?” he said, enjoying her embarrassment to the full, but without guessing what had caused it. “You understand?”
“Yes, Sire. I understand.”
“You will appear at this ball?”
“Yes.”
“With those studs, Madame?”
“Yes.”
The Queen grew paler still. The King, noticing it, gloated with that cold cruelty which was one of his worst traits.
“Then we agree,” he said abruptly. “That was all I had to say, Madame.”
“But what day will the ball take place?”
The Queen’s question was so faint and so pathetic that instinctively Louis XIII realized that he must ward it off.
“Oh, very shortly Madame,” he replied. “As a matter of fact, I have forgotten the exact date. I shall ask the Cardinal.”
“So it was the Cardinal who told you of this fête?”
“Certainly. Why do you ask?”
“So the Cardinal suggested you invite me to wear my studs?”
“Well, Madame, he—”
“It was he who suggested it?”
“He or I, what matter? Is the suggestion so outlandish?”
“No, Sire, certainly not—”
“Then you will appear?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Good,” said the King, retiring. “Good! I shall count upon it.”
The Queen curtsied less out of etiquette than because her knees were giving way under her. The King went away delighted.
“I am lost, lost,” the Queen murmured. “The Cardinal knows everything; the King is but his tool. But the King will learn the truth soon enough. Oh, my God, my God, my God . . .”
She knelt upon a cushion and prayed, her head bowed, her arms trembling. Her plight was desperate, for Buckingham had returned to London and Madame de Chevreuse was in exile at Tours. More closely watched than ever, the Queen understood that one of her ladies-in-waiting or maidservants had betrayed her. But who was the culprit? As La Porte could not possibly leave the Louvre, there was not one soul in all the world in whom she could place her trust. Contemplating the impending catastrophe and her helplessness, she burst into sobs.
“Can I be of use to Your Majesty?” A voice filled with gentleness and pity intruded upon the Queen’s misery. “Can I be of help?”
The Queen turned sharply round; there was no mistaking the expression of