THE QUEEN BEFORE THE COUNCIL.
The refectory of the convent of the Val de Grâce is a vast apartment,
dimly lit by rows of small lancet windows placed along the side walls.
These walls are bare, panelled with dark wood; great oaken rafters span
the tented roof. At the eastern end hangs a large crucifix of silver.
In the centre is a table, round which the three principal members of the
council are assembled. Alone, at the head, is the King, uneasily seated
on the corner of a huge chair. His whole body is shrunk and contracted,
as though he were undergoing some agonising penance. He never raises his
eyes; his pallid face works with nervous excitement. His hat is drawn
over his brow; his hands are clasped upon his knees. That he had come in
haste is apparent, for he wears his usual dark hunting-dress.
At his right hand is the Cardinal, wearing a long tightly fitting
_soutane_ of purple silk, with a cloak of the same colour. His
countenance is perfectly impassive, save that when he moves, and the
light from above strikes upon his dark eyes, they glitter. In his
delicate hands he holds some papers, to which he refers from time to
time: others lie on the table near him. Opposite the Cardinal are the
Archbishop of Paris and the Chancellor Séguier. At the farther end of
the council-table, facing the King, Anne of Austria is seated. The
colour comes and goes upon her downy cheeks; but otherwise no sovereign
throned in fabled state is more queenly than this golden-haired daughter
of the Cæsars.
The Cardinal turns towards her, but, before addressing her, his eyes are
gathered fixedly upon her. Then, in a placid voice, he speaks--
“Your Majesty has been summoned by the King here present to answer
certain matters laid to your charge.”
Anne of Austria rises and makes an obeisance, looking towards the King,
then reseats herself.
“I am here to answer whatever questions his Majesty sees good to put to
me,” she replies, in a clear, firm voice.
“His Majesty, Madame, speaks through _my_ voice,” answers Richelieu,
significantly, observing her pointed reference to the King’s presence;
“I am here as his _alter ego_. It is said,” he continues, in the same
impassive manner in which he had at first addressed her, “that you,
Madame Anne of Austria, consort of the King, hold a treasonable
correspondence in cipher with your brother, Philip, King of Spain, now
waging war against this realm of France, and that therein you betray to
him secrets of state to the manifest hurt and danger of the King’s
armies, by affording treacherous foreknowledge of their movements and of
the measures of his Government. What answer does your Majesty make to so
grave a charge?”
“If it be so, let these letters be produced,” answers the Queen boldly.
“I declare that beyond the natural love I bear my brother and his
consort, Elizabeth of France, sister to the King,--which love surely is
no crime,--I have never, by word or deed, betrayed aught that I might
know to the prejudice of the King, my husband, or of this great country
of which I am the Queen.”
“Why, then, Madame, if these letters were harmless did you write in a
cipher unknown to the King’s ministers?” asks the Cardinal, bending his
piercing eyes keenly upon her.
“Because,” replies the Queen, “I knew that spies were set, by the King’s
order, at _your_ instance,” and she points to the Cardinal, “to waylay
these letters, the writing of which has been to me, next to God, my
greatest comfort in much sorrow and persecution which I have suffered
wrongfully since I came into France.”
“Madame,” continues Richelieu, speaking with the same unmoved voice and
manner, “do you know Henry de Talleyrand, Comte de Chalais, Master of
the Robes to his Majesty, and once esteemed by him as his faithful
subject?”
“I do know him,” answers the Queen.
“Do you know also that this gentleman, the Comte de Chalais, has been
lately arrested at Nantes, and is now lying in the prison of the
Bastille, accused of having treacherously conspired against the sacred
person of his Majesty, with the design of placing on the throne, at his
death, Monseigneur, Duc d’Orléans--brother of the King; and that the
Comte de Chalais avers and declares, before witnesses, that he acted by
your order and by your counsel? What answer have you to make to this,
Madame?”
“That it is false, and unsupported by any evidence whatever, and that
you, Cardinal Richelieu, know that it is false.” Then Anne of Austria
raises her hands towards the crucifix hanging before her--“By the
blessed wounds of our Lord Jesus, I swear that I never knew that the
life of the King, my husband, was threatened; if it were so, it was
concealed from me.” A stifled groan is heard from the King. Both the
Chancellor and the Archbishop appear greatly impressed by the Queen’s
solemn declaration, and whisper together. Richelieu alone is unmoved.
Then the Queen rises, and for the first time, turns her large eyes full
upon the Cardinal, over whose frame a momentary tremor passes. “It was
of another plot that the Comte de Chalais spoke; and of another
assassination, not that of the King. His Majesty himself--if I mistake
not--knew and did not disapprove of _this other_ project, and of
removing _him_ whom I mean. Nevertheless I shrank from the proposal with
horror; I expressly forbade all bloodshed, although it would have
removed a deadly enemy from my path.” And the Queen, while she speaks,
fixes her undaunted gaze full on the Cardinal, who casts down his eyes
on the papers he holds in his hands. “Let his Majesty confront me with
Chalais; he will confirm the truth of what I say.” Anne of Austria stops
to watch the effect of her words. Something like a groan again escapes
from the King; he pulls at his beard, and moves uneasily in his chair,
as the Cardinal’s lynx eyes are directed, for an instant, towards him
with a malignant glare. The Cardinal stoops to consult some documents
that lie upon the table, and for a few moments not a word was uttered.
Then resuming his former placid voice and manner, Richelieu faces the
Queen, and proceeds:--
“Further, Madame, it is averred, and it is believed by his Majesty, that
you, forgetting the duty of a wife, and the loyalty of a Queen, have
exchanged love-tokens with the said prince of the blood, Gaston, Duc
d’Orléans, now for his manifest treason fled into Spain,”--at these
words, to which she listens with evident horror, Anne clasps her
hands;--“further, that you, Madame, and your lady of the bedchamber,
Marie de Lorraine, Duchesse de Chevreuse, did conspire, with Chalais and
others, for this unholy purpose.”
Anne’s face is suffused with a deep blush of shame while the Cardinal
speaks; for a moment her courage seems to fail her--then, collecting
herself, she stretches out her arms towards the King, and says solemnly,
“I call on his Majesty, Louis--surnamed the Just--my husband, to
confront me with my accusers: I am innocent of this foul charge.”
At this appeal the King half rises, as if with an intention to speak,
then sinks back again into his chair. His features twitch convulsively;
he never raises his eyes.
“Is that all you have to reply to the wicked and murderous project said
to be entertained by you of wedding, _from inclination_, with the King’s
brother, at his death, if by feeble health, or any other accident, his
Majesty had been removed?” and the Cardinal bends his glassy eyes
earnestly upon the Queen.
“I reply that I should have gained nothing by the change. The Duc
d’Orléans is as fickle and unworthy as his Majesty, who sits by unmoved,
and hears his consort slandered by her enemies.” Anne’s eyes flash fire;
her indignation had carried her beyond fear; she stands before the
council more like a judge than a criminal. “Have a care, Armand de
Plessis, Cardinal Minister and _tyrant_ of France, that you question me
not too closely,” the Queen adds in a lower voice, addressing herself
directly to Richelieu. As she speaks she puts her hand to her bosom, and
discloses, between the folds of her dark velvet robe a portion of a
letter, bound with purple cord, which Richelieu instantly recognises as
the identical one he had addressed to her at Saint-Germain, asking for a
private audience. The Cardinal visibly shudders; his whole expression
changes; his impassive look is turned to one of anxiety and doubt; he
passes his hands over his forehead, as if to shade his eyes from the
light, but in reality to give his fertile brain a few moments’ time in
which to devise some escape from the danger that threatens him should
the Queen produce that letter before the council. So rapid has been the
Queen’s action that no one else has perceived it. Something peculiar,
however, in the tone of her voice attracts the notice of the King, who,
rousing himself from the painful abstraction into which he has fallen,
gazes round for the first time, and bends his lustreless grey eyes
suspiciously on the Cardinal, and from him on the Queen; then shaking
his head doubtfully, he again resumes his former weary attitude.
Meanwhile the Queen, imagining that she perceives some compassion in
that momentary glance, rises and advances close to the edge of the
council-table. Grief, anger, and reproach are in her looks. With a
haughty gesture she signs to the Cardinal to be silent, clasps her small
hands so tightly that the nails redden her tender skin, and, in a
plaintive voice, addresses herself directly to the King. “Oh, Sire, is
not your heart moved with pity to behold a great princess, such as I,
your wife, and who might have been the mother of your children, stand
before you here like a criminal, to suffer the scorn and malice of her
enemies?”--she is so overcome that her voice falters, and she hastily
brushes the starting tears from her eyes. “I know,” she continues, with
her appealing eyes resting on the King, “I know that you are weary of
me, and that your purpose is, if possible, to repudiate me and send me
back into Spain; you have confessed as much to one of my maids of
honour, who, shocked at the proposal, repeated it to me. I appeal to
yourself, Sire, if this be not true?” and laying one hand on the table
she leans forward towards Louis, waiting for his reply; but, although he
does not answer her appeal, he whispers a few words into the ear of the
Archbishop, standing next to him, who bows. Then he falls back on his
chair, as if weary and exhausted by a hopeless struggle. “My lords, the
King cannot deny it,” says Anne of Austria triumphantly, addressing the
council; “My lords, I have never, since I came into France, a girl of
fifteen, been permitted to occupy my legitimate place in his Majesty’s
affections. The Queen-dowager, Marie de’ Medici, poisoned his mind
against me; and now Cardinal Richelieu, _her creature_,”--and Anne casts
a look of ineffable disdain at Richelieu--“continues the same policy,
because he dreads my influence, and desires wholly to possess himself of
the King’s confidence, the better to rule him and France.”
The Queen’s bold words had greatly impressed the council in her favour.
The Archbishop and the Chancellor consult anxiously together. At length
the Archbishop of Paris interposes.
“Her Majesty the Queen appears to have explained most satisfactorily all
the accusations made against her. I was myself present at the
examination of her private apartments within this convent of the Val de
Grâce. Nothing was found but proofs of her pious sentiments and devout
exercises, such as scourges, girdles spiked with iron to mortify the
flesh, books of devotion and missals. It is to be desired that all royal
ladies could disarm suspicion like her Majesty. If, therefore, the
evidence which the Cardinal holds be in accordance with her Majesty’s
declarations, all the charges may be withdrawn, and her Majesty be
returned to those royal dignities and honours which she so fitly adorns.
Speak, Cardinal Richelieu, do you hold counter evidence--yea, or nay?”
The Cardinal does not at once answer. He shuffles some papers in his
hands, then turns towards the King, and whispers in his ear. Louis makes
an impatient gesture of assent, and resumes his despondent attitude.
“I have his Majesty’s commands for replying,” answers Richelieu, “that
no letters implicating the Queen in treasonable correspondence with her
brother have been at present actually found, although his Majesty has
reason to believe that such exist. Also that the Count de Chalais’s
statements are in accord with those of her Majesty. Also that the King
acquits Madame Anne, his consort, of the purpose of marrying with his
brother, Monsieur Duc d’Orléans, on whom _alone_ must rest the onus of
such a crime. Usher of the court, summon the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting
to attend her. Your Majesty is free,” adds Richelieu, and the mocking
tone of his voice betrays involuntarily something of the inward rage he
labours to conceal. “Madame Anne of Austria, you are no longer a
prisoner of state under examination by the council, but are, as before,
in full possession of the privileges, powers, immunities, and revenues
belonging to the Queen Consort of France.”
Anne of Austria leaves her chair, salutes his Majesty with a profound
obeisance, of which Louis takes no other notice than to turn his eyes to
the ceiling, and then advances towards the door. The Chancellor and the
Archbishop rise at the same time from the council-table, and hasten to
open the door by which she is to pass out, bowing humbly before her.
“The royal carriages are in waiting, Madame,” whispered the Duchesse de
Chevreuse, who, with Mademoiselle de Hautefort, was waiting outside; and
she wrung the Queen’s hand. “My dear, dear mistress, I know you are
free!”
“Praised be God!” replied Anne, “I have escaped,” and she kissed her on
both cheeks, as also her maid of honour, who was so overcome she could
not say one word of congratulation.
“Come, Madame,” cried the Duchesse de Chevreuse, “let us leave this
dreadful place, I beseech you, lest the Cardinal should concoct some
fresh plot to detain you.”
“Duchess,” replied Anne gaily, “you shall command me. It is to you I owe
my liberty. But for your forethought those unhappy letters, wrung from
me in moments of anguish--ah! of despair, would have been found, and I
should at this moment have been on my way to the Bastille. My good
Hautefort, you have not spoken to me. You look sad. What is it?” and the
Queen took her hand.
“It is because I have contributed nothing towards your Majesty’s
freedom. Besides, a foreboding of coming evil overpowers me,” and she
burst into tears.
She again kissed her, and led her by the hand towards the cumbrous coach
which was to bear her to Paris. As Anne was preparing to mount into it,
assisted by her page and Laporte, who had reappeared, the Chevalier de
Jars approached hastily, and bowed before her.
“How now, Chevalier! any more ill news? What is your business here?”
asked Anne.
“It is with this lady,” said he, turning to the maid of honour.
“Mademoiselle de Hautefort, you cannot accompany her Majesty to Paris.”
“Why, Chevalier?” demanded Anne impatiently, still holding her hand.
“Because I am commanded to make known to you that Mademoiselle de
Hautefort is exiled from France during his Majesty’s pleasure. I am
charged, mademoiselle, to show you this token,” and he produced the
other half of the golden medallion which Louis had broken during their
interview at Fontainebleau. “The King bid me say that by this token he
himself commands your instant departure.”
The Queen clasped her in her arms.
“My poor Hautefort, is it indeed so? Must I lose my trusty friend?”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort threw herself, weeping bitterly, at the
Queen’s feet.
“Alas! Madame,” sobbed she, “I am banished because I have been faithful
to you!”
“Have you got another order--for my arrest, _par exemple_, Chevalier?”
asked the Duchess archly. “I have also committed the awful crime of
faithfulness to her Majesty. I suppose I shall go next.”
The Chevalier shook his head.
“No, madame. You will accompany the Queen to the Louvre.”
* * * * *
The Duchesse de Chevreuse did accompany the Queen to the Louvre; but, on
arriving there, she found a _lettre de cachet_ banishing her from France
within twenty-four hours. A similar order was also served on the
Chevalier de Jars.
The Queen was free, but her friends were exiled.