The answer was terrible.  Anne of Austria believed that Louis XIII knew all, and that the cardinal had persuaded him to employ this long dissimulation of seven or eight days, which, likewise, was characteristic.  She became excessively pale, leaned her beautiful hand upon a console, which hand appeared then like one of wax, and looking at the king with terror in her eyes, she was unable to reply by a single syllable.

“You hear, madame,” said the king, who enjoyed the embarrassment to its full extent, but without guessing the cause.  “You hear, madame?”

“Yes, sire, I hear,” stammered the queen.

“You will appear at this ball?”

“Yes.”

“With those studs?”

“Yes.”

The queen’s paleness, if possible, increased; the king perceived it, and enjoyed it with that cold cruelty which was one of the worst sides of his character.

“Then that is agreed,” said the king, “and that is all I had to say to you.”

“But on what day will this ball take place?” asked Anne of Austria.

Louis XIII felt instinctively that he ought not to reply to this question, the queen having put it in an almost dying voice.

“Oh, very shortly, madame,” said he; “but I do not precisely recollect the date of the day.  I will ask the cardinal.”

“It was the cardinal, then, who informed you of this fete?”

“Yes, madame,” replied the astonished king; “but why do you ask that?”

“It was he who told you to invite me to appear with these studs?”

“That is to say, madame—­”

“It was he, sire, it was he!”

“Well, and what does it signify whether it was he or I?  Is there any crime in this request?”

“No, sire.”

“Then you will appear?”

“Yes, sire.”

“That is well,” said the king, retiring, “that is well; I count upon it.”

The queen made a curtsy, less from etiquette than because her knees were sinking under her.  The king went away enchanted.

“I am lost,” murmured the queen, “lost!—­for the cardinal knows all, and it is he who urges on the king, who as yet knows nothing but will soon know everything.  I am lost!  My God, my God, my God!”

She knelt upon a cushion and prayed, with her head buried between her palpitating arms.

In fact, her position was terrible.  Buckingham had returned to London; Mme. Chevreuse was at Tours.  More closely watched than ever, the queen felt certain, without knowing how to tell which, that one of her women had betrayed her.  Laporte could not leave the Louvre; she had not a soul in the world in whom she could confide.  Thus, while contemplating the misfortune which threatened her and the abandonment in which she was left, she broke out into sobs and tears.

“Can I be of service to your Majesty?” said all at once a voice full of sweetness and pity.