“Of what use to-day?  I will sign it to-morrow.”

“I can assure her majesty that if she does not sign to-day she will not have time to sign to-morrow.  Consent, then, I beg you, madame, to write at the bottom of this schedule, which has been drawn up by Mazarin, as you see: 

“`I consent to ratify the treaty proposed by the Parisians.’”

Anne was caught, she could not draw back —­ she signed; but scarcely had she done so when pride burst forth and she began to weep.

D’Artagnan started on seeing these tears.  Since that period of history queens have shed tears, like other women.

The Gascon shook his head, these tears from royalty melted his heart.

“Madame,” he said, kneeling, “look upon the unhappy man at your feet.  He begs you to believe that at a gesture of your majesty everything will be possible to him.  He has faith in himself; he has faith in his friends; he wishes also to have faith in his queen.  And in proof that he fears nothing, that he counts on nothing, he will restore Monsieur de Mazarin to your majesty without conditions.  Behold, madame! here are the august signatures of your majesty’s hand; if you think you are right in giving them to me, you shall do so, but from this very moment you are free from any obligation to keep them.”

And D’Artagnan, full of splendid pride and manly intrepidity, placed in Anne’s hands, in a bundle, the papers that he had one by one won from her with so much difficulty.

There are moments —­ for if everything is not good, everything in this world is not bad —­ in which the most rigid and the coldest soul is softened by the tears of strong emotion, heart-arraigning sentiment:  one of these momentary impulses actuated Anne.  D’Artagnan, when he gave way to his own feelings —­ which were in accordance with those of the queen —­ had accomplished more than the most astute diplomacy could have attempted.  He was therefore instantly recompensed, either for his address or for his sensibility, whichever it might be termed.

“You were right, sir,” said Anne.  “I misunderstood you.  There are the acts signed; I deliver them to you without compulsion.  Go and bring me back the cardinal as soon as possible.”

“Madame,” faltered D’Artagnan, “’tis twenty years ago —­ I have a good memory —­ since I had the honor behind a piece of tapestry in the Hotel de Ville, of kissing one of those lovely hands.”

“There is the other,” replied the queen; “and that the left hand should not be less liberal than the right,” she drew from her finger a diamond similar to the one formerly given to him, “take and keep this ring in remembrance of me.

“Madame,” said D’Artagnan, rising, “I have only one thing more to wish, which is, that the next thing you ask from me, shall be —­ my life.”

And with this conclusion —­ a way peculiar to himself —­ he rose and left the room.

“I never rightly understood those men,” said the queen, as she watched him retiring from her presence; “and it is now too late, for in a year the king will be of age.”