I have frequently interrogated, told me this morning that the night before last Her Majesty sat up very late, that this morning she wept much, and that she was writing all day.”
“That’s it!” cried the king; “to him, no doubt. Cardinal, I must have the queen’s papers.”
“But how to take them, sire? It seems to me that it is neither Your Majesty nor myself who can charge himself with such a mission.”
“How did they act with regard to the Maréchale d’Ancre?” cried the king, in the highest state of choler; “first her closets were thoroughly searched, and then she herself.”
“The Maréchale d’Ancre was no more than the Maréchale d’Ancre. A Florentine adventurer, sire, and that was all; while the august spouse of Your Majesty is Anne of Austria, Queen of France—that is to say, one of the greatest princesses in the world.”
“She is not the less guilty, Monsieur Duke! The more she has forgotten the high position in which she was placed, the more degrading is her fall. Besides, I long ago determined to put an end to all these petty intrigues of policy and love. She has near her a certain Laporte.”
“Who, I believe, is the mainspring of all this, I confess,” said the cardinal.
“You think then, as I do, that she deceives me?” said the king.
“I believe, and I repeat it to Your Majesty, that the queen conspires against the power of the king, but I have not said against his honor.”
“And I—I tell you against both. I tell you the queen does not love me; I tell you she loves another; I tell you she loves that infamous Buckingham! Why did you not have him arrested while in Paris?”