It occupied some five minutes, and as she proceeded, an expression of deep discomfiture and perplexity overspread the bishop’s face. He gave her a hurried absolution, and departed, while Christina went to the chapel of the Feuillants and communicated. All these pious preparations had disarmed Ninon of any extreme of uncomfortable suspicion she might have entertained. Christina could not possibly be nursing any evil intentions—while Ninon was a woman, and curiosity had impelled her to Fontainebleau, to see what was the end of the affair, and find out the cause of such floods of tears. In the coach with them were Monaldeschi and Sentinelli. To the first she did not address a single word throughout the journey. It was nearing five o’clock, and night was shadowing in, when they arrived; and when they had had supper, Christina commanded Monaldeschi to go to the Galérie des Cerfs, where she would presently come to him. Then she bade Sentinelli follow the count, and motioning Ninon to accompany her, she proceeded between two rows of Swiss Guards, armed with halberds tied about with black crape, to the Galérie. Now thoroughly fearful, Ninon had followed with trembling limbs. “In Heaven’s name,” she faltered, “what does this mean, Madame?—something terrible is about to happen.” With an evil smile Christina threw open the double doors, disclosing Monaldeschi, with his hands fast bound, kneeling at the feet of Lebel, whose features were ghastly with consternation at the task imposed on him, of hearing the doomed man’s confession. At sight of Christina, Monaldeschi turned, and his agonised cry for pardon rang through the Galérie; but there was no mercy in that hideously hate-distorted face; and so, in cold blood, the murder was perpetrated, and out into the darkness Ninon rushed, calling for a carriage to bear her from the terrible place, heedless of the queen’s gibes and endeavours to persuade her at least to remain till morning. It was nothing—what she had done, she said; “only a traitor had received his deserts, and the world was well rid of him.” But the coach drew up, and Ninon fled into its shelter, never stopping till she reached home. There she took to her bed in a high state of fever, having ever before her the terrible scene of blood at Fontainebleau, and for three weeks she remained prostrated by the memory of it. She never saw Christina again, neither did Paris. Though the Court took no proceedings against her—insult to hospitality as her act was, all other considerations apart—she was avoided, and regarded with loathing, and she planned for herself a visit to England. But Cromwell had already supped full of murder. The image of it was sufficiently haunting, and the endeavours of his conscience to make peace with Heaven before he died were not to be disturbed by the presence of such a woman. He turned his face from her instead, and Christina betook herself to Rome, where she fell deep in debt, and quarrelled fiercely with the pope.