“Ah, that is the question! I long to tell you. I sigh because I am weary of my life. My mother, who still calls herself Regent, and pretends to govern the kingdom, quarrels perpetually with Richelieu. The council is distracted by her violence and ill-temper; affairs of state are neglected. She reproaches Richelieu publicly for his ingratitude, as she calls it, because he will not support her authority rather than the good of the kingdom. The Duc d’Epernon supports her. He is as imperious as she is. Her ambition embitters my life, as it embittered that of my great father.” “Oh, Sire, remember that the Queen-dowager of France is your mother. Besides, Richelieu owes everything to her favour. Had it not been for her he would have remained an obscure bishop at Luçon all his life. She placed him at Court.” “Yes, and he shall stay there. _Par Dieu!_ he shall stay there. If any one goes it shall be my mother. I feel I myself have no capacity for governing; I shrink from the tremendous responsibility; but I am better able to undertake it than the Queen-mother. Her love of power is so excessive she would sacrifice me and every one else to keep it--she and the Duc d’Epernon,” he added, bitterly. “Richelieu is an able minister. He is ambitious, I know, but I am safe in his hands. He can carry out no measures of reform, he cannot maintain the dignity of the Crown, if he is for ever interfered with by a fractious woman,--vain, capricious, incompetent.” “Oh, Sire!” and Mademoiselle de Hautefort held up her hands to stop him. “It is true, madame. Did not the Queen-mother and her creatures, the Concini and the Duc d’Epernon, all but plunge France into civil war during her regency? She was nigh being deposed, and I with her. What a life I led until De Luynes rescued me! He presumed upon my favour, _le fripon_, and brought boat-loads of Gascon cousins to Court from Guienne. I never knew a man have so many cousins! They came in shoals, and never one of them with a silken cloak to his back--a beggarly lot!” “But, Sire,” said Mademoiselle de Hautefort, sitting upright in her chair, and trying to fix the King’s wandering mind, “why do you need either her Majesty the Queen-mother or the Cardinal de Richelieu? Depend on no one. Govern for yourself, Sire.” “Impossible, impossible. I am too weak. I have no capacity. I have none of my great father’s genius.” And the King lifted his feathered hat reverently from his head each time he named his father. “Richelieu rules for me. He has intellect. He will maintain the honour of France. The nation is safe in his hands. As for me, I am tyrannised over by my mother, laughed at by my Spanish wife, and betrayed by my own brother. I am not fit to reign. Every one despises me--except you.” And the King turned with an appealing look towards Mademoiselle de Hautefort. “You, I hope, at least, understand me. You do me justice.”