“You say I am your enemy--yes, I am, and with reason. Are you not devoted to the interests of Spain, now at war with France? Do you not betray me in letters to your brother? Answer me.” It was now the Queen’s turn to falter and turn pale. The King perceived it. “I have you there, Madame Anne; I have you there;” and he laughed vindictively. “My life is not safe beside you. Like my great father, I shall die by an assassin whose hand will be directed by my wife!” A cold shiver passed over him. “Richelieu has proofs. _Vrai Dieu_, Madame, he has proofs. It is possible,” he added, with a sardonic smile, which made him look ghastly, “that you may return to Madrid sooner than you imagine--you and the Duchesse de Chevreuse, your accomplice.” “Not sooner than I desire, Sire, after your unworthy treatment,” exclaimed Anne, proudly, her anger overcoming her fears that her letters might have been really deciphered. “I come of a race that cannot brook insult; but I can bear disgrace.” Louis, who felt that the Queen was getting the better of him, grew furious--“I will have no more words, Madame,” shouted he; “we will deal with facts. I shall appeal to my minister and to my council. For myself, I am not fit to govern,” he added, in an altered voice, and with the forlorn air of a man who cannot help himself. “Speak not to me, Sire, of Richelieu and the council over which he presides,” cried Anne, goaded beyond endurance. “Richelieu is a traitor, a hypocrite, a libertine--not even his sovereign’s wife is sacred to him!” “Ah, Madame, it is natural that you and Richelieu should disagree,” retorted the King, with an incredulous sneer. “He is a match for you and for the Duchess your counsellor--the Duchess whose life disgraces my Court.” Anne had now thrown herself into a chair, her hands were crossed on her bosom, her eyes bent steadily on the King, as if prepared for whatever fresh extravagance he might utter. Even the enraged Louis felt the influence of her fixed, stern gaze. He ceased speaking, grew suddenly confused, paced up and down hurriedly, stopped, essayed again to address her--then abruptly strode out of the room. * * * * * The Queen and her ladies are seated on a stone balcony that overlooks the parterre and the park of Saint-Germain. Below, the King’s violins are playing some music of his composition, set to words in praise of friendship, full of covert allusions to Mademoiselle de Hautefort. The Queen’s fair young face is clouded with care; she leans back listlessly in her chair, and takes no heed of the music or of what is passing around her. The Chevalier de Jars approaches her. There is something in his air that alarms her; she signs to him to place himself beside her.