Anne’s face is suffused with a deep blush of shame while the Cardinal speaks; for a moment her courage seems to fail her--then, collecting herself, she stretches out her arms towards the King, and says solemnly, “I call on his Majesty, Louis--surnamed the Just--my husband, to confront me with my accusers: I am innocent of this foul charge.” At this appeal the King half rises, as if with an intention to speak, then sinks back again into his chair. His features twitch convulsively; he never raises his eyes. “Is that all you have to reply to the wicked and murderous project said to be entertained by you of wedding, _from inclination_, with the King’s brother, at his death, if by feeble health, or any other accident, his Majesty had been removed?” and the Cardinal bends his glassy eyes earnestly upon the Queen. “I reply that I should have gained nothing by the change. The Duc d’Orléans is as fickle and unworthy as his Majesty, who sits by unmoved, and hears his consort slandered by her enemies.” Anne’s eyes flash fire; her indignation had carried her beyond fear; she stands before the council more like a judge than a criminal. “Have a care, Armand de Plessis, Cardinal Minister and _tyrant_ of France, that you question me not too closely,” the Queen adds in a lower voice, addressing herself directly to Richelieu. As she speaks she puts her hand to her bosom, and discloses, between the folds of her dark velvet robe a portion of a letter, bound with purple cord, which Richelieu instantly recognises as the identical one he had addressed to her at Saint-Germain, asking for a private audience. The Cardinal visibly shudders; his whole expression changes; his impassive look is turned to one of anxiety and doubt; he passes his hands over his forehead, as if to shade his eyes from the light, but in reality to give his fertile brain a few moments’ time in which to devise some escape from the danger that threatens him should the Queen produce that letter before the council. So rapid has been the Queen’s action that no one else has perceived it. Something peculiar, however, in the tone of her voice attracts the notice of the King, who, rousing himself from the painful abstraction into which he has fallen, gazes round for the first time, and bends his lustreless grey eyes suspiciously on the Cardinal, and from him on the Queen; then shaking his head doubtfully, he again resumes his former weary attitude. Meanwhile the Queen, imagining that she perceives some compassion in that momentary glance, rises and advances close to the edge of the council-table. Grief, anger, and reproach are in her looks. With a haughty gesture she signs to the Cardinal to be silent, clasps her small hands so tightly that the nails redden her tender skin, and, in a plaintive voice, addresses herself directly to the King. “Oh, Sire, is not your heart moved with pity to behold a great princess, such as I, your wife, and who might have been the mother of your children, stand