The Saloon of Saint-Louis, at Fontainebleau, opens from the royal guard-room. It is a noble apartment, divided into a card-room and a _with_-drawing, or, as we say, drawing-room. The decorations are the same as those in the Gallery of Francis I.; the walls, painted in fresco after designs by Primaticcio, are divided by sculptured figures, in high relief, entwined by wreaths of flowers, fruit, and foliage. The ceiling is blue, sown with golden stars. Lights blaze from the chandeliers disposed on marble tables and in the corners of the room, and display the artistic beauty of the various paintings and frescoes that cover the walls. The Queen is playing cards with the Bishop of Limoges. The Court groups itself about the double rooms, and at the other card-tables. Near the Queen are her favourites of the hour, the Principesse di Gonzaga and di Mantua; the Duchesse de Sennécy is in attendance. The King is seated on a settee in the darkest and most distant corner. Anne dares not now treat him either with impertinence or _hauteur_. If she cannot bring herself actually to fear him, she knows that he is capable of revenge. She has learnt, however, both to fear and to dread his minister, Richelieu, under whose insolent dominion Louis’s life is passed. Madame de Chevreuse is no longer at hand to tempt her into rebellion, and she has learnt to submit quietly, if not contentedly, to her lot. She has perceived the impression made upon the King by her new maid of honour, and looks on amused and indifferent. Of the absolute goodness and perfect rectitude of Louise de Lafayette, no one, and certainly not the Queen, could entertain a doubt. As she pushes the cards towards the Bishop of Limoges to deal for her, which he does after making her a low bow, she turns round, the better to observe his Majesty. He has moved from the settee, and is now seated in earnest conversation with Mademoiselle de Lafayette. A sneer gathers about the corners of her rosy mouth, and her eyes dwell upon him for an instant with an expression of intense contempt; then she shrugs her snowy shoulders, leans back in her chair, takes up the cards that lie before her, and rapidly sorts them. The conversation between Louis and Mademoiselle de Lafayette is low and earnest. His naturally dismal face expresses more lively interest, and his lack-lustre eyes are more animated than they have been for years. As to the maid of honour, she listens to him with every faculty of her being, and hangs upon his words as though, to her at least, they are inspired. “The condition of France,” the King is saying, “overwhelms me. Would that I could offer up my life for my beloved country! Would that I possessed my great father’s military genius to defend her! I go, perhaps never to return! Alas! no one will miss me,” and he heaves a heavy sigh, and the tears gather in his eyes.