The Queen says no more, again she listens. She seems more and more embarrassed, and the conversation languishes. The Duke begins to be conscious that something is amiss. He even goes the length of secretly wishing that the interview were over. A heaviness oppresses him; it is stiflingly hot, and the thunder sounds nearer. The image of his mother weeping bitterly rises up, unbidden, before him. Can there be any truth in her warning? "Yes," continues Beaufort, after an awkward pause, "yes, I may be too much of a _Frondeur_ to please you, Madame, and for my own safety also." Again the Queen turns her head, and listens anxiously. "A _Frondeur_ against a government headed by an alien—not a _Frondeur_ against you, my cousin—never against _you_. To _you_ I am ever loyal. You know this." His voice grew thick. He is much moved. "You, my cousin, can never forget my long exile, after the death of Cinq-Mars at Lyons, for your sake. Surely you cannot forget?" Anne moves uneasily; she taps her small foot on the floor impatiently. Her eyes are bent outwards upon the approaching storm, which draws each instant nearer. The heavens are now like a wall of blackness, save where the lightning glitters for a moment. Yet she neither calls for lights, nor closes the window. "Next to the Duchesse de Chevreuse," Beaufort continues, "Richelieu hated me, because I was devoted soul and body to you, and he knew it. Ah, my cousin, had the Duchess and I, your two friends, spoken, where would you have been now? Not on the throne, certainly. I carried your secret safely into England with me—I would have carried it to the grave—and you are Regent of France." Whatever the Queen may feel, she carefully conceals it. A stony expression spreads itself over her face, and the smile on her lip becomes almost a grimace, her mouth is so tightly set. "If I am grown rough and coarse," he continues, "like the rabble among whom I live—if I offend you by my frankness, remember Beaufort was faithful to you in adversity—most true and faithful." The tears come into his eyes as he speaks; he brushes them off with his sleeve. The Queen is not at all moved by this appeal. A third time she turns her head as if listening for some expected sound—then, hearing nothing, her eyelids drop, and she plays with her fan. "These are difficult times, my cousin," she says at last, speaking slowly. "Much depends on the princes of the blood. I reckon on you, Duke, as a firm pillar of the State," and she touches him with her fan.