A tremendous rush is made from behind; those in front fall down, screaming that they are killed; others trample upon their bodies. The gates are forced; the foremost find themselves within the court. Pushed on by the press from behind, they now stand under the colonnade, then beneath the portico, on past the Queen's Guards, who, commanded only to defend, not to attack, stand back, drawn swords in their hands, darkly eying the rioters. The lofty portals of the Palais Royal are wide open; there are lights within the ample hall. Beyond is the grand staircase, with gilded banisters. Finding no obstacle, the rioters mount the stairs. On the first landing a woman stands, immovable. It is the Queen. She is alone. She is pale, but betrays no fear. The rude intruders draw back, amazed at the vision of majesty and loveliness before them. Anne of Austria beckons to them to advance. She places her finger on her lip, commanding silence. The rabble, before so noisy, are instantly hushed as by a charm. Signing to the foremost to follow her, she leads the way, through sumptuous chambers and vaulted galleries, to the King's sleeping-room. She approaches his little bed of gilt lattice-work, and gently drawing aside the lace curtains, displays Louis XIV. in the sound and tranquil sleep of childhood. The citizen _Frondeurs_ are satisfied. The mothers bless his baby face and rich auburn curls. The men contemplate the Queen with awe. She stands beside the bed, surveying them with royal unconcern. When they have stared their full at the little King and at her, those who have already entered turn back. No others dare approach. Ashamed and silent, they retreat across the halls and through sculptured galleries in a very different spirit to that in which they came. * * * * * Anne of Austria grows more and more devout. She spends long hours in her oratory, prostrate before an image of the Magdalene. She often retires to the Val de Grâce, where she has built a splendid church, as a thank-offering for the birth of her sons. For days together she wears closely fitting serge dresses, buttoned up to the throat, like a lay nun. She fasts, and chastises herself with a severity proper alike to a sinner or a saint. Yet there are whispers, and confidences, and anecdotes touching her intimacy with Cardinal Mazarin, not quite in accordance with such excessive austerity. It is a _liaison_ too public for intrigue, uneasy enough for marriage!