Mademoiselle yawned, looked at him under her eyelids, shrugged her shapely shoulders, and called her lady in waiting to her side to amuse her. Thus passed the precious moments which were to decide the momentous question—would she, or would she not? At length, having gorged in a prodigious manner, Charles Stuart rose. He made Mademoiselle a formal bow, and opened his mouth to speak for the first time. "I hope," he said, in very bad French, "my Lord St. Germains has explained to your highness the sentiments with which you have inspired me. I am, madame, your very humble servant." Mademoiselle rose to her feet, made him a formal curtsey, and replied, "Sir, I am your very humble servant." So ended this wooing; but poor Henrietta Maria, figuratively rending her clothes and sprinkling ashes on her head at such a conclusion, could not let Mademoiselle off without one Parthian shot. "I see," said she, "my son is too poor and too unfortunate for you, my niece. It is quite possible, however, that a king of eighteen may be better worth having than an elderly emperor with four children." This little ebullition of spite is pardonable in an unfortunate Queen whose heart was broken. Let it not lie heavy on her memory! Meanwhile, the struggle between the Queen-Regent and her ministers on one side, and the parliament and Gondi on the other, had become more and more envenomed. At length the Queen-Regent, under advice of Mazarin, resolved by a _coup d'état_ to restore the royal authority. It is Twelfth-night. Anne of Austria is spending the evening in her closet, watching the King and his brother, the Duc d'Anjou—both dressed in character—struggle on the floor over the remains of the cake from which they had dug the "bean" and the "ring." Louis XIV. is a handsome boy, docile yet spirited; Philip of Anjou is puny, peevish, and cowardly. Anne of Austria leans against the back of a chair, and watches the two boys. Her ladies watch her. There is a strange rumour that her Majesty is to leave Paris that very night. To look into her placid face, such an idea seems absurd. By-and-by, Mazarin and some of the princes of the blood come in to ask her pleasure for the morrow. They do not remain, as there is a supper at the Maréchal de Grammont's in honour of the day. When they are gone, the Queen turns to Madame de la Trémouille. "I shall go to-morrow to the Val de Grâce. Give orders that everything may be ready for me. Call Beringhen; it is time for his Majesty and the Duke to go to bed." The King at once comes forward to bid his mother good night. The Duke begins to cry. "What is it, my son?" says the Queen. "I want, Madame, to go with you to the Val de Grâce to-morrow—do let me!" and he kneels and kisses her hand. "If I go, my son, I promise to take you. Now, good night, Philip," and she raises him in her arms, and kisses him; "do not keep his Majesty waiting."