"Your eminence may hope to live for two months, perhaps, by following the rules I shall prescribe." "Well, well—two months! Ah, it is a short time,"—and a nervous spasm passes over his face, and his hands twitch with a convulsive spasm. "I do not die of old age; I have sacrificed my life to France and to the King. I never got over that negotiation at the Pyrenees. Well, well—so be it. At least, I know my fate. This interval must be consecrated to the care of my soul. Two months! I shall do my best. All my brother prelates will assist me——" "To live, your eminence?" "No, no, Guénaud,"—and the shadow of a smile passes over his thin white lips,—"no, no, not to live, but to die; to die for the sake of the abbeys, bishoprics, and canonries my death will leave vacant. In two months one may have a world of indulgences; that is something. The Holy Father will rejoice at having my patronage; he is sure to give me a helping hand; and plenty of indulgences. I stand well with the Pope, Guénaud. But—but my pictures, my statues—a collection I have been making all my life, at such a vast expense. Who knows, Guénaud? you may be mistaken," he added, brightening up, his mercurial nature rushing back into its accustomed channel at the recollection of what had been the passion of his life. "Who knows, I may get better!" and his eye turns sharply upon the physician, with a sparkle of its accustomed fire; "eh, Guénaud—who knows?" Guénaud bows, but is silent. "You may be mistaken. _Non importa_, I must think of my soul. It is indeed a great trial—a sore trial—a man of my age, too, with so many years to live! and such a collection! You know my collection, Guénaud?" "Yes, your eminence," answers he, bowing. "The finest in Europe," sighs Mazarin, "and not yet finished; fresh works coming in daily. A great trial—but I must think of my soul. Go now, Guénaud; come again to-morrow. Perhaps—who knows?—you may see some change, some improvement—who knows?" Guénaud shakes his head silently, and withdraws. Meanwhile the Queen-mother, Anne of Austria, informed of Mazarin's desperate condition, hastens to visit him. She is attended by her gossiping ladies, eager to catch every word, and with nods and winks, and sighs of affected sympathy—to comment on her sorrowful expression.