I, for one, had my doubts about this sudden geniality on the part of Antony de Richelieu, and these doubts were not set at rest by the chagrin he displayed. My thoughts, however, were diverted from this matter, for, as Richelieu expressed his disappointment to us, the door of the King’s chamber opened as if to let some one pass, and at the same moment we heard a high-pitched, querulous voice: “Lights! I want more lights! Where is Marie? I cannot see her.” It was the King who spoke. Every murmur was stilled where we were, and the door closed softly again, no one coming forth. For a moment or so there was absolute silence, and all glanced anxiously at one another, reading in each other’s faces and eyes the confirmation of their misgivings. For there was in that voice an expression of pain and suffering, an intolerable agony, that told its own tale. It was a presage of the end to be, that filled us with pity and awe, and kept the most heedless tongue checked. At last some one--I know not whom--said softly, yet not so low but that the words reached us: “He calls for the Queen.” “She is with him,” answered the Limeuil; adding: “He is better; the fever has quite gone. René himself told me so.” “That was the Jesuit’s Bark,” remarked Bentivoglio; “’tis a rare specific.” “Ay, rare indeed!” said the one who had first spoken, adding, “Is it true he is to be blooded in the tongue?” Bentivoglio shrugged his shoulders; but now the door opened once more, and there stepped out a tall figure, robed in brown taffeta, with a small cap of black velvet on his head. It was René himself, and he was immediately surrounded by a group, and eagerly questioned as to the King’s health. But for the present their curiosity had to be satisfied with a brief “The King is better,” and René, to whom we were known, turned to us and, beckoning with his hand, said: “Messieurs! Have the goodness to follow me.” Then, as we followed the physician, we heard whispers and murmurs, while eager questions, mingled with our names, flew from mouth to mouth, for curiosity had not been idle as we stood awaiting our audience. There were one or two who had recognized us, not to speak of Bentivoglio and Richelieu, and these were only too ready to pass their information on; so that as much as could be known of us was known already to that idle crowd of human moths, that clung to the corridors and tapestries of the palace. “They have been pardoned, I hear,” said one. “How can that be?” was the reply; “the amnesty is over.” “They might use Marcilly as a living effigy for the Prince--he would do well for a proxy,” said the jester; and then amid the buzzing I caught another speech that made me burn. It came from the red lips of Isabel de Limeuil.