The woman must have once been handsome, but traces of sorrow have aged her. The young girl is lovely and her tears only embellish her; the lady appears to be about forty years of age, the girl about fourteen. “Oh, God!” prayed the kneeling suppliant, “protect my husband, guard my son, and take my wretched life instead!” “Oh, God!” murmured the girl, “leave me my mother!” “Your mother can be of no use to you in this world, Henrietta,” said the lady, turning around. “Your mother has no longer either throne or husband; she has neither son, money nor friends; the whole world, my poor child, has abandoned your mother!” And she fell back, weeping, into her daughter’s arms. “Courage, take courage, my dear mother!” said the girl. “Ah! ’tis an unfortunate year for kings,” said the mother. “And no one thinks of us in this country, for each must think about his own affairs. As long as your brother was with me he kept me up; but he is gone and can no longer send us news of himself, either to me or to your father. I have pledged my last jewels, sold your clothes and my own to pay his servants, who refused to accompany him unless I made this sacrifice. We are now reduced to live at the expense of these daughters of Heaven; we are the poor, succored by God.” “But why not address yourself to your sister, the queen?” asked the girl. “Alas! the queen, my sister, is no longer queen, my child. Another reigns in her name. One day you will be able to understand how all this is.” “Well, then, to the king, your nephew. Shall I speak to him? You know how much he loves me, my mother. “Alas! my nephew is not yet king, and you know Laporte has told us twenty times that he himself is in need of almost everything.” “Then let us pray to Heaven,” said the girl. The two women who thus knelt in united prayer were the daughter and grand-daughter of Henry IV., the wife and daughter of Charles I. They had just finished their double prayer, when a nun softly tapped at the door of the cell. “Enter, my sister,” said the queen. “I trust your majesty will pardon this intrusion on her meditations, but a foreign lord has arrived from England and waits in the parlor, demanding the honor of presenting a letter to your majesty.” “Oh, a letter! a letter from the king, perhaps. News from your father, do you hear, Henrietta? And the name of this lord?” “Lord de Winter.” “Lord de Winter!” exclaimed the queen, “the friend of my husband. Oh, bid him enter!” And the queen advanced to meet the messenger, whose hand she seized affectionately, whilst he knelt down and presented a letter to her, contained in a case of gold. “Ah! my lord!” said the queen, “you bring us three things which we have not seen for a long time. Gold, a devoted friend, and a letter from the king, our husband and master.” De Winter bowed again, unable to reply from excess of emotion. On their side the mother and daughter retired into the embrasure of a window to read eagerly the following letter: