“Among my friends of other times?” said the queen. “Yes, among your friends of other times; among those who aided you to contend against the Duc de Richelieu and even to conquer him.” “What is he aiming at?” murmured the queen, looking uneasily at the cardinal. “Yes,” continued his eminence; “under certain circumstances, with that strong and shrewd mind your majesty possesses, aided by your friends, you were able to repel the attacks of that adversary.” “I!” said the queen. “I suffered, that is all.” “Yes,” said Mazarin, “as women suffer in avenging themselves. Come, let us come to the point. Do you know Monsieur de Rochefort?” “One of my bitterest enemies—the faithful friend of Cardinal Richelieu.” “I know that, and we sent him to the Bastile,” said Mazarin. “Is he at liberty?” asked the queen. “No; still there, but I only speak of him in order that I may introduce the name of another man. Do you know Monsieur d’Artagnan?” he added, looking steadfastly at the queen. Anne of Austria received the blow with a beating heart. “Has the Gascon been indiscreet?” she murmured to herself, then said aloud: “D’Artagnan! stop an instant, the name seems certainly familiar. D’Artagnan! there was a musketeer who was in love with one of my women. Poor young creature! she was poisoned on my account.” “That’s all you know of him?” asked Mazarin. The queen looked at him, surprised. “You seem, sir,” she remarked, “to be making me undergo a course of cross-examination.” “Which you answer according to your fancy,” replied Mazarin. “Tell me your wishes and I will comply with them.” The queen spoke with some impatience. “Well, madame,” said Mazarin, bowing, “I desire that you give me a share in your friends, as I have shared with you the little industry and talent that Heaven has given me. The circumstances are grave and it will be necessary to act promptly.” “Still!” said the queen. “I thought that we were finally quit of Monsieur de Beaufort.” “Yes, you saw only the torrent that threatened to overturn everything and you gave no attention to the still water. There is, however, a proverb current in France relating to water which is quiet.” “Continue,” said the queen. “Well, then, madame, not a day passes in which I do not suffer affronts from your princes and your lordly servants, all of them automata who do not perceive that I wind up the spring that makes them move, nor do they see that beneath my quiet demeanor lies the still scorn of an injured, irritated man, who has sworn to himself to master them one of these days. We have arrested Monsieur de Beaufort, but he is the least dangerous among them. There is the Prince de Condé——” “The hero of Rocroy. Do you think of _him?_” “Yes, madame, often and often, but _pazienza_, as we say in Italy; next, after Monsieur de Condé, comes the Duke of Orléans.” “What are you saying? The first prince of the blood, the king’s uncle!”