e at least is guiltless."

The appeal was not made in vain. M. du Rouvray[291] took her little son,
the Comte de la Pena, by the hand, raised him in his arms that his lips
might once more touch those of his mother, and then, without uttering a
syllable, led him from the apartment. In another instant the Norman
noble was once more at her side. "The child is in sure hands," he said
hurriedly; "and now, Madame, to provide for your own safety. Follow
me--you have no time to spare."

It was, however, already too late; for as Du Rouvray ceased speaking, De
Vitry, still reeking with the blood of Concini, stood upon the threshold
of the chamber, attended by a troop of halberdiers.

"You are my prisoner, Madame," he exclaimed harshly: "prepare to
accompany me to the Bastille."

"I am ready, Sir," replied the Marechale, with the composure of utter
despair, "All is as it should be. The murderer of the husband is well
fitted to be the gaoler of the wife."

The rings belonging to the Crown were then removed from the fingers of
the Marquise; and upon her refusal to reveal where the remainder of the
jewels were secreted, her apartments were strictly searched; and not
only were the royal ornaments carried off by De Vitry and his
companions, but also every other article of value which fell into their
hands. While this unmanly outrage was going on around her, the Marechale
d'Ancre passively permitted her women to fasten her mantle, and to
adjust her mask and hood; her thoughts were evidently elsewhere. Within
a few yards of where she was then seated, and within hearing of the
tumult occasioned by the reckless insolence of the men-at-arms by whom
she was surrounded, her foster-sister, the playmate of her girlhood, the
friend of her youth, and the protectress of her latter years--whose
tears she had so often wiped away, whose sorrows she had so often
soothed, and whose hopes and fears she had equally shared throughout so
long a period--remained cold and unmoved by her misery. It was a bitter
pang: and drops of anguish, wrung from the deepest recesses of a
bursting heart, fell large and heavy upon the cheek of the new-made
widow and the abandoned favourite, and moistened her clasped hands.
None, however, heeded her agony; each of her attendants, whatever might
have been the previous attachment of all to her person, was absorbed by
her own terrors; while the strangers who had invaded her privacy were
eager, under the specious pretext of