ded the queen's last remark. La Molina began to turn over
the ribbons and lace of a large work-table. Madame de Motteville,
surprised at the look of mutual intelligence which had been exchanged
between the confidante and her mistress, cast down her eyes, like a
discreet woman, and, pretending to be observant of nothing that was
passing, listened with the utmost attention instead. She heard nothing,
however, but a very significant "hum" on the part of the Spanish duenna,
who was the perfect representation of extreme caution--and a profound
sigh on that of the queen. She looked up immediately.

"You are suffering?" she said.

"No, Motteville, no; why do you say that?"

"Your majesty almost groaned just now."

"You are right; I did sigh, in truth."

"Monsieur Vallot is not far off; I believe he is in Madame's apartment."

"Why is he with Madame?"

"Madame is troubled with nervous attacks."

"A very fine disorder, indeed! There is little good in M. Vallot being
there, when another physician instead would cure Madame."

Madame de Motteville looked up with an air of great surprise, as she
replied, "Another doctor instead of M. Vallot?--whom do you mean?"

"Occupation, Motteville, occupation. If any one is really ill it is my
poor daughter."

"And your majesty, too."

"Less so this evening, though."

"Do not believe that too confidently, madame," said De Motteville. And,
as if to justify her caution, a sharp acute pain seized the queen, who
turned deadly pale, and threw herself back in the chair, with every
symptom of a sudden fainting fit. Molina ran to a richly-gilded
tortoise-shell cabinet, from which she took a large rock-crystal
smelling-bottle, and immediately held it to the queen's nostrils, who
inhaled it wildly for a few minutes, and murmured:

"It will hasten my death--but Heaven's will be done."

"Your majesty's death is not so near at hand," added Molina, replacing
the smelling-bottle in the cabinet.

"Does your majesty feel better now?" inquired Madame de Motteville.

"Much better," returned the queen, placing her finger on her lips, to
impose silence on her favorite.

"It is very strange," remarked Madame de Motteville, after a pause.

"What is strange?" said the queen.

"Does your majesty remember the day when this pain attacked you for the
first time?"

"I remember only that it was a grievously sad day for me, Motteville."

"But your majesty had not always regarded that day a sad one.