"

"Why?"

"Because three and twenty years before, on that very day, his present
majesty, your own glorious son, was born at the very same hour."

The queen uttered a loud cry, buried her face in her hands, and seemed
utterly lost for some minutes; but whether from recollections which
arose in her mind, or from reflection, or even from sheer pain, it was
of course uncertain. La Molina darted almost a furious look at Madame de
Motteville, which was so full of bitter reproach, that the poor woman,
perfectly ignorant of its meaning, was, in her own exculpation, on the
point of asking an explanation of its meaning; when, suddenly Anne of
Austria arose and said, "Yes, the 5th of September; my sorrow began on
the 5th of September. The greatest joy, one day; the deepest sorrow the
next:--the sorrow," she added, "the bitter expiation of a too excessive
joy."

And, from that moment, Anne of Austria, whose memory and reason seemed
to have become entirely suspended for a time, remained impenetrable,
with vacant look, mind almost wandering, and hands hanging heavily down,
as if life had almost departed.

"We must put her to bed," said La Molina.

"Presently, Molina."

"Let us leave the queen alone," added the Spanish attendant.

Madame de Motteville rose; large and glistening tears were fast rolling
down the queen's pallid face; and Molina, having observed this sign of
weakness, fixed her black vigilant eyes upon her.

"Yes, yes," replied the queen. "Leave us, Motteville; go."

The word "us," produced a disagreeable effect upon the ears of the
French favorite; for it signified that an interchange of secrets, or of
revelations of the past, was about to be made, and that one person was
_de trop_ in the conversation which seemed likely to take place.

"Will Molina, alone, be sufficient for your majesty to-night?" inquired
the Frenchwoman.

"Yes," replied the queen. Madame de Motteville bowed in submission, and
was about to withdraw, when, suddenly, an old female attendant, dressed
as if she had belonged to the Spanish court of the year 1620, opened
the door and surprised the queen in her tears. "The remedy!" she cried,
delightedly, to the queen, as she unceremoniously approached the group.

"What remedy?" said Anne of Austria.

"For your majesty's sufferings," the former replied.

"Who brings it?" asked Madame de Motteville, eagerly; "Monsieur Vallot?"

"No; a lady from Flanders."

"From Flanders. Is she Spanish?"