isit, since the cardinal usually came to her apartment only
after every one had retired.

The minister made a slight sign with his head, whereupon the queen said
to Madame Beauvais:

"It is time for the king to go to bed; call Laporte."

The queen had several times already told her son that he ought to go to
bed, and several times Louis had coaxingly insisted on staying where
he was; but now he made no reply, but turned pale and bit his lips with
anger.

In a few minutes Laporte came into the room. The child went directly to
him without kissing his mother.

"Well, Louis," said Anne, "why do you not kiss me?"

"I thought you were angry with me, madame; you sent me away."

"I do not send you away, but you have had the small-pox and I am afraid
that sitting up late may tire you."

"You had no fears of my being tired when you ordered me to go to the
palace to-day to pass the odious decrees which have raised the people to
rebellion."

"Sire!" interposed Laporte, in order to turn the subject, "to whom does
your majesty wish me to give the candle?"

"To any one, Laporte," the child said; and then added in a loud voice,
"to any one except Mancini."

Now Mancini was a nephew of Mazarin's and was as much hated by Louis as
the cardinal himself, although placed near his person by the minister.

And the king went out of the room without either embracing his mother or
even bowing to the cardinal.

"Good," said Mazarin, "I am glad to see that his majesty has been
brought up with a hatred of dissimulation."

"Why do you say that?" asked the queen, almost timidly.

"Why, it seems to me that the way in which he left us needs no
explanation. Besides, his majesty takes no pains to conceal how little
affection he has for me. That, however, does not hinder me from being
entirely devoted to his service, as I am to that of your majesty."

"I ask your pardon for him, cardinal," said the queen; "he is a child,
not yet able to understand his obligations to you."

The cardinal smiled.

"But," continued the queen, "you have doubtless come for some important
purpose. What is it, then?"

Mazarin sank into a chair with the deepest melancholy painted on his
countenance.

"It is likely," he replied, "that we shall soon be obliged to separate,
unless you love me well enough to follow me to Italy."

"Why," cried the queen; "how is that?"

"Because, as they say in the opera of 'Thisbe,' 'The whole world
conspires to break our b