ou done wrong, then? Have you ordered the death of any one? Oh,
no, I am sure you have not, you are so good!"

"What!" said Cinq-Mars, "are you as nothing in my designs? Did I
misconstrue your thoughts when you looked at me in the Queen's boudoir?
Can I no longer read in your eyes? Was the fire which animated them that
of a love for Richelieu? That admiration which you promised to him who
should dare to say all to the King, where is it? Is it all a falsehood?"

Marie burst into tears.

"You still speak to me with bitterness," she said; "I have not deserved
it. Do you suppose, because I speak not of this fearful conspiracy, that
I have forgotten it? Do you not see me miserable at the thought? Must you
see my tears? Behold them; I shed enough in secret. Henri, believe that
if I have avoided this terrible subject in our last interviews, it is
from the fear of learning too much. Have I any other thought that that of
your dangers? Do I not know that it is for me you incur them? Alas! if
you fight for me, have I not also to sustain attacks no less cruel?
Happier than I, you have only to combat hatred, while I struggle against
friendship. The Cardinal will oppose to you men and weapons; but the
Queen, the gentle Anne of Austria, employs only tender advice, caresses,
sometimes tears."

"Touching and invincible constraint to make you accept a throne," said
Cinq-Mars, bitterly. "I well conceive you must need some efforts to
resist such seductions; but first, Madame, I must release you from your
vows."

"Alas, great Heaven! what is there, then, against us?"

"There is God above us, and against us," replied Henri, in a severe tone;
"the King has deceived me."

There was an agitated movement on the part of the Abbe.

Marie exclaimed, "I foresaw it; this is the misfortune I dreamed and
dreamed of! It is I who caused it?"

"He deceived me, as he pressed my hand," continued Cinq-Mars; "he
betrayed me by the villain Joseph, whom an offer has been made to me to
poniard."

The Abbe gave a start of horror which half opened the door of the
confessional.

"O father, fear nothing," said Henri d'Effiat; "your pupil will never
strike such blows. Those I prepare will be heard from afar, and the broad
day will light them up; but there remains a duty--a sacred duty--for me
to fulfil. Behold your son sacrifice himself before you! Alas! I have not
lived long in the sight of happiness, and I am about, perhaps, to destroy
it by your hand