Chapter 43 - Page 2

said.

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

"Your majesty almost groaned just now."

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

"Monsieur Valot 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. Valot being
there, when a very different physician would quickly cure Madame."

Madame de Motteville looked up with an air of great surprise, as she
replied, "Another doctor instead of M. Valot? - 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 bottle of scented
salts, and held it to the queen's nostrils, who inhaled it wildly for a
few minutes, and murmured:

"It is hastening 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 did not always regard that day as a sad one."

"Why?"

"Because three and twenty years ago, 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 prostrated for some minutes; but whether from recollections which
arose in her mind, or from reflection, or even with sheer pain, was
doubtful. La Molina darted a look at Madame de Motteville, 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, 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