e pale Louis XIII., that light
once more flashed from her husband's dull eyes, and his nostrils
grew livid with wrath. The portrait seemed animated by a living
expression--speak it did not, but it seemed to threaten. A profound
silence succeeded the queen's last remark. La Molina began to turn over
ribbons and laces on a large work-table. Madame de Motteville, surprised
at the look of mutual intelligence which had been exchanged between the
confidant 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 to every word. She heard nothing, however, but
a very insignificant "hum" on the part of the Spanish duenna, who was
the incarnation of 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 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