waits in the parlor, demanding the honor of presenting a
letter to your majesty.”
“Oh, a letter! a letter from the king, perhaps. News from
your father, do you hear, Henrietta? And the name of this
lord?”
“Lord de Winter.”
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“Lord de Winter!” exclaimed the queen, “the friend of my
husband. Oh, bid him enter!”
And the queen advanced to meet the messenger, whose hand she
seized affectionately, whilst he knelt down and presented a
letter to her, contained in a case of gold.
“Ah! my lord!” said the queen, “you bring us three things
which we have not seen for a long time. Gold, a devoted
friend, and a letter from the king, our husband and master.”
De Winter bowed again, unable to reply from excess of
emotion.
On their side the mother and daughter retired into the
embrasure of a window to read eagerly the following letter:
Dear Wife, — We have now reached the moment of decision. I
have concentrated here at Naseby camp all the resources
Heaven has left me, and I write to you in haste from thence.
Here I await the army of my rebellious subjects. I am about
to struggle for the last time with them. If victorious, I
shall continue the struggle; if beaten, I am lost. I shall
try, in the latter case (alas! in our position, one must
provide for everything), I shall try to gain the coast of
France. But can they, will they receive an unhappy king, who
will bring such a sad story into a country already agitated
by civil discord? Your wisdom and your affection must serve
me as guides. The bearer of this letter will tell you,
madame, what I dare not trust to pen and paper and the risks
of transit. He will explain to you the steps that I expect
you to pursue. I charge him also with my blessing for my
children and with the sentiments of my soul for yourself, my
dearest sweetheart.”
The letter bore the signature, not of “Charles, King,” but
of “Charles — still king.”
“And let him be no longer king,” cried the queen. “Let him
be conquered, exiled, proscribed, provided he still lives.
Alas! in these days the throne is too dangerous a place for
me to wish him to retain it. But my lord, tell me,” she
continued, “hide nothing from me — what is, in truth, the
king’s position? Is it as hopeless as he thinks?”
“Alas! madame, more hopeless than he thinks. His majesty has
so good a heart that he cannot understand hatred; is so
loyal that he does not suspect treason! England is torn in
twain by a spirit of disturbance which, I greatly fear,
blood alone can exorcise.”
“But Lord Montrose,” replied the queen, “I have heard of his
great and rapid successes of battles gained. I heard it said
that he was marching to the frontier to join the king.”
“Yes, madame; but on the frontier he was met by Lesly; he
had tried victory by means of superhuman undertakings. Now
victory has abandoned him. Montrose, beaten at Philiphaugh,
was obliged to disperse the remains of his army and to fly,
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disguised as a servant. He is at Bergen, in Norway.”
“Heaven preserve him!” said the queen. “It is at least a
consolation to know that some who have so often risked their
lives for us are safe. And now, my lord, that I see how
hopeless the position of the king is, tell me with what you
are charged on the part of my royal husband.”
“Well, then, madame,” said De Winter, “the king wishes you
to try and discover the dispositions of the king and queen
toward him.”
“Alas! you know that even now the king is but a child and
the queen a woman weak enough. Here, Monsieur Mazarin is
everything.”
“Does he desire to play the part in France that Cromwell
plays in England?”
“Oh, no! He is a subtle, conscienceless Italian, who though
he very likely dreams of crime, dares not commit it; and
unlike Cromwell, who disposes of both Houses, Mazarin has