desire that he should confirm the Prince and the Queen. An impatient
movement of her foot conveyed to him her will that the thing should be
accomplished, the conspiracy arranged. His face became pale and more
pensive; he pondered for a moment, realizing that his destiny was
contained in that hour. De Thou looked at him and trembled, for he knew
him well. He would fain have said one word to him, only one word; but
Cinq-Mars had already raised his head. He spoke:

"I do not think, Madame, that the King is so ill as you suppose. God
will long preserve to us this Prince. I hope so; I am even sure of it.
He suffers, it is true, suffers much; but it is his soul more peculiarly
that is sick, and of an evil which nothing can cure--of an evil which one
would not wish to one's greatest enemy, and which would gain him the pity
of the whole world if it were known. The end of his misery--that is to
say, of his life--will not be granted him for a long time. His languor
is entirely moral. There is in his heart a great revolution going on;
he would accomplish it, and can not.

"The King has felt for many long years growing within him the seeds of a
just hatred against a man to whom he thinks he owes gratitude, and it is
this internal combat between his natural goodness and his anger that
devours him. Every year that has passed has deposited at his feet,
on one side, the great works of this man, and on the other, his crimes.
It is the last which now weigh down the balance. The King sees them and
is indignant; he would punish, but all at once he stops and weeps. If
you could witness him thus, Madame, you would pity him. I have seen him
seize the pen which was to sign his exile, dip it into the ink with a
bold hand, and use it--for what? --to congratulate him on some recent
success. He at once applauds himself for his goodness as a Christian,
curses himself for his weakness as a sovereign judge, despises himself as