One afternoon I sat alone in the little anteroom before the Queen Mother's cabinet. In front of me was an open door. The curtains of violet velvet, spangled with golden lilies, were half drawn, and beyond extended a long, narrow, and gloomy corridor, leading into the main salon of the Hôtel de Soissons, from which the sound of music and occasional laughter came to me. My sister maids of honour were there, doubtless making merry as was their wont with the cavaliers of the court, and I longed to be with them, instead of watching away the hours in the little prison, I can call it no less, that led to the Queen's closet. In the corridor were two sentries standing as motionless as statues. They …
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