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,”