"Without being indiscreet, monsieur," said Coconnas, "may we know where we are going?"
"To Vincennes, I think," said the lieutenant.
"I would rather go elsewhere," said Coconnas; "but one does not always go just where one wishes."
On the way the King recovered consciousness and some strength.
At Nanterre he even wanted to ride, but this was not allowed.
"Summon Maître Ambroise Paré," said Charles, on reaching the Louvre.
He descended from his litter, ascended the stairs, leaning on the arm of Tavannes, and entered his apartment, giving orders that no one be allowed to follow him.
Every one had noticed that he seemed very grave. During the journey he had been in a deep study, not addressing a word to any one, concerned neither with conspiracy nor conspirators. It was evident that he was occupied with his illness; a malady so sudden, so strange, so severe, some of the symptoms of which had been noticed in his brother François II. a short time before his death.
So the order to admit no one whomsoever to his rooms, except Maître Paré, caused no surprise. It was well known that the prince was a misanthrope. Charles entered his sleeping-room, seated himself in a folding-chair, and leaned his head against the cushions. Then reflecting that Maître Ambroise Paré might not be at home, and that there might be some delay before he saw him, he decided to employ the intervening time.
He clapped his hands, thus summoning a guard.
"Say to the King of Navarre that I wish to speak with him," said Charles.
The man bowed and withdrew.
Just then Charles's head fell back, a great weight seemed to oppress him; his ideas grew confused; it was as if a sort of bloody vapor were floating before his eyes; his mouth was dry, although he had already swallowed a whole carafe of water.
While he was in this drowsy state the door opened and Henry appeared. Monsieur de Nancey had followed him, but stopped in the antechamber.
The King of Navarre waited until the door was closed. Then he advanced.
"Sire," said he, "you sent for me; I am here."
The King started at the voice and mechanically extended his hand.
"Sire," said Henry, letting his arms hang at his side, "your Majesty forgets that I am no longer your brother but your prisoner."
"Ah! that is true," said Charles. "Thank you for having reminded me of it. Moreover, it seems to me that when we last spoke together you promised to answer frankly what I might ask you."
"I am ready to keep my word, sire. Ask your questions."
The King poured some cold water into his hand and applied it to his forehead.
"Tell me, Henry, how much truth is there in the accusation brought against you by the Duc d'Alençon?"
"Only a little. It was Monsieur d'Alençon who was to have fled, and I who was to have accompanied him."
"And why should you have gone with him? Are you dissatisfied with me, Henry?"
"No, sire; on the contrary, I have only praise for your majesty; and God, who reads our hearts, knows how deeply I love my brother and my King."
"It seems to me," said Charles, "that it is not natural to flee from those we love and who love us."
"I was not fleeing from those who love me; I was fleeing from those who hate me. Will your Majesty permit me to speak openly?"
"Speak, monsieur."
"Those who hate me, sire, are Monsieur d'Alençon and the queen mother."
"As for Monsieur d'Alençon I will not answer; but the queen mother overwhelms you with attentions."
"That is just why I mistrust her, sire. And I do well to do so."
"Mistrust her?"
"Her, or those about her. You know, sire, that the misfortune of kings is not always that they are too little but that they are too well served."
"Explain yourself; you promised to tell me everything."
"Your Majesty will see that I will do so."
"Continue."
"Your Majesty loves me, you have said."
"I loved you before your treason, Henry."
"Pretend that you still love me, sire."
"Very well."
"If you love me you must want me to live, do you not?"
"I should be wretched were any harm to befall you."
"Well, sire, twice your Majesty has just escaped being wretched."
"How so?"
"Twice Providence has saved my life. It is true that the second time Providence assumed the features of your Majesty?"
"What form did it assume the first time?"
"That of a man who would be greatly surprised to see himself mistaken for Providence; I mean Réné. You, sire, saved me from steel."
Charles frowned, for he remembered the night when he had taken Henry to the Rue des Barres.
"And Réné?" said he.
"Réné saved me from poison."
"The deuce, Henriot, you have luck," said the King, trying to smile. But a quick spasm of pain changed the effort into a nervous contraction of the lips. "That is not his profession."
"Two miracles saved me, sire. A miracle of repentance on the part of the Florentine, and a miracle of goodness on your part. Well! I will confess to your Majesty that I am afraid Heaven will grow weary of working miracles, and I tried to run away, because of the proverb: 'Heaven helps those who help themselves.'"
"Why did you not tell me this sooner, Henriot?"
"Had I uttered these words yesterday I should have been a denunciator."
"And to-day?"
"To-day is different—I am accused and I am defending myself."
"Are you sure of the first attempt, Henriot?"
"As sure as I am of the second."
"And they tried to poison you?"
"Yes."
"With what?"
"With an opiate."
"How could they poison you with an opiate?"
"Why, sire, ask Réné; poisoning is done with gloves"—
Charles frowned; then by degrees his brow cleared.
"Yes," said he, as if speaking to himself. "It is the nature of wild creatures to flee from death. Why, then, should not knowledge do what instinct does?"
"Well, sire!" said Henry, "is your Majesty satisfied with my frankness, and do you believe that I have told you everything?"
"Yes, Henriot, and you are a good fellow. Do you think that those who hate you have grown weary, or will new attempts be made on your life?"
"Sire, every evening I am surprised to find myself still living."
"It is because they know I love you, Henriot, that they wish to kill you. But do not worry. They shall be punished for their evil intentions. Meanwhile you are free."
"Free to leave Paris, sire?" asked Henry.
"No; you well know that I cannot possibly do without you. In the name of a thousand devils! I must have some one here who loves me."
"Then, sire, if your Majesty keep me with you, will you grant me a favor"—
"What is it?"
"Not to keep me as a friend, but as a prisoner. Yes; does not your Majesty see that it is your friendship for me that is my ruin?"
"Would you prefer my hatred?"
"Your apparent hatred, sire. It will save me. As soon as they think I am in disgrace they will be less anxious for my death."
"Henriot," said Charles, "I know neither what you desire, nor what object you seek; but if your wishes do not succeed, and if your object is not accomplished, I shall be greatly surprised."
"I may, then, count on the severity of the King?"
"Yes."
"In that case I shall be less uneasy. Now what are your Majesty's commands?"
"Return to your apartments, Henriot, I am in pain. I will see my dogs and then go to bed."
"Sire," said Henry, "your Majesty ought to send for a physician. Your trouble is perhaps more serious than you imagine."
"I have sent for Maître Ambroise Paré, Henriot."
"Then I shall retire more satisfied."
"Upon my soul," said the King, "I believe that of all my family you are the only one who really loves me."
"Is this indeed your opinion, sire?"
"On the word of a gentleman."
"Then commend me to Monsieur de Nancey as a man your deep anger may not allow to live a month. By this means you will have me many years to love you."
"Monsieur de Nancey!" cried Charles.
The captain of the guards entered.
"I commit into your hands the most guilty man of my kingdom. You will answer for him with your life."
Henry assumed an air of consternation, and followed Monsieur de Nancey.
Charles, left alone, wondered greatly at not having seen either of his favorites, his nurse Madeleine or his greyhound Actéon.
"Nurse must have gone to chant psalms with some Huguenot of her acquaintance," said he to himself; "and Actéon is probably still angry with me for the whipping I gave him this morning."
Charles took a candle and went into his nurse's room. The good woman was not there. From her chamber a door opened into the armory, it may be remembered. The King started towards this door, but as he did so he was seized with one of those spasms he had already felt, and which seemed to attack him suddenly. He felt as if his entrails were being run through with a red-hot iron, and an unquenchable thirst consumed him. Seeing a cup of milk on the table, he swallowed it at a gulp, and felt somewhat relieved.
Taking the candle he had set down, he entered the armory.
To his great astonishment Actéon did not come to meet him. Had he been shut up? If so, he would have known that his master had returned from hunting, and would have barked.
Charles called and whistled, but no animal appeared. He advanced a few steps, and as the light from the candle fell upon a corner of the room, he perceived an inert something lying there on the floor.
"Why! hello, Actéon!" cried Charles. He whistled again, but the dog did not stir. Charles hastened forward and touched him; the poor beast was stiff and cold. From his throat, contracted by pain, several drops of gall had fallen, mixed with foamy and bloody saliva. The dog had found an old cap of his master's in the armory, and had died with his head resting on this object, which represented a friend.
At the sight, which made him forget his own pain and restored all his energy, rage boiled in Charles's veins. He would have cried out; but, restrained as they are in their greatness, kings are not free to yield to that first impulse which every man turns to the profit of his passion or to his defence. Charles reflected that there had been some treason, and was silent.
Then he knelt down before his dog and with experienced eye examined the body. The eyes were glassy, the tongue red and covered with pustules. It was a strange disease, and one which made Charles shudder. The King put on his gloves, which he had taken off and slipped into his belt, opened the livid lips of the dog to examine his teeth, and perceived in the interstices some white-looking fragments clinging to the sharp points of the molars. He took out these pieces, and saw that they were paper. Near where the paper had been the swelling was greater, the gums were swollen, and the skin looked as if it had been eaten by vitriol.
Charles gazed carefully around him. On the carpet lay two or three bits of the paper similar to that which he had already recognized in the dog's mouth. One of the pieces, larger than the others, showed the marks of a woodcut. Charles's hair stood on end, for he recognized a fragment of the picture which represented a gentleman hawking, and which Actéon had torn from the treatise on hunting.
"Ah!" said he, turning pale; "the book was poisoned!"
Then, suddenly remembering:
"A thousand devils!" he exclaimed, "I touched every page with my finger, and at every page I raised my finger to my lips. These fainting-spells, these attacks of pain and vomiting! I am a dead man!"
For an instant Charles remained motionless under the weight of this terrible thought. Then, rising with a dull groan, he hastened to the door of the armory.
"Maître Réné!" he cried, "I want Maître Réné, the Florentine; send some one as quickly as possible to the Pont Saint Michel and bring him to me! He must be here within ten minutes. Let some one mount a horse and lead another that he may come more quickly. If Maître Ambroise Paré arrives have him wait."
A guard went instantly to carry out the King's commands.
"Oh!" murmured Charles, "if I have to put everybody to the torture, I will know who gave this book to Henriot;" and with perspiration on his brow, clenched hands, and heaving breast, he stood with his eyes fixed on the body of his dead dog.
Ten minutes later the Florentine knocked timidly and not without some anxiety at the door of the King's apartments. There are some consciences to which the sky is never clear.
"Enter!" said Charles.
The perfumer appeared. Charles went towards him with imperious air and compressed lip.
"Your Majesty sent for me," said Réné, trembling.
"You are a skilful chemist, are you not?"
"Sire"—
"And you know all that the cleverest doctors know?"
"Your Majesty exaggerates."
"No; my mother has told me so. Besides, I have confidence in you, and I prefer to consult you rather than any one else. See," he continued, pointing to the dog, "look at what this animal has between his teeth, I beg you, and tell me of what he died."
While Réné, candle in hand, bent over the floor as much to hide his emotion as to obey the King, Charles stood up, his eyes fixed on the man, waiting with an impatience easy to understand for the reply which was to be his sentence of death or his assurance of safety.
Réné drew a kind of scalpel from his pocket, opened it, and with the point detached from the mouth of the greyhound the particles of paper which adhered to the gums; then he looked long and attentively at the humor and the blood which oozed from each wound.
"Sire," said he, trembling, "the symptoms are very bad."
Charles felt an icy shudder run through his veins to his very heart.
"Yes," said he, "the dog has been poisoned, has he not?"
"I fear so, sire."
"With what sort of poison?"
"With mineral poison, I think."
"Can you ascertain positively that he has been poisoned?"
"Yes, certainly, by opening and examining the stomach."
"Open it. I wish there to be no doubt."
"I must call some one to assist me."
"I will help you," said Charles.
"You, sire!"
"Yes. If he has been poisoned, what symptoms shall we find?"
"Red blotches and herborizations in the stomach."
"Come, then," said Charles, "begin."
With a stroke of the scalpel Réné opened the hound's body and with his two hands removed the stomach, while Charles, one knee on the floor, held the light with clenched and trembling hand.
"See, sire," said Réné; "here are evident marks. These are the red spots I spoke of; as to these bloody veins, which seem like the roots of a plant, they are what I meant by herborizations. I find here everything I looked for."
"So the dog was poisoned?"
"Yes, sire."
"With mineral poison?"
"In all probability."
"And what symptoms would a man have who had inadvertently swallowed some of the same poison?"
"Great pain in the head, internal burning as if he had swallowed hot coals, pains in the bowels, and vomiting."
"Would he be thirsty?" asked Charles.
"Intensely thirsty."
"That is it! that is it!" murmured the King.
"Sire, I seek in vain for the motive for all these questions."
"Of what use to seek it? You need not know it. Answer my questions, that is all."
"Yes, sire."
"What is the antidote to give a man who may have swallowed the same substance as my dog?"
Réné reflected an instant.
"There are several mineral poisons," said he; "and before answering I should like to know what you mean. Has your Majesty any idea of the way in which your dog was poisoned?"
"Yes," said Charles; "he chewed the leaf of a book."
"The leaf of a book?"
"Yes."
"Has your Majesty this book?"
"Here it is," said Charles, and, taking the volume from the shelf where he had placed it, he handed it to Réné.
The latter gave a start of surprise which did not escape the King.
"He ate a leaf of this book?" stammered Réné.
"Yes, this one," and Charles pointed to the torn page.
"Will you allow me to tear out another, sire?"
"Do so."
Réné tore out a leaf and held it over the candle. The paper caught fire, filling the room with a strong smell of garlic.
"He has been poisoned with a preparation of arsenic," said he.
"You are sure?"
"As sure as if I had prepared it myself."
"And the antidote?"
Réné shook his head.
"What!" said Charles in a hoarse voice, "you know no remedy?"
"The best and most efficacious is the white of eggs beaten in milk; but"—
"But what?"
"It must be administered at once; otherwise"—
"Otherwise?"
"Sire, it is a terrible poison," said Réné, again.
"Yet it does not kill immediately," said Charles.
"No, but it kills surely, no matter how long the time, though even this may sometimes be calculated."
Charles leaned against the marble table.
"Now," said he, putting his hand on Réné's shoulder, "you know this book?"
"I, sire?" said Réné, turning pale.
"Yes, you; on seeing it you betrayed yourself."
"Sire, I swear to you"—
"Réné," said Charles, "listen to me. You poisoned the Queen of Navarre with gloves; you poisoned the Prince of Porcion with the smoke from a lamp; you tried to poison Monsieur de Condé with a scented apple. Réné, I will have your skin removed with red-hot pincers, bit by bit, if you do not tell me to whom this book belongs."
The Florentine saw that he could not dally with the anger of Charles IX., and resolved to be bold.
"If I tell the truth, sire, who will guarantee that I shall not be more cruelly punished than if I keep silent?"
"I will."
"Will you give me your royal word?"
"On my honor as a gentleman your life shall be spared," said the King.
"The book belongs to me, then," said Réné.
"To you!" cried Charles, starting back and looking at the poisoner with haggard eyes.
"Yes, to me."
"How did it leave your possession?"
"Her majesty the queen mother took it from my house."
"The queen mother!" exclaimed Charles.
"Yes."
"With what object?"
"With the intention, I think, of having it sent to the King of Navarre, who had asked the Duc d'Alençon for a book of the kind in order to study the art of hawking."
"Ah!" cried Charles, "that is it. I see it all. The book indeed was in Henriot's room. There is a destiny about this and I submit to it."
At that moment Charles was seized with a violent fit of coughing, followed by fresh pain in the bowels. He gave two or three stifled cries, and fell back in his chair.
"What is the matter, sire?" asked Réné in a frightened voice.
"Nothing," said Charles, "except that I am thirsty. Give me something to drink."
Réné filled a glass with water and with trembling hand gave it to Charles, who swallowed it at a draught.
"Now," said he, taking a pen and dipping it into the ink, "write in this book."
"What must I write?"
"What I am going to dictate to you:
"'This book on hawking was given by me to the queen mother, Catharine de Médicis.'"
Réné took the pen and wrote.
"Now sign your name."
The Florentine obeyed.
"You promised to save my life."
"I will keep my promise."
"But," said Réné, "the queen mother?"
"Oh!" said Charles, "I have nothing to do with her; if you are attacked defend yourself."
"Sire, may I leave France, where I feel that my life is in danger?"
"I will reply to that in a fortnight."
"But, in the meantime"—
Charles frowned and placed his finger on his livid lips.
"You need not be afraid of me, sire."
And happy to have escaped so easily the Florentine bowed and withdrew.
Behind him the nurse appeared at the door of her room.
"What is the matter, my Charlot?" said she.
"Nurse, I have been walking in the dew, and have taken cold."
"You are very pale, Charlot."
"It is because I am so weak. Give me your arm, nurse, as far as my bed."
The nurse hastily came forward.
Charles leaned on her and reached his room.
"Now," said Charles, "I will put myself to bed."
"If Maître Ambroise Paré comes?"
"Tell him that I am better and that I do not need him."
"But, meanwhile, what will you take?"
"Oh! a very simple medicine," said Charles, "the whites of eggs beaten in milk. By the way, nurse," he continued, "my poor Actéon is dead. To-morrow morning he must be buried in a corner of the garden of the Louvre. He was one of my best friends. I will have a tomb made for him—if I have time."
According to the order given by Charles IX., Henry was conducted that same evening to Vincennes. Such was the name given at that time to the famous castle of which to-day only a fragment remains, colossal enough, however, to give an idea of its past grandeur.
The trip was made in a litter, on either side of which walked four guards.
Monsieur de Nancey, bearing the order which was to open to Henry the door of the protecting abode, walked first.
At the postern of the prison they stopped. Monsieur de Nancey dismounted from his horse, opened the gate, which was closed with a padlock, and respectfully asked the king to follow.
Henry obeyed without uttering a word. Any dwelling seemed to him safer than the Louvre, and ten doors closed on him were at the same time ten doors shut between him and Catharine de Médicis.
The royal prisoner crossed the drawbridge between two soldiers, passed through the three doors on the ground floor and the three at the foot of the staircase; then, still preceded by Monsieur de Nancey, he ascended one flight. Arrived there, the captain of the guards, seeing that the king was about to mount another flight, said to him:
"My lord, you are to stop here."
"Ah!" said Henry, pausing, "it seems that I am given the honors of the first floor."
"Sire," replied Monsieur de Nancey, "you are treated like a crowned head."
"The devil! the devil!" said Henry to himself, "two or three floors more would in no way have humiliated me. I shall be too comfortable here; I suspect something."
"Will your majesty follow me?" asked Monsieur de Nancey.
"Ventre saint gris!" said the King of Navarre, "you know very well, monsieur, that it is not a question of what I will or will not do, but of what my brother Charles orders. Did he command that I should follow you?"
"Yes, sire."
"Then I will do so, monsieur."
They reached a sort of corridor at the end of which they came to a good-sized room, with dark and gloomy looking walls. Henry gazed around him with a glance not wholly free from anxiety.
"Where are we?" he asked.
"In the chamber of torture, my lord."
"Ah!" replied the king, looking at it more closely.
There was something of everything in this chamber—pitchers and wooden horses for the torture by water; wedges and mallets for the torture of the boot; besides stone benches nearly all around the room for the wretches who awaited the torture. Above these benches, at the seats themselves, and at their feet, were iron rings fastened into the walls, without other symmetry than that of the torturing art. But their proximity to the seats sufficiently indicated that they were there in order to await the limbs of those who were to occupy them.
Henry walked on without a word, but not a single detail of all the hideous apparatus which, so to speak, had stamped the history of suffering on the walls escaped him.
The king was so taken up with the objects about him that he forgot to look where he was going, and came to a sudden standstill.
"Ah!" said he, "what is that?"
And he pointed to a kind of ditch dug in the damp pavement which formed the floor.
"That is the gutter, sire."
"Does it rain here, then?"
"Yes, sire, blood."
"Ah!" said Henry, "very good. Shall we not soon reach my apartment?"
"Yes, my lord, here it is," said a figure in the dark, which, as it drew nearer, became clearer and more distinguishable.
Henry thought he recognized the voice, and advanced towards the figure.
"So it is you, Beaulieu," said he. "What the devil are you doing here?"
"Sire, I have just received my appointment as governor of the fortress of Vincennes."
"Well, my dear friend, your initiation does you honor. A king for a prisoner is not bad."
"Pardon me, sire," said Beaulieu, "but I have already had two gentlemen."
"Who are they? But, pardon me, perhaps I am indiscreet. If so, assume that I have said nothing."
"My lord, I have not been ordered to keep it secret. They are Monsieur de la Mole and Monsieur de Coconnas."
"Ah! that is true. I saw them arrested. Poor gentlemen, and how do they bear this misfortune?"
"Differently. One is gay, the other sad; one sings, the other groans."
"Which one groans?"
"Monsieur de la Mole, sire."
"Faith," said Henry, "I can understand more easily the one who groans than the one who sings. After what I have seen the prison is not a very lively place. On what floor are they?"
"High up; on the fourth."
Henry heaved a sigh. It was there that he wished to be.
"Come, Monsieur de Beaulieu," said he, "be good enough to show me my room. I am in haste to see it, as I am greatly fatigued from the journey we have just made."
"This is it, my lord," said Beaulieu, pointing to an open door.
"Number two," said Henry; "why not number one?"
"Because that is reserved, my lord."
"Ah! it seems, then, that you expect a prisoner of higher rank than I."
"I did not say, my lord, that it was a prisoner."
"Who is it, then?"
"I beg my lord not to insist, for by refusing to answer I should fail in the obedience due him."
"Ah! that is another thing," said Henry.
And he became more pensive than before. Number one perplexed him, apparently. The governor was assiduous in his attentions. With a thousand apologies he installed Henry in his apartment, made every excuse for the comforts he might lack, stationed two soldiers at the door, and withdrew.
"Now," said the governor, addressing the turnkey, "let us go to the others."
The turnkey walked ahead. They took the same road by which they had come, passed through the chamber of torture, crossed the corridor, and reached the stairway. Then, still following his guide, Monsieur de Beaulieu ascended three flights. On reaching the fourth floor the turnkey opened successively three doors, each ornamented with two locks and three enormous bolts. He had scarcely touched the third door before they heard a joyous voice exclaiming:
"By Heaven! open; if only to give us some air. Your stove is so warm that I am stifled here."
And Coconnas, whom the reader has no doubt already recognized from his favorite exclamation, bounded from where he stood to the door.
"One instant, my gentleman," said the turnkey, "I have not come to let you out, but to let myself in, and the governor is with me."
"The governor!" said Coconnas, "what does he want?"
"To pay you a visit."
"He does me great honor," said Coconnas; "and he is welcome."
Monsieur de Beaulieu entered and at once dispelled the cordial smile of Coconnas by one of those icy looks which belong to governors of fortresses, to jailers, and to hangmen.
"Have you any money, monsieur?" he asked of the prisoner.
"I?" said Coconnas; "not a crown."
"Jewels?"
"I have a ring."
"Will you allow me to search you?"
"By Heaven!" cried Coconnas, reddening with anger, "you take much on yourself, being in prison, and having me there also."
"We must suffer everything for the service of the King."
"So," said the Piedmontese, "those good fellows who rob on the Pont Neuf are like you, then, in the service of the King. By Heavens! I was very unjust, monsieur, for until now I have taken them for thieves."
"Good evening, monsieur," said Beaulieu. "Jailer, lock the door."
The governor went away, taking with him the ring, which was a beautiful sapphire, given him by Madame de Nevers to remind him of the color of her eyes.
"Now for the other," he said as he went out.
They crossed an empty chamber, and the game of three doors, six locks, and nine bolts began anew.
The last door open, a sigh was the first sound that greeted the visitors.
The apartment was more gloomy looking than the one Monsieur de Beaulieu had just left. Four long narrow windows admitted a feeble light into this mournful abode. Before these, iron bars were crossed in such a way that the eye of the prisoner was arrested by a dark line and prevented from catching even a glimpse of the sky. From each corner of the room pointed arches met in the middle of the ceiling, where they spread out in Gothic fashion.
La Mole was seated in a corner, and, in spite of the entrance of the visitors, appeared to have heard nothing.
The governor paused on the threshold and looked for an instant at the prisoner, who sat motionless, his head in his hands.
"Good evening, Monsieur de la Mole," said Beaulieu.
The young man slowly raised his head.
"Good evening, monsieur," said he.
"Monsieur," continued the governor, "I have come to search you."
"That is useless," said La Mole. "I will give you all I have."
"What have you?"
"About three hundred crowns, these jewels, and rings."
"Give them to me, monsieur," said the governor.
"Here they are."
La Mole turned out his pockets, took the rings from his finger, and the clasp from his hat.
"Have you nothing more?"
"Not that I know of."
"And that silk cord around your neck, what may that be?" asked the governor.
"Monsieur, that is not a jewel, but a relic."
"Give it to me."
"What! you demand it?"
"I am ordered to leave you only your clothes, and a relic is not an article of clothing."
La Mole made a gesture of anger, which, in the midst of the dignified and pained calm which distinguished him, seemed to impress the men accustomed to stormy emotions.
But he immediately recovered his self-possession.
"Very well, monsieur," said he, "you shall see what you ask for."
Then, turning as if to approach the light, he unfastened the pretended relic, which was none other than a medallion containing a portrait, which he drew out and raised to his lips. Having kissed it several times, he suddenly pretended to drop it as by accident, and placing the heel of his boot on it he crushed it into a thousand pieces.
"Monsieur!" said the governor.
And he stooped down to see if he could not save the unknown object which La Mole wished to hide from him; but the miniature was literally ground to powder.
"The King wished for this jewel," said La Mole, "but he had no right to the portrait it contained. Now, here is the medallion; you may take it."
"Monsieur," said Beaulieu, "I shall complain of you to the King."
And without taking leave of his prisoner by a single word he went out, so angry that without waiting to preside over the task, he left to the turnkey the care of closing the doors.
The jailer turned to leave, but seeing that Monsieur de Beaulieu had already started down the stairs:
"Faith! monsieur," said he, turning back, "I did well to ask you to give me the hundred crowns at once for which I am to allow you to speak to your companion; for had you not done so the governor would have taken them from you with the three hundred others, and my conscience would not have allowed me to do anything for you; but as I was paid in advance, I promised that you should see your friend. So come. An honest man keeps his word. Only, if it is possible, for your sake as much as for mine, do not talk politics."
La Mole left his apartment and found himself face to face with Coconnas, who was walking up and down the flags of the intermediate room.
The two friends rushed into each other's arms.
The jailer pretended to wipe the corner of his eye, and then withdrew to watch that the prisoners were not surprised, or rather that he himself was not caught.
"Ah! here you are!" said Coconnas. "Well, has that dreadful governor paid his visit to you?"
"Yes, as he did to you, I presume?"
"Did he remove everything?"
"And from you, too?"
"Ah! I had not much; only a ring from Henrietta, that was all."
"And money?"
"I gave all I had to the good jailer, so that he would arrange this interview for us."
"Ah!" said La Mole, "it seems that he had something from both of us."
"Did you pay him too?"
"I gave him a hundred crowns."
"So much the better."
"One can do everything with money, and I trust that we shall not lack for it."
"Do you know what has happened to us?"
"Perfectly; we have been betrayed."
"By that scoundrelly Duc d'Alençon. I should have been right to twist his neck."
"Do you think our position serious?"
"I fear so."
"Then there is likelihood of the torture?"
"I will not hide from you the fact that I have already thought of it."
"What should you do in that case?"
"And you?"
"I should be silent," replied La Mole, with a feverish flush.
"Silent?" cried Coconnas.
"Yes, if I had the strength."
"Well," said Coconnas, "if they insult me in any such way I promise you I will tell them a few things."
"What things?" asked La Mole, quickly.
"Oh, be easy—things which will prevent Monsieur d'Alençon from sleeping for some time."
La Mole was about to reply when the jailer, who no doubt had heard some noise, appeared, and pushing each prisoner into his respective cell, locked the doors again.
For a week Charles was confined to his bed by a slow fever, interrupted by violent attacks which resembled epileptic fits. During these attacks he uttered shrieks which the guards, watching in his chamber, heard with terror, and the echoes of which reached to the farthest corner of the old Louvre, aroused so often by many a dreadful sound. Then, when these attacks passed, Charles, completely exhausted, sank back with closed eyes into the arms of his nurse.
To say that, each in his way, without communicating the feeling to the other, for mother and son sought to avoid rather than to see each other, to say that Catharine de Médicis and the Duc d'Alençon revolved sinister thoughts in the depths of their hearts would be to say that in that nest of vipers moved a hideous swarm.
Henry was shut up in his chamber in the prison; and at his own request no one had been allowed to see him, not even Marguerite. In the eyes of every one his imprisonment was an open disgrace. Catharine and D'Alençon, thinking him lost, breathed once more, and Henry ate and drank more calmly, hoping that he was forgotten.
At court no one suspected the cause of the King's illness. Maître Ambroise Paré and Mazille, his colleague, thought it was inflammation of the bowels, and had prescribed a regimen which aided the special drink given by Réné. Charles received this, his only nourishment, three times a day from the hands of his nurse.
La Mole and Coconnas were at Vincennes in closest confinement. Marguerite and Madame de Nevers had made a dozen attempts to reach them, or at least to send them a note, but without success. One morning Charles felt somewhat better, and wished the court to assemble. This was the usual custom in the morning, although for some time no levee had taken place. The doors were accordingly thrown open, and it was easy to see, from his pale cheeks, yellow forehead, and the feverish light in his deep-sunken eyes, which were surrounded by dark circles, what frightful ravages the unknown disease had made on the young monarch.
The royal chamber was soon filled with curious and interested courtiers. Catharine, D'Alençon, and Marguerite had been informed that the King was to hold an audience. Therefore all three entered, at short intervals, one by one; Catharine calm, D'Alençon smiling, Marguerite dejected. Catharine seated herself by the side of the bed without noticing the look that Charles gave her as he saw her approach.
Monsieur d'Alençon stood at the foot.
Marguerite leaned against a table, and seeing the pale brow, the worn features, and deep-sunken eyes of her brother, could not repress a sigh and a tear.
Charles, whom nothing escaped, saw the tear and heard the sigh, and with his head made a slight motion to Marguerite.
This sign, slight as it was, lighted the face of the poor Queen of Navarre, to whom Henry had not had time or perhaps had not wished to say anything.
She feared for her husband, she trembled for her lover. For herself she had no fear; she knew La Mole well, and felt she could rely on him.
"Well, my dear son," said Catharine, "how do you feel?"
"Better, mother, better."
"What do your physicians say?"
"My physicians? They are clever doctors, mother," said Charles, bursting into a laugh. "I take great pleasure, I admit, in hearing them discuss my malady. Nurse, give me something to drink."
The nurse brought Charles a cup of his usual beverage.
"What do they order you to take, my son?"
"Oh! madame, who knows anything about their preparations?" said the King, hastily swallowing the drink.
"What my brother needs," said François, "is to rise and get out into the open air; hunting, of which he is so fond, would do him a great deal of good."
"Yes," said Charles, with a smile, the meaning of which it was impossible for the duke to understand, "and yet the last hunt did me great harm."
Charles uttered these words in such a strange way that the conversation, in which the others present had not taken part, stopped. Then the King gave a slight nod of his head. The courtiers understood that the audience was over, and withdrew one after another.
D'Alençon started to approach his brother, but some secret feeling stopped him. He bowed and went out.
Marguerite seized the wasted hand her brother held out to her, pressed it, and kissed it. Then she, in turn, withdrew.
"Dear Margot!" murmured Charles.
Catharine alone remained, keeping her place at the side of the bed. Finding himself alone with her, Charles recoiled as if from a serpent.
Instructed by the words of Réné, perhaps still better by silence and meditation, Charles no longer had even the happiness of doubt.
He knew perfectly to whom and to what to attribute his approaching death.
So, when Catharine drew near to the bed and extended to him a hand as cold as his glance, the King shuddered in fear.
"You have remained, madame?" said he.
"Yes, my son," replied Catharine, "I must speak to you on important matters."
"Speak, madame," said Charles, again recoiling.
"Sire!" said the queen, "you said just now that your physicians were great doctors!"
"And I say so again, madame."
"Yet what have they done during your illness?"
"Nothing, it is true—but if you had heard what they said—really, madame, one might afford to be ill if only to listen to their learned discussions."
"Well, my son, do you want me to tell you something?"
"What is it, mother?"
"I suspect that all these clever doctors know nothing whatever about your malady."
"Indeed, madame!"
"They may, perhaps, see a result, but they are ignorant of the cause."
"That is possible," said Charles, not understanding what his mother was aiming at.
"So that they treat the symptoms and not the ill itself."
"On my soul!" said Charles, astonished, "I believe you are right, mother."
"Well, my son," said Catharine, "as it is good neither for my happiness nor the welfare of the kingdom for you to be ill so long, and as your mind might end by becoming affected, I assembled the most skilful doctors."
"In the science of medicine, madame?"
"No, in a more profound science: that which helps not only the body but the mind as well."
"Ah! a beautiful science, madame," said Charles, "and one which the doctors are right in not teaching to crowned heads! Have your researches had any result?" he continued.
"Yes."
"What was it?"
"That which I hoped for; I bring to your Majesty that which will cure not only your body but your mind."
Charles shuddered. He thought that finding that he was still living his mother had resolved to finish knowingly that which she had begun unconsciously.
"Where is this remedy?" said he, rising on his elbow and looking at his mother.
"In the disease itself," replied Catharine.
"Then where is that?"
"Listen to me, my son," said Catharine, "have you not sometimes heard it said that there are secret enemies who in their revenge assassinate their victim from a distance?"
"By steel or poison?" asked Charles, without once turning his eyes from the impassible face of his mother.
"No, by a surer and much more terrible means," said Catharine.
"Explain yourself."
"My son," asked the Florentine, "do you believe in charms and magic?"
Charles repressed a smile of scorn and incredulity.
"Fully," said he.
"Well," said Catharine, quickly, "from magic comes all your suffering. An enemy of your Majesty who would not have dared to attack you openly has conspired in secret. He has directed against your Majesty a conspiracy much more terrible in that he has no accomplices, and the mysterious threads of which cannot be traced."
"Faith, no!" said Charles, aghast at such cunning.
"Think well, my son," said Catharine, "and recall to mind certain plans for flight which would have assured impunity to the murderer."
"To the murderer!" cried Charles. "To the murderer, you say? Has there been an attempt to kill me, mother?"
Catharine's changing eye rolled hypocritically under its wrinkled lid.
"Yes, my son; you doubt it, perhaps, but I know it for a certainty."
"I never doubt what you tell me, mother," replied the King, bitterly. "How was the attempt made? I am anxious to know."
"By magic."
"Explain yourself, madame," said Charles, recalled by his loathing to his rôle of observer.
"If the conspirator I mean, and one whom at heart your Majesty already suspects, had succeeded in his plans, no one would have fathomed the cause of your Majesty's sufferings. Fortunately, however, sire, your brother watched over you."
"Which brother?"
"D'Alençon."
"Ah! yes, that is true; I always forget that I have a brother," murmured Charles, laughing bitterly; "so you say, madame"—
"That fortunately he revealed the conspiracy. But while he, inexperienced child that he is, sought only the traces of an ordinary plot, the proofs of a young man's escapade, I sought for proofs of a much more important deed; for I understand the reach of the guilty one's mind."
"Ah! mother, one would say you were speaking of the King of Navarre," said Charles, anxious to see how far this Florentine dissimulation would go.
Catharine hypocritically dropped her eyes.
"I have had him arrested and taken to Vincennes for his escapade," continued the King; "is he more guilty than I suspected, then?"
"Do you feel the fever that consumes you?" asked Catharine.
"Yes, certainly, madame," said Charles, frowning.
"Do you feel the fire that burns you internally?"
"Yes, madame," replied Charles, his brow darkening more and more.
"And the sharp pains in your head, which shoot from your eyes to your brain like so many arrows?"
"Yes, madame. I feel all that. You describe my trouble perfectly!"
"Well! the explanation is very simple," said the Florentine. "See."
And she drew from under her cloak an object which she gave to the King.
It was a figure of yellow wax, about six inches high, clothed in a robe covered with golden stars also of wax, like the figure; and over this a royal mantle of the same material.
"Well," asked Charles, "what is this little statue?"
"See what it has on its head," said Catharine.
"A crown," replied Charles.
"And in the heart?"
"A needle."
"Well, sire, do you recognize yourself?"
"Myself?"
"Yes, you, with your crown and mantle?"
"Who made this figure?" asked Charles, whom this farce was beginning to weary; "the King of Navarre, no doubt?"
"No, sire."
"No? then I do not understand you."
"I sayno," replied Catharine, "because you asked the question literally. I should have saidyeshad you put it differently."
Charles made no answer. He was striving to penetrate all the thoughts of that shadowy mind, which constantly closed before him just as he thought himself ready to read it.
"Sire," continued Catharine, "this statue was found by the Attorney-General Laguesle, in the apartment of the man who on the day you last went hawking led a horse for the King of Navarre."
"Monsieur de la Mole?"
"Yes, and, if you please, look again at the needle in the heart, and see what letter is written on the label attached to it."
"I see an 'M,'" said Charles.
"That meansmort, death; it is the magic formula, sire. The maker thus wrote his vow on the very wound he gave. Had he wished to make a pretence at killing, as did the Duc de Bretagne for King Charles VI., he would have driven the needle into the head and put an 'F' instead of an 'M.'"
"So," said Charles IX., "according to your idea, the person who seeks to end my days is Monsieur de la Mole?"
"Yes, he is the dagger; but behind the dagger is the hand that directs it."
"This then is the sole cause of my illness? the day the charm is destroyed the malady will cease? But how go to work?" asked Charles, "you must know, mother; but I, unlike you, who have spent your whole life studying them, know nothing about charms and spells."
"The death of the conspirator destroys the charm, that is all. The day the charm is destroyed your illness will cease," said Catharine.
"Indeed!" said Charles, with an air of surprise.
"Did you not know that?"
"Why! I am no sorcerer," said the King.
"Well, now," said Catharine, "your Majesty is convinced, are you not?"
"Certainly."
"Conviction has dispelled anxiety?"
"Completely."
"You do not say so out of complaisance?"
"No, mother! I say it from the bottom of my heart."
Catharine's face broke into smiles.
"Thank God!" she exclaimed, as if she believed in God.
"Yes, thank God!" repeated Charles, ironically; "I know now, as you do, to whom to attribute my present condition, and consequently whom to punish."
"And you will punish"—
"Monsieur de la Mole; did you not say that he was the guilty party?"
"I said that he was the instrument."
"Well," said Charles, "Monsieur de la Mole first; he is the most important. All these attacks on me might arouse dangerous suspicions. It is imperative that there be some light thrown on the matter and from this light the truth may be discovered."
"So Monsieur de la Mole"—
"Suits me admirably as the guilty one; therefore I accept him. We will begin with him; and if he has an accomplice, he shall speak."
"Yes," murmured Catharine, "and if he does not, we will make him. We have infallible means for that."
Then rising:
"Will you permit the trial to begin, sire?"
"I desire it, madame," replied Charles, "and the sooner the better."
Catharine pressed the hand of her son without comprehending the nervous grasp with which he returned it, and left the apartment without hearing the sardonic laugh of the King, or the terrible oath which followed the laugh.
Charles wondered if it were not dangerous to let this woman go thus, for in a few hours she would have done so much that there would be no way of stopping it.
As he watched the curtain fall after Catharine, he heard a light rustle behind him, and turning he perceived Marguerite, who raised the drapery before the corridor leading to his nurse's rooms.
Marguerite's pallor, her haggard eyes and oppressed breathing betrayed the most violent emotion.
"Oh, sire! sire!" she exclaimed, rushing to her brother's bedside; "you know that she lies."
"She? Who?" asked Charles.
"Listen, Charles, it is a terrible thing to accuse one's mother; but I suspected that she remained with you to persecute them again. But, on my life, on yours, on our souls, I tell you what she says is false!"
"To persecute them! Whom is she persecuting?"
Both had instinctively lowered their voices; it seemed as if they themselves feared even to hear them.
"Henry, in the first place; your Henriot, who loves you, who is more devoted to you than any one else."
"You think so, Margot?" said Charles.
"Oh! sire, I am sure of it."
"Well, so am I," said Charles.
"Then if you are sure of it, brother," said Marguerite, surprised, "why did you have him arrested and taken to Vincennes?"
"Because he asked me to do so."
"He asked you, sire?"
"Yes, Henriot has singular ideas. Perhaps he is wrong, perhaps right; at any rate, one of his ideas was that he would be safer in disgrace than in favor, away from me at Vincennes instead of near me in the Louvre."
"Ah! I see," said Marguerite, "and is he safe there?"
"As safe as a man can be whose head Beaulieu answers for with his own."
"Oh! thank you, brother! so much for Henry. But"—
"But what?"
"There is another, sire, in whom perhaps I am wrong to be interested, but"—
"Who is it?"
"Sire, spare me. I would scarcely dare name him to my brother, much less to my King."
"Monsieur de la Mole, is it not?" said Charles.
"Alas!" said Marguerite, "you tried to kill him once, sire, and he escaped from your royal vengeance only by a miracle."
"He was guilty of only one crime then, Marguerite; now he has committed two."
"Sire, he is not guilty of the second."
"But," said Charles, "did you not hear what our good mother said, my poor Margot?"
"Oh, I have already told you, Charles," said Marguerite, lowering her voice, "that what she said was false."
"You do not know perhaps that a waxen figure has been found in Monsieur de la Mole's rooms?"
"Yes, yes, brother, I know it."
"That this figure is pierced to the heart by a needle, and that it bears a tag with an 'M' on it?"
"I know that, too."
"And that over the shoulders of the figure is a royal mantle, and that on its head is a royal crown?"
"I know all that."
"Well! what have you to say to it?"
"This: that the figure with a royal cloak and a crown on its head is that of a woman, and not that of a man."
"Bah!" said Charles, "and the needle in its heart?"
"Was a charm to make himself beloved by this woman, and not a charm to kill a man."
"But the letter 'M'?"
"It does not meanmort, as the queen mother said."
"What does it mean, then?" asked Charles.
"It means—it means the name of the woman whom Monsieur de la Mole loves."
"And what is the name of this woman?"
"Marguerite, brother!" cried the Queen of Navarre, falling on her knees before the King's bed, taking his hand between both of hers, and pressing her face to it, bathed in tears.
"Hush, sister!" said Charles, casting a sharp glance about him beneath his frowning brow. "For just as you overheard a moment ago, we may now be overheard again."
"What does it matter?" exclaimed Marguerite, raising her head, "if the whole world were present to hear me, I would declare before it that it is infamous to abuse the love of a gentleman by staining his reputation with a suspicion of murder."
"Margot, suppose I were to tell you that I know as well as you do who it is and who it is not?"
"Brother!"
"Suppose I were to tell you that Monsieur de la Mole is innocent?"
"You know this?"
"If I were to tell you that I know the real author of the crime?"
"The real author!" cried Marguerite; "has there been a crime committed, then?"
"Yes; intentionally or unintentionally there has been a crime committed."
"On you?"
"Yes."
"Impossible!"
"Impossible? Look at me, Margot."
The young woman looked at her brother and trembled, seeing him so pale.
"Margot, I have not three months to live!" said Charles.
"You, brother! you, Charles!" she cried.
"Margot, I am poisoned."
Marguerite screamed.
"Hush," said Charles. "It must be thought that I am dying by magic."
"Do you know who is guilty?"
"Yes."
"You said it was not La Mole?"
"No, it is not he."
"Nor Henry either, surely—great God! could it be"—
"Who?"
"My brother—D'Alençon?" murmured Marguerite.
"Perhaps."
"Or—or"—Marguerite lowered her voice as if frightened at what she was going to say, "or—our mother?"
Charles was silent.
Marguerite looked at him, and read all that she asked in his eyes. Then still on her knees she half fell over against a chair.
"Oh! my God! my God!" she whispered, "that is impossible."
"Impossible?" said Charles, with a strident laugh, "it is a pity Réné is not here to tell you the story."
"Réné?"
"Yes; he would tell you that a woman to whom he dares refuse nothing asked him for a book on hunting which was in his library; that a subtle poison was poured on every page of this book; that the poison intended for some one, I know not for whom, fell by a turn of chance, or by a punishment of Heaven, on another. But in the absence of Réné if you wish to see the book it is there in my closet, and written in the Florentine's handwriting you will see that this volume, which still contains the death of many among its pages, was given by him to his fellow countrywoman."
"Hush, Charles, hush!" said Marguerite.
"Now you see that it must be supposed that I die of magic."
"But it is monstrous, monstrous! Pity! Pity! you know he is innocent."
"Yes, I know it, but he must be thought guilty. Let your lover die; it is very little to do in order to save the honor of the house of France; I myself shall die that the secret may die with me."
Marguerite bent her head, realizing that nothing could be obtained from the King towards saving La Mole, and withdrew weeping, having no hope except in her own resources.
Meantime Catharine, as Charles had divined, had lost not a minute, but had written to the Attorney-General Laguesle a letter, every word of which has been preserved by history and which throws a lurid light upon the drama: