"And with one blow, eh?" said the Piedmontese in a low tone.
"With one blow."
"That is well. If you have to make up for it, make up on me."
The tumbril stopped. They had arrived. Coconnas put on his hat.
A murmur like that of the waves at sea reached the ears of La Mole. He strove to rise, but strength failed him. Caboche and Coconnas supported him under the arms.
The place was paved with heads; the steps of the Hôtel de Ville seemed an amphitheatre peopled with spectators. Each window was filled with animated faces, the eyes of which seemed on fire.
When they saw the handsome young man, no longer able to support himself on his bruised legs, make a last effort to reach the scaffold, a great shout rose like a cry of universal desolation. Men groaned and women uttered plaintive shrieks.
"He was one of the greatest courtiers!" said the men; "and he should not have to die at Saint Jean en Grève, but at the Pré aux Clercs."
"How handsome he is! How pale!" said the women; "he is the one who would not confess."
"Dearest friend," said La Mole, "I cannot stand. Carry me!"
"Wait," said Coconnas.
He signed to the executioner, who stepped aside; then, stooping, he lifted La Mole in his arms as if he were a child, and without faltering carried his burden up the steps of the scaffold, where he put him down, amid the frantic shouting and applause of the multitude. Coconnas raised his hat and bowed. Then he threw the hat on the scaffold beside him.
"Look round," said La Mole, "do you not see them somewhere?"
Coconnas slowly glanced around the place, and, having reached a certain point, without removing his eyes from it he laid his hand on his friend's shoulder.
"Look," said he, "look at the window of that small tower!"
With his other hand he pointed out to La Mole the little building which still stands at the corner of the Rue de la Vannerie and the Rue Mouton,—a reminder of past ages.
Somewhat back from the window two women dressed in black were leaning against each other.
"Ah!" said La Mole, "I feared only one thing, and that was to die without seeing her again. I have seen her; now I can go."
And with his eyes riveted on the small window he raised the reliquary to his lips and covered it with kisses.
Coconnas saluted the two women with as much grace as if he were in a drawing-room. In response to this they waved their handkerchiefs bathed in tears.
Caboche now touched Coconnas on the shoulder, and looked at him significantly.
"Yes, yes," said the Piedmontese. Then turning to La Mole:
"Embrace me," said he, "and die like a man. This will not be hard for you, my friend; you are so brave!"
"Ah!" said La Mole, "there will be no merit in my dying bravely, suffering as I do."
The priest approached and held the crucifix before La Mole, who smiled and pointed to the reliquary in his hand.
"Never mind," said the priest, "ask strength from Him who suffered what you are about to suffer."
La Mole kissed the feet of the Christ.
"Commend me to the prayers of the nuns of the Avens Sainte Vierge."
"Make haste, La Mole," said Coconnas, "you cause me such suffering that I feel myself growing weak."
"I am ready," said La Mole.
"Can you keep your head steady?" inquired Caboche, holding his sword behind La Mole, who was on his knees.
"I hope so," said the latter.
"Then all will go well."
"But," said La Mole, "you will not forget what I asked of you? This reliquary will open the doors to you."
"Be easy. Now try to keep your head straight."
La Mole raised his head and turned his eyes towards the little tower.
"Adieu, Marguerite," said he; "bless"—
He never finished. With one blow of his sword, as swift as a stroke of lightning, Caboche severed the head, which rolled to the feet of Coconnas.
The body fell back gently as if going to rest.
A great cry rose from thousands of voices, and, among them, it seemed to Coconnas that he heard a shriek more piercing than all the rest.
"Thank you, my good friend," said Coconnas, and a third time he extended his hand to the hangman.
"My son," said the priest, "have you nothing to confess to God?"
"Faith no, father," said the Piedmontese; "all that I had to say I said to you yesterday."
Then turning to Caboche:
"Now, executioner, my last friend, one more favor!"
Before kneeling down he turned on the crowd a glance so calm and serene that a murmur of admiration rose, which soothed his ear and flattered his pride. Then, raising the head of his friend and pressing a kiss on the purple lips, he gave a last look toward the little tower, and kneeling down, still holding the well-loved head in his hand, he said:
"Now!"
Scarcely had he uttered the word before Caboche had cut off his head.
This done, the poor hangman began to tremble.
"It was time it was over," said he. "Poor fellow!"
And with difficulty he drew from the clinched fingers of La Mole the reliquary of gold. Then he threw his cloak over the sad remains which the tumbril was to convey to his own abode.
The spectacle over, the crowd dispersed.
Night descended over the city, which still trembled at the remembrance of the execution, the details of which passed from mouth to mouth, saddening the happy supper hour in every home. In contrast to the city, which was silent and mournful, the Louvre was noisy, joyous, and illuminated. There was a grand fête at the palace, a fête ordered by Charles IX., a fête he had planned for that evening at the very time that he had ordered the execution for the morning.
The previous evening the Queen of Navarre had received word to be present, and, in the hope that La Mole and Coconnas would have escaped during the night, since every measure had been taken for their safety, she had promised her brother to comply with his wishes.
But when she had lost all hope, after the scene in the chapel, after, out of a last feeling of piety for that love, the greatest and the deepest she had ever known, she had been present at the execution, she resolved that neither prayers nor threats should force her to attend a joyous festival at the Louvre the same day on which she had witnessed so terrible a scene at the Grève.
That day King Charles had given another proof of the will power which no one perhaps carried as far as he. In bed for a fortnight, weak as a dying man, pale as a corpse, yet he rose about five o'clock and donned his most beautiful clothes, although during his toilet he fainted three times.
At eight o'clock he asked what had become of his sister, and inquired if any one had seen her and what she was doing. No one could tell him, for the queen had gone to her apartments about eleven o'clock and had absolutely refused admittance to every one.
But there was no refusal for Charles. Leaning on the arm of Monsieur de Nancey, he went to the queen's rooms and entered unannounced by the secret corridor.
Although he had expected a melancholy sight, and had prepared himself for it in advance, that which he saw was even more distressing than he had anticipated.
Marguerite, half dead, was lying on a divan, her head buried in the cushions, neither weeping nor praying, but moaning like one in great agony; and this she had been doing ever since her return from the Grève. At the other end of the chamber Henriette de Nevers, that daring woman, lay stretched on the carpet unconscious. On coming back from the Grève her strength, like Marguerite's, had given out, and poor Gillonne was going from one to the other, not daring to offer a word of consolation.
In the crises which follow great catastrophes one hugs one's grief like a treasure, and any one who attempts to divert us, ever so slightly, is looked on as an enemy. Charles IX. closed the door, and leaving Nancey in the corridor entered, pale and trembling.
Neither of the women had seen him. Gillonne alone, who was trying to revive Henriette, rose on one knee, and looked in a startled way at the King.
The latter made a sign with his hand, whereupon the girl rose, courtesied, and withdrew.
Charles then approached Marguerite, looked at her a moment in silence, and in a tone of which his harsh voice was supposed to be incapable, said:
"Margot! my sister!"
The young woman started and sat up.
"Your Majesty!" said she.
"Come, sister, courage."
Marguerite raised her eyes to Heaven.
"Yes," said Charles, "but listen to me."
The Queen of Navarre made a sign of assent.
"You promised me to come to the ball," said Charles.
"I!" exclaimed Marguerite.
"Yes, and after your promise you are expected; so that if you do not come every one will wonder why."
"Excuse me, brother," said Marguerite, "you see that I am suffering greatly."
"Exert yourself."
For an instant Marguerite seemed to try to summon her courage, then suddenly she gave way and fell back among the cushions.
"No, no, I cannot go," said she.
Charles took her hand and seating himself on the divan said:
"You have just lost a friend, I know, Margot; but look at me. Have I not lost all my friends, even my mother? You can always weep when you wish to; but I, at the moment of my greatest sorrows, am always forced to smile. You suffer; but look at me! I am dying. Come, Margot, courage! I ask it of you, sister, in the name of our honor! We bear like a cross of agony the reputation of our house; let us bear it, sister, as the Saviour bore his cross to Calvary; and if on the way we stagger, as he did, let us like him rise brave and resigned."
"Oh, my God! my God!" cried Marguerite.
"Yes," said Charles, answering her thought; "the sacrifice is severe, sister, but each one has his own burden, some of honor, others of life. Do you suppose that with my twenty-five years, and the most beautiful throne in the world, I do not regret dying? Look at me! My eyes, my complexion, my lips are those of a dying man, it is true; but my smile, does not my smile imply that I still hope? and in a week, a month at the most, you will be weeping for me, sister, as you now weep for him who died to-day."
"Brother!" exclaimed Marguerite, throwing her arms about Charles's neck.
"So dress yourself, dear Marguerite," said the King, "hide your pallor and come to the ball. I have given orders for new jewels to be brought to you, and ornaments worthy of your beauty."
"Oh! what are diamonds and dresses to me now?" said Marguerite.
"Life is long, Marguerite," said Charles, smiling, "at least for you."
The pages withdrew; Gillonne alone remained.
"Prepare everything that is necessary for me, Gillonne," said Marguerite.
"Sister, remember one thing: sometimes it is by stifling or rather by dissimulating our suffering that we show most honor to the dead."
"Well, sire," said Marguerite, shuddering, "I will go to the ball."
A tear, which soon dried on his parched eyelid, moistened Charles's eye.
He leaned over his sister, kissed her forehead, paused an instant before Henriette, who had neither seen nor heard him, and murmured:
"Poor woman!"
Then he went out silently.
Soon after several pages entered, bringing boxes and jewel-caskets.
Marguerite made a sign for them to set everything down.
Gillonne looked at her mistress in astonishment.
"Yes," said Marguerite, in a tone the bitterness of which it is impossible to describe; yes, I will dress and go to the ball; I am expected. Make haste; the day will then be complete. A fête on the Grève in the morning, a fête in the Louvre in the evening."
"And the duchess?" said Gillonne.
"She is quite happy. She may remain here; she can weep; she can suffer at her ease. She is not the daughter of a king, the wife of a king, the sister of a king. She is not a queen. Help me to dress, Gillonne."
The young girl obeyed. The jewels were magnificent, the dress gorgeous. Marguerite had never been so beautiful.
She looked at herself in a mirror.
"My brother is right," said she; "a human being is indeed a miserable creature."
At that moment Gillonne returned.
"Madame," said she, "a man is asking for you."
"For me?"
"Yes."
"Who is he?"
"I do not know, but he is terrible to look at; the very sight of him makes me shudder."
"Go and ask him his name," said Marguerite, turning pale.
Gillonne withdrew, and returned in a few moments.
"He will not give his name, madame, but he begged me to give you this."
Gillonne handed to Marguerite the reliquary she had given to La Mole the previous evening.
"Oh! bring him in, bring him in!" said the queen quickly, growing paler and more numb than before.
A heavy step shook the floor. The echo, indignant, no doubt, at having to repeat such a sound, moaned along the wainscoting. A man stood on the threshold.
"You are"—said the queen.
"He whom you met one day near Montfaucon, madame, and who in his tumbril brought back two wounded gentlemen to the Louvre."
"Yes, yes, I know you. You are Maître Caboche."
"Executioner of the provostship of Paris, madame."
These were the only words Henriette had heard for an hour. She raised her pale face from her hands and looked at the man with her sapphire eyes, from which a double flame seemed to dart.
"And you come"—said Marguerite, trembling.
"To remind you of your promise to the younger of the two gentlemen, who charged me to give you this reliquary. You remember the promise, madame?"
"Yes, yes," exclaimed the queen, "and never has a noble soul had more satisfaction than his shall have; but where is"—
"At my house with the body."
"At your house? Why did you not bring it?"
"I might have been stopped at the gate of the Louvre, and compelled to raise my cloak. What would they have said if they had seen a head under it?"
"That is right; keep it. I will come for it to-morrow."
"To-morrow, madame," said Caboche, "may perhaps be too late."
"How so?"
"Because the queen mother wanted the heads of the first victims executed by me to be kept for her magical experiments."
"Oh! What profanation! The heads of our well-beloved! Henriette," cried Marguerite, turning to her friend, who had risen as if a spring had placed her on her feet, "Henriette, my angel, do you hear what this man says?"
"Yes; what must we do?"
"Go with him."
Then uttering a cry of pain by which great sufferers return to life:
"Ah! I was so happy," said Henriette; "I was almost dead."
Meanwhile Marguerite had thrown a velvet cloak over her bare shoulders.
"Come," said she, "we will go and see them once more."
Telling Gillonne to have all the doors closed, the queen gave orders for a litter to be brought to the private entrance, and taking Henriette by the arm, she descended by the secret corridor, signing to Caboche to follow.
At the lower door was the litter; at the gate Caboche's attendant waited with a lantern. Marguerite's porters were trusty men, deaf and dumb, more to be depended on than if they had been beasts of burden.
They walked for about ten minutes, preceded by Caboche and his servant, carrying the lantern. Then they stopped. The hangman opened the door, while his man went ahead.
Marguerite stepped from the litter and helped out the Duchesse de Nevers. In the deep grief which bound them together it was the nervous organism which was the stronger.
The headsman's tower rose before them like a dark, vague giant, giving out a lurid gleam from two narrow upper windows.
The attendant reappeared at the door.
"You can enter, ladies," said Caboche; "every one is asleep in the tower."
At the same moment the light from above was extinguished.
The two women, holding to each other, passed through the small gothic door, and reached a dark hall with damp and uneven pavement. At the end of a winding corridor they perceived a light and guided by the gruesome master of the place they set out towards it. The door closed behind them.
Caboche, a wax torch in hand, admitted them into a lower room filled with smoke. In the centre was a table containing the remains of a supper for three. These three were probably the hangman, his wife, and his chief assistant. In a conspicuous place on the wall a parchment was nailed, sealed with the seal of the King. It was the hangman's license. In a corner was a long-handled sword. This was the flaming sword of justice.
Here and there were various rough drawings representing martyrs undergoing the torture.
At the door Caboche made a low bow.
"Your majesty will excuse me," said he, "if I ventured to enter the Louvre and bring you here. But it was the last wish of the gentleman, so that I felt I"—
"You did well, Maître," said Marguerite, "and here is a reward for you."
Caboche looked sadly at the large purse which Marguerite laid on the table.
"Gold!" said he; "always gold! Alas! madame, if I only could buy back for gold the blood I was forced to spill to-day!"
"Maître," said Marguerite, looking around with a sad hesitation, "Maître, do we have to go to some other room? I do not see"—
"No, madame, they are here; but it is a sad sight, and one which I could have spared you by wrapping up in my cloak that for which you have come."
Marguerite and Henriette looked at each other.
"No," said the queen, who had read in her friend's eye the same thought as in her own; "no, show us the way and we will follow."
Caboche took the torch and opened an oaken door at the top of a short stairway, which led to an underground chamber. At that instant a current of air blew some sparks from the torch and brought to the princesses an ill-smelling odor of dampness and blood. Henriette, white as an alabaster statue, leaned on the arm of her less agitated friend; but at the first step she swayed.
"I can never do it," said she.
"When one loves truly, Henriette," replied the queen, "one loves beyond death."
It was a sight both horrible and touching presented by the two women, glowing with youth, beauty, and jewels, as they bent their heads beneath the foul, chalky ceiling, the weaker leaning on the stronger, the stronger clinging to the arm of the hangman.
They reached the final step. On the floor of the cellar lay two human forms covered with a wide cloth of black serge.
Caboche raised a corner of it, and, lowering the torch:
"See, madame," said he.
In their black clothes lay the two young men, side by side, in the strange symmetry of death. Their heads had been placed close to their bodies, from which they seemed to be separated only by a bright red circle about the neck. Death had not disunited their hands, for either from chance or the kind care of the hangman the right hand of La Mole rested in Coconnas's left hand.
There was a look of love under the lids of La Mole, and a smile of scorn under those of Coconnas.
Marguerite knelt down by the side of her lover, and with hands that sparkled with gems gently raised the head she had so greatly loved.
The Duchesse de Nevers leaned against the wall, unable to remove her eyes from that pale face on which so often she had gazed for pleasure and for love.
"La Mole! Dear La Mole!" murmured Marguerite.
"Annibal! Annibal!" cried the duchess, "so beautiful! so proud! so brave! Never again will you answer me!"
And her eyes filled with tears.
This woman, so scornful, so intrepid, so insolent in happiness; this woman who carried scepticism as far as absolute doubt, passion to the point of cruelty; this woman had never thought of death.
Marguerite was the first to move.
She put into a bag, embroidered with pearls and perfumed with finest essences, the head of La Mole, more beautiful than ever as it rested against the velvet and the gold, and the beauty of which was to be preserved by a special preparation, used at that time in the embalming of royal personages.
Henriette then drew near and wrapped the head of Coconnas in a fold of her cloak.
And both women, bending beneath their grief more than beneath their burdens, ascended the stairs with a last look at the remains which they left to the mercy of the hangman in that sombre abode of ordinary criminals.
"Do not fear, madame," said Caboche, who understood their look, "the gentlemen, I promise you, shall be buried in holy ground."
"And you will have masses said for them with this," said Henriette, taking from her neck a magnificent necklace of rubies, and handing it to the hangman.
They returned to the Louvre by the same road by which they had gone. At the gate the queen gave her name; at the foot of her private stairway she descended and, returning to her rooms, laid her sad burden in the closet adjoining her sleeping-room, destined from that moment to become an oratory. Then, leaving Henriette in her room, paler and more beautiful than ever, she entered the great ballroom, the same room in which, two years and a half ago, the first chapter of our history opened.
All eyes were turned on her, but she bore the general gaze with a proud and almost joyous air.
She had religiously carried out the last wish of her friend.
Seeing her, Charles pushed tremblingly through the gilded crowd around her.
"Sister," said he, aloud, "I thank you."
Then in a low tone:
"Take care!" said he, "you have a spot of blood on your arm."
"Ah! what difference does that make, sire," said Marguerite, "since I have a smile on my lips?"
A few days after the terrible scene we have just described, that is, on the 30th of May, 1574, while the court was at Vincennes, suddenly a great commotion was heard in the chamber of the King. The latter had been taken ill in the midst of the ball he had given the day of the execution of the two young men, and had been ordered by his physicians into the pure air of the country.
It was eight o'clock in the morning. A small group of courtiers were talking excitedly in the antechamber, when suddenly a cry was heard, and Charles's nurse appeared at the door, her eyes filled with tears, calling frantically:
"Help! Help!"
"Is his Majesty worse?" asked the Captain de Nancey, whom, as we know, the King had relieved from all duty to Queen Catharine in order to attach him to himself.
"Oh! Blood! Blood!" cried the nurse. "The doctors! call the doctors!"
Mozille and Ambroise Paré in turn attended the august patient, and the latter, seeing the King fall asleep, had taken advantage of the fact to withdraw for a few moments. Meanwhile a great perspiration had broken out all over the King; and as Charles suffered from a relaxation of the capillary vessels, which caused a hæmorrhage of the skin, the bloody sweat had alarmed the nurse, unaccustomed to this strange phenomenon, who, being a Protestant, kept repeating that it was a judgment for the blood of the Huguenots shed in the massacre of Saint Bartholomew.
The courtiers went in all directions in search of the doctor, who could not be far away, and whom they could not fail to meet. The antechamber, therefore, became deserted, every one being anxious to show his zeal in bringing the much-needed physician.
Just then a door opened and Catharine appeared. She passed hurriedly through the antechamber and hastily entered the apartment of her son.
Charles was stretched on his bed, his eyes closed, his breast heaving; from his body oozed a crimson sweat. His hand hung over the bed, and from the end of each finger dropped a ruby liquid. It was a horrible sight.
At the sound of his mother's steps, as if he knew she was there, Charles sat up.
"Pardon, madame," said he, looking at her, "but I desire to die in peace."
"To die, my son?" said Catharine. "This is only a passing attack of your wretched trouble. Would you have us despair in this way?"
"I tell you, madame, I feel that my soul is about to pass away. I tell you, madame, that death is near me, by Heaven! I feel what I feel, and I know what I am talking about!"
"Sire," said the queen, "your imagination is your most serious trouble. Since the well-merited punishment of those two sorcerers, those assassins, La Mole and Coconnas, your physical suffering should have diminished. The mental trouble alone continues, and if I could talk with you for just ten minutes I could prove to you"—
"Nurse," said Charles, "watch at the door that no one may enter. Queen Catharine de Médicis wishes to speak with her well-loved son Charles IX."
The nurse withdrew.
"Well," continued Charles, "this interview will have to take place some day or other, and better to-day than to-morrow. Besides, to-morrow may be too late. But a third person must be present."
"Why?"
"Because I tell you I am dying," repeated Charles with frightful seriousness; "because at any moment death may enter this chamber, as you have done, pale, silent, and unannounced. It is, therefore, time. Last night I settled my personal affairs; this morning I will arrange those of the kingdom."
"What person do you desire to see?" asked Catharine.
"My brother, madame. Have him summoned."
"Sire," said the queen, "I see with pleasure that the prejudices dictated by hatred rather than pain are leaving your mind, as they soon will fade from your heart. Nurse!" cried Catharine, "nurse!"
The woman, who was keeping watch outside, opened the door.
"Nurse," said Catharine, "by order of my son, when Monsieur de Nancey returns say to him to summon the Duc d'Alençon."
Charles made a sign which detained the woman.
"I said my brother, madame," said Charles.
Catharine's eyes dilated like those of a tigress about to show her anger. But Charles raised his hand imperatively.
"I wish to speak to my brother Henry," said he. "Henry alone is my brother; not he who is king yonder, but he who is a prisoner here. Henry shall know my last wishes."
"And do you think," exclaimed the Florentine, with unusual boldness in the face of the dread will of her son, her hatred for the Béarnais being strong enough to make her forget her customary dissimulation,—"do you think that if, as you say, you are near the tomb, I will yield to any one, especially a stranger, my right to be present at your last hour; my right as queen and mother?"
"Madame," said Charles, "I am still King; and I still command. I tell you that I desire to speak to my brother Henry and yet you do not summon my captain of the guard. A thousand devils! I warn you, madame, I still have strength enough to go for him myself."
The King made a movement as if to rise from the bed, which brought to light his body, bloody like Christ's after the flogging.
"Sire," cried Catharine, holding him back, "you wrong us all. You forget the insults given to our family, you repudiate our blood. A son of France alone should kneel before the death-bed of a King of France. As to me, my place is marked out; it is here by the laws of nature as well as the laws of royalty. Therefore I shall remain."
"And by what right do you remain, madame?" demanded Charles IX.
"Because I am your mother."
"You are no more my mother, madame, than is the Duc d'Alençon my brother."
"You are mad, monsieur," said Catharine; "since when is she who gives birth to a child no longer his mother?"
"From the moment, madame, when the unnatural mother takes away that which she gives," replied Charles, wiping away a bloody sweat from his lips.
"What do you mean, Charles? I do not understand you," murmured Catharine, gazing at her son, her eyes dilated with astonishment.
"But you will, madame."
Charles searched under his pillow and drew out a small silver key.
"Take this, madame, and open my travelling-box. It contains certain papers which will speak for me."
Charles pointed to a magnificent carved box, closed with a silver lock, like the key, which occupied the most conspicuous place in the room.
Catharine, dominated by the look and manner of Charles, obeyed, advanced slowly to the box, and opened it. But no sooner had she looked into it than she suddenly sprang back as if she had seen some sleeping reptile inside it.
"Well," said Charles, who had not taken his eyes from his mother, "what is there in the box to startle you, madame?"
"Nothing," said Catharine.
"Then put in your hand, madame, and take out a book that is there; there is one, is there not?" added Charles, with a pale smile, more terrible in him than a threat in another.
"Yes," faltered Catharine.
"A book on hunting?"
"Yes."
"Take it out and bring it to me."
In spite of her assurance Catharine turned pale, and trembled in every limb, as she extended her hand towards the box.
"Fatality!" she murmured, raising the book.
"Very good," said Charles, "now listen; this book on hunting—I loved the chase madly, above everything else—I read this book too eagerly, do you understand, madame?"
Catharine gave a dull moan.
"It was a weakness," continued Charles; "burn it, madame. The weakness of kings and queens must not be known!"
Catharine stepped to the glowing hearth, and dropped the book into the flames.
Then, standing motionless and silent, she watched with haggard eye the bluish light which rose from the poisoned leaves.
As the book burned a strong odor of arsenic spread through the room. Soon the volume was entirely destroyed.
"And now, madame," said Charles, with irresistible majesty, "call my brother."
Catharine, overcome, crushed under a multiple emotion which her profound wisdom could not analyze, and which her almost superhuman strength could not combat, took a step forward as if to speak.
The mother grew remorseful; the queen was afraid; the poisoner felt a return of hatred.
The latter sentiment dominated.
"Curse him!" she cried, rushing from the room, "he triumphs, he gains his end; curse him! curse him!"
"You understand, my brother, my brother Henry," cried Charles, calling after his mother; "my brother Henry, with whom I wish to speak instantly regarding the regency of the kingdom!"
Almost at the same instant Maître Ambroise Paré entered through the door opposite the one by which the queen had just left, and, pausing on the threshold, noticed the peculiar odor in the room.
"Who has been burning arsenic here?" said he.
"I," replied Charles.
Henry of Navarre was strolling dreamily along the terrace of the prison. He knew the court was at the château, not a hundred feet away, and through the walls it seemed as if his piercing eye could picture Charles as he lay dying.
The weather was perfect. A broad band of sunlight lay on the distant fields, bathing in liquid gold the tops of the forest trees, proud of the richness of their first foliage. The very stones of the prison itself, gray as they were, seemed impregnated with the gentle light of heaven, and some flowers, lured by the breath of the east wind, had pushed through the crevices of the wall, and were raising their disks of red and yellow velvet to the kisses of the warm air.
But Henry's eyes were fixed neither on the verdant plains nor on the gilded tree tops. His glance went beyond, and was fixed, full of ambition, on the capital of France, destined one day to become the capital of the world.
"Paris," murmured the King of Navarre, "there is Paris; that is, joy, triumph, glory, power, and happiness. Paris, in which is the Louvre, and the Louvre, in which is the throne; and only one thing separates me from this Paris, for which I so long, and that something the stones at my feet, which shut me in with my enemy!"
As he glanced from Paris to Vincennes, he perceived on his left, in a valley, partly hidden by flowering almond-trees, a man, whose cuirass sparkled in the sunlight at its owner's slightest movement.
This man rode a fiery steed and led another which seemed no less impatient.
The King of Navarre fixed his eyes on this cavalier and saw him draw his sword from his sheath, place his handkerchief on the point, and wave it like a signal.
At the same instant the signal was repeated from the opposite hill, then all around the château a belt of handkerchiefs seemed to flutter.
It was De Mouy and his Huguenots, who, knowing the King was dying, and fearing that some attempt might be made on Henry's life, had gathered together, ready to defend or attack.
Henry, with his eyes still on the horseman he had seen first, bent over the balustrade, and shading his eyes with his hand to keep out the dazzling rays of the sun, recognized the young Huguenot.
"De Mouy!" he exclaimed, as though the latter could hear him.
And in his joy at seeing himself surrounded by friends, the king raised his hat and waved his scarf.
All the white banners were again set in motion with an energy which proved the joy of their owners.
"Alas! they are waiting for me," said Henry, "and I cannot join them. Why did I not do so when I could? Now it is too late!"
He made a despairing gesture, to which De Mouy returned a sign which meant, "I will wait."
Just then Henry heard steps on the stone stairs. He hastily withdrew. The Huguenots understood the cause of his sudden disappearance, and their swords were returned to their sheaths and their handkerchiefs disappeared.
Henry saw on the stairs a woman whose quick breathing showed that she had come in haste.
He recognized, not without the secret dread he always felt on seeing her, Catharine de Médicis.
Behind her were two guards who stopped at the head of the stairs.
"Oh!" thought Henry, "it must be something new and important that makes the queen mother come to seek me on the balcony of the prison of Vincennes."
Catharine seated herself on a stone bench against the battlement to recover her breath.
Henry approached her, and with his most gracious smile:
"Are you seeking me, my good mother?"
"Yes, monsieur," replied Catharine, "I wish to give you a final proof of my attachment. The King is dying and wishes to see you."
"Me!" said Henry, with a start of joy.
"Yes. He has been told, I am sure, that not only do you covet the throne of Navarre but that of France as well."
"Oh!" exclaimed Henry.
"It is not true, I know, but he believes it, and no doubt the object of the interview he wishes with you is to lay a snare for you."
"For me?"
"Yes. Before dying Charles wants to know what there is to hope or fear from you. And on your answer to his offer, mark you, will depend his final commands, that is, your life or death."
"But what will he offer me?"
"How do I know? Impossibilities, probably."
"But have you no idea?"
"No; but suppose for instance"—
Catharine paused.
"What."
"Suppose he credited you with these ambitious aims of yours he has heard about; suppose he should wish to hear these aims from your own lips; suppose he should tempt you as once they used to tempt the guilty in order to provoke a confession without torture; suppose," continued Catharine, looking fixedly at Henry, "he were to offer you a kingdom, the regency!"
A thrill of indescribable joy pervaded Henry's weary heart, but he guessed the snare and his strong and supple soul rebounded.
"Me?" said he; "the snare would be too palpable; offer me the regency when there is you yourself and my brother D'Alençon?"
Catharine compressed her lips to conceal her satisfaction.
"Then," said she, quickly, "you would refuse it?"
"The King is dead," thought Henry, "and she is laying a trap for me."
Aloud, he said:
"I must first hear what the King of France has to say; for from your own words, madame, all this is mere supposition."
"Doubtless," said Catharine; "but you can tell me your intentions."
"Why!" said Henry, innocently, "having no pretensions, I have no intentions."
"That is no answer," said Catharine, feeling that time was flying, and giving way to her anger; "you can give some answer."
"I cannot answer suppositions, madame; a positive resolution is so difficult and so grave a thing to assume that I must wait for facts."
"Listen, monsieur," said Catharine; "there is no time to lose, and we are wasting it in vain discussion, in toying with words. Let us play our rôle of king and queen. If you accept the regency you are a dead man."
"The King lives," thought Henry.
Then aloud:
"Madame," said he, firmly, "God holds the lives of men and of kings in his hands. He will inspire me. Let his Majesty be informed that I am ready to see him."
"Reflect, monsieur."
"During the two years in which I have been persecuted, during the month I have been a prisoner," replied Henry, bravely, "I have had time to reflect, madame, and I have reflected. Have the goodness, therefore, to go to the King before me, and to tell him that I am following you. These two guards," added Henry, pointing to the soldiers, "will see that I do not escape. Moreover, that is not my intention."
There was such firmness in Henry's tone that Catharine saw that all her attempts, under whatever disguise, would not succeed. Therefore she hastily descended.
As soon as she had disappeared Henry went to the parapet and made a sign to De Mouy, which meant: "Draw near and be ready in case of necessity."
De Mouy, who had dismounted, sprang into the saddle, and still leading the second horse galloped to within musket-shot of the prison.
Henry thanked him by a gesture, and descended.
On the first landing he found the two soldiers who were waiting for him.
A double troop of Swiss and light-horse guarded the entrance to the court, and to enter or leave the château it was necessary to traverse a double line of halberds.
Catharine had stopped and was waiting for him.
She signed to the two soldiers to go on, and laying her hand on Henry's arm, said:
"This court has two gates. At one, behind the apartments of the King, if you refuse the regency, a good horse and freedom await you. At the other, through which you have just passed, if you listen to the voice of ambition—What do you say?"
"I say that if the King makes me regent, madame, I, and not you, shall give orders to the soldiers. I say that if I leave the castle at night, all these pikes, halberds, and muskets shall be lowered before me."
"Madman!" murmured Catharine, exasperated, "believe me, and do not play this terrible game of life and death with me."
"Why not?" said Henry, looking closely at Catharine; "why not with you as well as with another, since up to this time I have won?"
"Go to the King's apartments, monsieur, since you are unwilling to believe or listen to anything," said Catharine, pointing to the stairway with one hand, and with the other toying with one of the two poisoned daggers she always wore in the black shagreen case, which has become historical.
"Pass before me, madame," said Henry; "so long as I am not regent, the honor of precedence belongs to you."
Catharine, thwarted in all her plans, did not attempt to struggle, but ascended the stairs ahead of the King of Navarre.
The King, beginning to grow impatient, had summoned Monsieur de Nancey to his room, and had just given him orders to go in search of Henry, when the latter appeared.
On seeing his brother-in-law at the door Charles uttered a cry of joy, but Henry stood motionless, as startled as if he had come face to face with a corpse.
The two physicians who were at the bedside and the priest who had been with Charles withdrew.
Charles was not loved, and yet many were weeping in the antechambers. At the death of kings, good or bad, there are always persons who lose something and who fear they will not find it again under the successor.
The mourning, the sobbing, the words of Catharine, the sinister and majestic surroundings of the last moments of a king, the sight of the King himself, suffering from a malady common enough afterwards, but which, at that time, was new to science, produced on Henry's mind, which was still youthful and consequently still susceptible, such a terrible impression that in spite of his determination not to cause Charles fresh anxiety as to his condition, he could not as we have said repress the feeling of terror which came to his face on perceiving the dying man dripping with blood.
Charles smiled sadly. Nothing of those around them escapes the dying.
"Come, Henriot," said he, extending his hand with a gentleness of voice Henry had never before noticed in him. "Come in; I have been very unhappy at not seeing you for so long. I have tormented you greatly during my life, my poor friend, and sometimes, believe me, I have reproached myself for it. Sometimes I have taken the hands of those who tormented you, it is true, but a king cannot control circumstances, and besides my mother Catharine, my brothers D'Anjou and D'Alençon, I had to consider during my lifetime something else which was troublesome and which ceases the moment I draw near to death—state policy."
"Sire," murmured Henry, "I remember only the love I have always had for my brother, the respect I have always felt for my King."
"Yes, yes, you are right," said Charles, "and I am grateful to you for saying this, Henriot, for truly you have suffered a great deal under my reign without counting the fact that it was during my reign that your poor mother died. But you must have seen that I was often driven? Sometimes I have resisted, but oftener I have yielded from very fatigue. But, as you said, let us not talk of the past. Now it is the present which concerns me; it is the future which frightens me."
And the poor King hid his livid face in his emaciated hands.
After a moment's silence he shook his head as if to drive away all gloomy thoughts, thus causing a shower of blood to fall about him.
"We must save the state," he continued in a low tone, leaning towards Henry. "We must prevent its falling into the hands of fanatics or women."
As we have just said, Charles uttered these words in a low tone, yet Henry thought he heard behind the headboard something like a dull exclamation of anger. Perhaps some opening made in the wall at the instigation of Charles himself permitted Catharine to hear this final conversation.
"Of women?" said the King of Navarre to provoke an explanation.
"Yes, Henry," said Charles, "my mother wishes the regency until my brother returns from Poland. But mind what I tell you, he will not come back."
"Why not?" cried Henry, whose heart gave a joyful leap.
"No, he cannot return," continued Charles, "because his subjects will not let him leave."
"But," said Henry, "do you not suppose, brother, that the queen mother has already written to him?"
"Yes, but Nancey stopped the courier at Château Thierry, and brought me the letter, in which she said I was to die. I wrote to Varsovia myself, my letter reached there, I am sure, and my brother will be watched. So, in all probability, Henry, the throne will be vacant."
A second sound louder than the first was heard in the alcove.
"She is surely there," thought Henry, "and is listening."
Charles heard nothing.
"Now," he continued, "I am dying without male heir." Then he stopped. A sweet thought seemed to light up his face, and, laying his hand on the King of Navarre's shoulder:
"Alas!" said he, "do you remember, Henriot, the poor little boy I showed you one evening sleeping in his silken cradle, watched over by an angel? Alas! Henriot, they will kill him!"
"Oh, sire!" cried Henry, whose eyes filled with tears, "I swear to you that I will watch over him all the days and nights of my life. Command me, my King."
"Thanks, Henriot, thanks!" said Charles, with a show of feeling unusual in him, but which the situation had roused, "I accept your promise. Do not make him a king,—fortunately he was not born for a throne,—but make him happy. I have left him an independent fortune. Let him inherit his mother's nobility, that of the heart. Perhaps it would be better for him if he were to enter the church. He would inspire less fear. Oh! it seems to me that I should die, if not happy, at least calm, if I had the kisses of the child and the sweet face of its mother to console me."
"Sire, could you not send for them?"
"Ah, poor wretches! They would never be allowed to leave the Louvre! Such is the condition of kings, Henriot. They can neither live nor die as they please. But since you promise I am more resigned."
Henry reflected.
"Yes, no doubt, my King. I have promised, but can I keep my word?"
"What do you mean?"
"Shall I not be persecuted, and threatened like him, even more than him? For I am a man, and he is only a child."
"You are mistaken," said Charles; "after my death you shall be great and powerful. Here is what will make you so."
And the King drew a parchment from under the pillow.
"See!" said he.
Henry glanced over the document sealed with the royal seal.
"The regency for me, sire!" said he, growing pale with joy.
"Yes, for you, until the return of the Duc d'Anjou, and as in all probability the duke will never return it is not the regency only but the throne that this gives you."
"The throne!" murmured Henry.
"Yes," said Charles, "you alone are worthy of it; you alone are capable of governing these debauched gallants, and these bold women who live by blood and tears. My brother D'Alençon is a traitor, and would deceive every one. Leave him in the prison in which I have placed him. My mother will try to kill you, therefore banish her. My brother D'Anjou in three or four months, perhaps in a year, will leave Varsovia and will come to dispute the throne with you. Answer him by a bull from the pope. I have already arranged that matter through my ambassador, the Duc de Nevers, and you will receive the document before long."
"Oh, my King!"
"You have but one thing to fear, Henry,—civil war; but by remaining converted you will avoid this, for the Huguenots are strong only when you put yourself at their head, and Monsieur de Condé is nothing when opposed to you. France is a country of plains, Henry, and consequently a Catholic country. The King of France ought to be the king of the Catholics and not the king of the Huguenots, for the King of France ought to be the king of the majority. It is said I feel remorse for the massacre of Saint Bartholomew; doubts, yes; remorse, no. It is said I am bleeding the blood of those Huguenots from every pore. I know what is flowing from me. It is arsenic and not blood."
"What do you mean, sire?"
"Nothing. If my death must be avenged, Henriot, it must be avenged by God alone. Let us speak now of the future. I leave you a faithful parliament and a trusty army. Lean on them and they will protect you against your only enemies—my mother and the Duc d'Alençon."
Just then the sound of arms and military commands were heard in the vestibule.
"I am dead!" murmured Henry.
"You fear? You hesitate?" said Charles, anxiously.
"I! sire," replied Henry; "no, I do not fear, nor do I hesitate. I accept."
Charles pressed Henry's hand. At that moment the nurse approached with a drink she had been preparing in the adjoining room, not knowing that the fate of France was being decided three feet from her.
"Call my mother, nurse, and have Monsieur d'Alençon also summoned."
A few moments later Catharine and the Duc d'Alençon, pale with fright and trembling with rage, entered Charles's room. As Henry had conjectured, Catharine had overheard everything and in a few words had told all to François.
Henry was standing at the head of Charles's bed.
The King spoke his wishes:
"Madame," said he to his mother, "had I a son, you would be regent, or in default of you it would be the King of Poland; or in default of him it would be my brother François; but I have no son, and after me the throne belongs to my brother the Duc d'Anjou, who is absent. As some day he will claim this throne I do not wish him to find in his place a man who by almost equal rights might dispute it with him, and who consequently might expose the kingdom to civil war. This is why I do not appoint you regent, madame, for you would have to choose between your two sons, which would be painful for a mother. This is why I do not choose my brother François, for he might say to his elder brother, 'You had a throne, why did you leave it?' No, I have chosen as regent one who can take the crown on trust, and who will keep it in his hand and not on his head. Salute this regent, madame; salute him, brother; it is the King of Navarre!"
And with a gesture of supreme authority the King himself saluted Henry.
Catharine and D'Alençon made a gesture between a nervous shudder and a salute.
"Here, my Lord Regent," said Charles to the King of Navarre, "here is the parchment which, until the return of the King of Poland, gives you the command of the armies, the keys of the treasury, and the royal power and authority."
Catharine devoured Henry with her eyes; François swayed so that he could scarcely stand; but this weakness of the one and strength of the other, instead of encouraging Henry, showed him the danger which threatened him.
Nevertheless he made a violent effort and overcoming his fears took the parchment from the hands of the king, raised himself to his full height, and gave Catharine and François a look which meant:
"Take care! I am your master."
"No," said she, "never; never shall my race bow to a foreign one; never shall a Bourbon reign in France while a Valois remains!"
"Mother," cried Charles IX., sitting up among the crimson sheets of his bed, more frightful looking than ever, "take care, I am still King. Not for long, I well know; but it does not take long to give an order; it does not take long to punish murderers and poisoners."
"Well! give the order, if you dare, and I will give mine! Come, François, come!"
And the queen left the room rapidly, followed by the Duc d'Alençon.
"Nancey!" cried Charles; "Nancey! come here! I order you, Nancey, to arrest my mother, and my brother, arrest"—
A stream of blood choked his utterance, just as the captain of the guards opened the door, and, almost suffocated, the King fell back on his bed. Nancey had heard only his name; the orders which followed, and which had been uttered in a less audible tone, were lost in space.
"Guard the door," said Henry, "and let no one enter."
Nancey bowed and withdrew.
Henry looked at the almost lifeless body, which already would have seemed like that of a corpse had not a light breath stirred the fringe of foam on the lips.
Henry looked for several moments, then, speaking to himself:
"The final moment has come!" said he; "shall I reign? shall I live?"
Just then the tapestry of the alcove was raised, a pale face appeared behind it, and a voice vibrated through the silence of death which reigned throughout the royal chamber.
"Live!" said this voice.
"Réné!" cried Henry.
"Yes, sire."
"Your prediction was false, then; I shall not be king?"
"You shall be, sire; but the time has not yet come."
"How do you know? Speak, that I may know if I may believe you."
"Listen."
"Well?"
"Stoop down."
Henry leaned over Charles. Réné did the same. They were separated by the width of the bed alone, and even this distance was lessened by their positions. Between them, silent and motionless, lay the dying King.
"Listen," said Réné; "placed here by the queen mother to ruin you, I prefer to serve you, for I have faith in your horoscope. By serving you I shall profit both in body and soul."
"Did the queen mother command you to say this also?" asked Henry, full of doubt and pain.
"No," said Réné; "but I will tell you a secret."
He leaned still further over.
Henry did likewise, so that their heads almost touched.
This interview between two men bending over the body of a dying king was so sombre that the hair of the superstitious Florentine rose on end, and Henry's face became covered with perspiration.
"Listen," continued Réné, "I will tell you a secret known only to me. I will reveal it to you if you will swear over this dying man to forgive me for the death of your mother."
"I have already promised you this," said Henry, with darkening brow.
"You promised, but you did not swear," said Réné, drawing back.
"I swear it," said Henry, raising his right hand over the head of the King.
"Well, sire," said the Florentine, hastily, "the King of Poland will soon arrive!"
"No," said Henry, "the messenger was stopped by King Charles."
"King Charles intercepted only the one on the road to Château Thierry. But the queen mother wisely sent couriers by three different routes."
"Oh! I am lost!" exclaimed Henry.
"A messenger arrived this morning from Varsovia. The king left after him without any one's thinking of opposing him, for at Varsovia the illness of the King of France was not yet known. This courier only preceded Henry of Anjou by a few hours."
"Oh! had I but eight days!" cried Henry.
"Yes, but you have not eight hours. Did you hear the noise of arms?"
"Yes."
"They are making ready to kill you. They will seek you even here in the apartment of the King."
"The King is not yet dead."
Réné looked closely at Charles.
"He will be in ten minutes; you have ten minutes to live, therefore; perhaps less."
"What shall I do?"
"Flee instantly, without delaying a minute, a second."
"But how? If they are waiting in the antechamber they will kill me as I go out."
"Listen! I will risk everything for you. Never forget this."
"Fear not."
"Follow me by the secret corridor. I will lead you to the postern. Then, to gain time, I will tell the queen mother that you are coming down; you will be seen to have discovered this secret passage, and to have profited by it to escape. Flee! Flee!"
"Nurse!" murmured Charles, "nurse!"
Henry took from the bed Charles's sword, of no further use to the dying King, put the parchment which made him regent in his breast, kissed Charles's brow for the last time, and turning away hurried through the door, which closed behind him.
"Nurse!" cried the King, in a stronger voice, "nurse!"
The woman ran to him.
"What is it, Charlot?" she asked.
"Nurse," said the King, his eye dilated by the terrible fixity of death, "something must have happened while I slept. I see a great light. I see God, our Master, I see Jesus, and the Blessed Virgin Mary. They are praying and interceding for me. The all-powerful Lord pardons me—calls to me—My God! my God! In thy mercy, receive me! My God! forget that I have been King, for I come to you without sceptre or crown. My God! forget the crimes of the King, and remember only the suffering of the man. My God, I come!"
And Charles, who as he spoke had risen more and more as if to go to the One who was calling him, after uttering these words heaved a sigh and fell back still and cold in the arms of his nurse.
Meantime, while the soldiers, commanded by Catharine, were beginning to fill the main corridor in which they expected Henry to appear, the latter, guided by Réné, passed along the secret passage and reached the postern, sprang on the horse which was waiting for him, and galloped to the place where he knew he would find De Mouy.
Hearing the sound of the horse's hoofs, the galloping of which fell on the hard pavement, some sentinels turned and cried:
"He flees! He flees!"
"Who?" cried the queen mother, stepping to a window.
"The King of Navarre!" cried the sentinels.
"Fire on him! Fire!" cried Catharine.
The sentinels levelled their muskets, but Henry was already too far away.
"He flees!" cried the queen mother; "then he is vanquished!"
"He flees!" murmured the Duc d'Alençon; "then I am king!"
At that instant, while François and his mother were still before the window, the drawbridge thundered under horses' hoofs and preceded by a clanking of arms and great noise a young man galloped up, his hat in his hand, shouting as he entered the court: "France!" He was followed by four gentlemen, covered like himself with perspiration, dust, and foam.
"My son!" exclaimed Catharine, extending both arms out of the window.
"Mother!" replied the young man, springing from his steed.
"My brother D'Anjou!" cried François, stepping back in amazement.
"Am I too late?" asked Henry d'Anjou.
"No, just in time, and God must have guided you, for you could not have arrived at a better moment. Look and listen!"
Monsieur de Nancey, captain of the guards, had come out upon the balcony from the chamber of the King.
All eyes were turned towards him.
Breaking a wand in two, with arms extended, he took a piece in either hand and cried three times:
"King Charles IX. is dead! King Charles IX. is dead! King Charles IX. is dead!"
Then he dropped the pieces of the wand.
"Long live King Henry III.!" shouted Catharine, making the sign of the cross. "Long live King Henry III.!"
All took up the cry except Duc François.
"Ah, she has betrayed me!" murmured he, digging his nails into his breast.
"I have won," cried Catharine, "and that hateful Béarnais will not reign!"