"Brother," cried Marguerite, who equally well with Charles IX. understood Catharine's ominous pantomime, "my brother, remember! you made him my husband!"
Charles IX., at bay between Catharine's commanding eyes and Marguerite's supplicating look, as if between the two opposing principles of good and evil, stood for an instant undecided; at last Ormazd won the day.
"In truth," said he, whispering in Catharine's ear, "Margot is right, and Harry is my brother-in-law."
"Yes," replied Catharine in a similar whisper in her son's ear, "yes—but supposing he were not?"
As soon as Marguerite reached her own apartments she tried in vain to divine the words which Catharine de Médicis had whispered to Charles IX., and which had cut short the terrible council of life and death which was taking place.
She spent a part of the morning in attending to La Mole, and the rest in trying to guess the enigma, which her mind could not discover.
The King of Navarre remained a prisoner in the Louvre, the persecution of the Huguenots went on hotter than ever. The terrible night was followed by a day of massacre still more horrible. No longer the bells rang the tocsin, butTe Deums, and the echoes of these joyous notes, resounding amid fire and slaughter, were perhaps even more lugubrious in sunlight than had been the last night's knell sounding in darkness. This was not all. A strange thing had happened: a hawthorn-tree, which had blossomed in the spring, and which, as usual, had lost its odorous flowers in the month of June, had blossomed again during the night, and the Catholics, who saw a miracle in this event, spread the report of the miracle far and wide, thus making God their accomplice; and with cross and banners they marched in a procession to the Cemetery of the Innocents, where this hawthorn-tree was blooming.
This method of acquiescence which Heaven seemed to show in the massacres redoubled the ardor of the assassins, and while every street, every square, every alley-way of the city continued to present a scene of desolation, the Louvre had become the common tomb for all Protestants who had been shut up there when the signal was given. The King of Navarre, the Prince de Condé, and La Mole were the only survivors.
Assured as to La Mole, whose wounds, as she had declared the evening before, were severe but not dangerous, Marguerite's mind was now occupied with one single idea: that was to save her husband's life, which was still threatened. No doubt the first sentiment which actuated the wife was one of generous pity for a man for whom, as the Béarnais himself had said, she had sworn, if not love, at least alliance; but there was, beside, another sentiment not so pure, which had penetrated the queen's heart.
Marguerite was ambitious, and had foreseen almost the certainty of royalty in her marriage with Henry de Bourbon. Navarre, though beset on one side by the kings of France and on the other by the kings of Spain, who strip by strip had absorbed half of its territory, might become a real kingdom with the French Huguenots for subjects, if only Henry de Bourbon should fulfil the hopes which the courage shown by him on the infrequent occasions vouchsafed him of drawing his sword had aroused.
Marguerite, with her keen, lofty intellect, foresaw and reckoned on all this. So if she lost Henry she lost not only a husband, but a throne.
As she was absorbed in these reflections she heard some one knocking at the door of the secret corridor. She started, for only three persons came by that door,—the King, the queen mother, and the Duc d'Alençon. She opened the closet door, made a gesture of silence to Gillonne and La Mole, and then went to let her visitor in.
It was the Duc d'Alençon.
The young prince had not been seen since the night before. For a moment, Marguerite had conceived the idea of asking his intercession for the King of Navarre, but a terrible idea restrained her. The marriage had taken place against his wishes. François detested Henry, and had evinced his neutrality toward the Béarnais only because he was convinced that Henry and his wife had remained strangers to each other. A mark of interest shown by Marguerite in her husband might thrust one of the three threatening poniards into his heart instead of turning it aside. Marguerite, therefore, on perceiving the young prince, shuddered more than she had shuddered at seeing the King or even the queen mother. Nevertheless no one could have told by his appearance that anything unusual was taking place either in the city or at the Louvre. He was dressed with his usual elegance. His clothes and linen breathed of those perfumes which Charles IX. despised, but of which the Duc d'Anjou and he made continual use.
A practised eye like Marguerite's, however, could detect the fact that in spite of his rather unusual pallor and in spite of a slight trembling in his hands—delicate hands, as carefully treated as a lady's—he felt a deep sense of joy in the bottom of his heart. His entrance was in no wise different from usual. He went to his sister to kiss her, but Marguerite, instead of offering him her cheek, as she would have done had it been King Charles or the Duc d'Anjou, made a courtesy and allowed him to kiss her forehead.
The Duc d'Alençon sighed and touched his bloodless lips to her brow.
Then taking a seat he began to tell his sister the sanguinary news of the night, the admiral's lingering and terrible death, Téligny's instantaneous death caused by a bullet. He took his time and emphasized all the bloody details of that night, with that love of blood characteristic of himself and his two brothers; Marguerite allowed him to tell his story.
"You did not come to tell me this only, brother?" she then asked.
The Duc d'Alençon smiled.
"You have something else to say to me?"
"No," replied the duke; "I am waiting."
"Waiting! for what?"
"Have you not told me, dearest Marguerite," said the duke, drawing his armchair close up to his sister's, "that your marriage with the King of Navarre was contracted against your wishes?"
"Yes, no doubt. I did not know the Prince of Béarn when he was proposed to me as a husband."
"And after you came to know him, did you not tell me that you felt no love for him?"
"I told you so; it is true."
"Was it not your opinion that this marriage would make you unhappy?"
"My dear François," said Marguerite, "when a marriage is not the height of happiness it is almost always the depth of wretchedness."
"Well, then, my dear Marguerite, as I said to you,—I am waiting."
"But what are you waiting for?"
"For you to display your joy!"
"What have I to be joyful for?"
"The unexpected chance which offers itself for you to resume your liberty."
"My liberty?" replied Marguerite, who was determined to compel the prince to express his whole thought.
"Yes; your liberty! You will now be separated from the King of Navarre."
"Separated!" said Marguerite, fastening her eyes on the young prince.
The Duc d'Alençon tried to endure his sister's look, but his eyes soon avoided hers with embarrassment.
"Separated!" repeated Marguerite; "let us talk this over, brother, for I should like to understand all you mean, and how you propose to separate us."
"Why," murmured the duke, "Henry is a Huguenot."
"No doubt; but he made no secret of his religion, and that was known when we were married."
"Yes; but since your marriage, sister," asked the duke, involuntarily allowing a ray of joy to shine upon his face, "what has Henry been doing?"
"Why, you know better than any one, François, for he has spent his days almost constantly in your society, either hunting or playing mall or tennis."
"Yes, his days, no doubt," replied the duke; "his days—but his nights?"
Marguerite was silent; it was now her turn to cast down her eyes.
"His nights," persisted the Duc d'Alençon, "his nights?"
"Well?" inquired Marguerite, feeling that it was requisite that she should say something in reply.
"Well, he has been spending them with Madame de Sauve!"
"How do you know that?" exclaimed Marguerite.
"I know it because I have an interest in knowing it," replied the young prince, growing pale and picking the embroidery of his sleeves.
Marguerite began to understand what Catharine had whispered to Charles, but pretended to remain in ignorance.
"Why do you tell me this, brother?" she replied, with a well-affected air of melancholy; "was it to remind me that no one here loves me or takes my part, neither those whom nature gave me as protectors nor the man whom the Church gave me as my husband?"
"You are unjust," said the Duc d'Alençon, drawing his armchair still nearer to his sister, "I love you and protect you!"
"Brother," said Marguerite, looking at him sharply, "have you anything to say to me from the queen mother?"
"I! you mistake, sister. I swear to you—what can make you think that?"
"What can make me think that?—why, because you are breaking off the intimacy that binds you to my husband, because you are abandoning the cause of the King of Navarre."
"The cause of the King of Navarre!" replied the Duc d'Alençon, wholly at his wits' end.
"Yes, certainly. Now look here, François; let us speak frankly. You have come to an agreement a score of times; you cannot raise yourself or even hold your own except by mutual help. This alliance"—
"Has now become impossible, sister," interrupted the Duc d'Alençon.
"And why so?"
"Because the King has designs on your husband! Pardon me, when I saidyour husband, I erred; I meant Henry of Navarre. Our mother has seen through the whole thing. I entered into an alliance with the Huguenots because I believed the Huguenots were in favor; but now they are killing the Huguenots, and in another week there will not remain fifty in the whole kingdom. I gave my hand to the King of Navarre because he was—your husband; but now he is not your husband. What can you say to that—you who are not only the loveliest woman in France, but have the clearest head in the kingdom?"
"Why, I have this to say," replied Marguerite, "I know our brother Charles; I saw him yesterday in one of those fits of frenzy, every one of which shortens his life ten years. I have to say that unfortunately these attacks are very frequent, and that thus, in all probability, our brother Charles has not very long to live; and, finally, I have to say that the King of Poland has just died, and the question of electing a prince of the house of France in his stead is much discussed; and when circumstances are thus, it is not the moment to abandon allies who, in the moment of struggle, might support us with the strength of a nation and the power of a kingdom."
"And you!" exclaimed the duke, "do you not act much more treasonably to me in preferring a foreigner to your own brother?"
"Explain yourself, François! In what have I acted treasonably to you?"
"You yesterday begged the life of the King of Navarre from King Charles."
"Well?" said Marguerite, with pretended innocence.
The duke rose hastily, paced round the chamber twice or thrice with a bewildered air, then came back and took Marguerite's hand.
It was cold and unresponsive.
"Good-by, sister!" he said at last. "You will not understand me; do not, therefore, complain of whatever misfortunes may happen to you."
Marguerite grew pale, but remained motionless in her place. She saw the Duc d'Alençon go away, without making any attempt to detain him; but he had scarcely more than disappeared down the corridor when he returned.
"Listen, Marguerite," he said, "I had forgotten to tell you one thing; that is, that by this time to-morrow the King of Navarre will be dead."
Marguerite uttered a cry, for the idea that she was the instrument of assassination caused in her a terror she could not subdue.
"And you will not prevent his death?" she said; "you will not save your best and most faithful ally?"
"Since yesterday the King of Navarre is no longer my ally."
"Who is, pray?"
"Monsieur de Guise. By destroying the Huguenots, Monsieur de Guise has become the king of the Catholics."
"And does a son of Henry II. recognize a duke of Lorraine as his king?"
"You are in a bad frame of mind, Marguerite, and you do not understand anything."
"I confess that I try in vain to read your thoughts."
"Sister, you are of as good a house as the Princesse de Porcian; De Guise is no more immortal than the King of Navarre. Now, then, Marguerite, suppose three things, three possibilities: first, suppose monsieur is chosen King of Poland; the second, that you loved me as I love you; well, I am King of France, and you are—queen of the Catholics."
Marguerite hid her face in her hands, overwhelmed at the depth of the views of this youth, whom no one at court thought possessed of even common understanding.
"But," she asked after a moment's silence, "I hope you are not jealous of Monsieur le Duc de Guise as you were of the King of Navarre!"
"What is done is done," said the Duc d'Alençon, in a muffled voice, "and if I had to be jealous of the Duc de Guise, well, then, I was!"
"There is only one thing that can prevent this capital plan from succeeding, brother."
"And what is that?"
"That I no longer love the Duc de Guise."
"And whom, pray, do you love?"
"No one."
The Duc d'Alençon looked at Marguerite with the astonishment of a man who takes his turn in failing to understand, and left the room, pressing his icy hand on his forehead, which ached to bursting.
Marguerite remained alone and thoughtful; the situation was beginning to take a clear and definite shape before her eyes; the King had permitted Saint Bartholomew's, Queen Catharine and the Duc de Guise had put it into execution. The Duc de Guise and the Duc d'Alençon were about to join partnership so as to get the greatest possible advantage. The death of the King of Navarre would be a natural result of this great catastrophe. With the King of Navarre out of the way, his kingdom would be seized upon, Marguerite would be left a throneless, impotent widow with no other prospect before her than a nunnery, where she would not even have the sad consolation of weeping for a consort who had never been her husband.
She was still in the same position when Queen Catharine sent to ask if she would not like to go with her and the whole court on a pious visitation to the hawthorn of the Cemetery of the Innocents. Marguerite's first impulse was to refuse to take part in this cavalcade. But the thought that this excursion might possibly give her a chance to learn something new about the King of Navarre's fate decided her to go. So she sent word that if they would have a palfrey ready for her she would willingly go with their majesties.
Five minutes later a page came to ask if she was ready to go down, for the procession was preparing to start.
Marguerite warned Gillonne by a gesture to look after the wounded man and so went downstairs.
The King, the queen mother, Tavannes, and the principal Catholics were already mounted. Marguerite cast a rapid glance over the group, which was composed of about a score of persons; the King of Navarre was not of the party.
Madame de Sauve was there. Marguerite exchanged a glance with her, and was convinced that her husband's mistress had something to tell her.
They rode down the Rue de l'Astruce and entered into the Rue Saint Honoré. As the populace caught sight of the King, Queen Catharine, and the principal Catholics they flocked together and followed the procession like a rising tide, and shouts rent the air.
"Vive le Roi!"
"Vive la Messe."
"Death to the Huguenots!"
These acclamations were accompanied by the waving of ensanguined swords and smoking arquebuses, which showed the part each had taken in the awful work just accomplished.
When they reached the top of the Rue des Prouvelles they met some men who were dragging a headless carcass. It was the admiral's. The men were going to hang it by the feet at Montfaucon.
They entered the Cemetery des Saints Innocents by the gate facing the Rue des Chaps, now known as the Rue des Déchargeurs; the clergy, notified in advance of the visit of the King and the queen mother, were waiting for their majesties to make them speeches.
Madame de Sauve took advantage of a moment when Catharine was listening to one of the discourses to approach the Queen of Navarre, and beg leave to kiss her hand. Marguerite extended her arm toward her, and Madame de Sauve, as she kissed the queen's hand, slipped a tiny roll of paper up her sleeve.
Madame de Sauve drew back quickly and with clever dissimulation; yet Catharine perceived it, and turned round just as the maid of honor was kissing Marguerite's hand.
The two women saw her glance, which penetrated them like a flash of lightning, but both remained unmoved; only Madame de Sauve left Marguerite and resumed her place near Catharine.
When Catharine had finished replying to the address which had just been made to her she smiled and beckoned the Queen of Navarre to go to her.
"Eh, my daughter," said the queen mother, in her Italian patois, "so you are on intimate terms with Madame de Sauve, are you?"
Marguerite smiled in turn, and gave to her lovely countenance the bitterest expression she could, and replied:
"Yes, mother; the serpent came to bite my hand!"
"Aha!" replied Catharine, with a smile; "you are jealous, I think!"
"You are mistaken, madame," replied Marguerite; "I am no more jealous of the King of Navarre than the King of Navarre is in love with me, but I know how to distinguish my friends from my enemies. I like those that like me, and detest those that hate me. Otherwise, madame, should I be your daughter?"
Catharine smiled so as to make Marguerite understand that if she had had any suspicion it had vanished.
Moreover, at that instant the arrival of other pilgrims attracted the attention of the august throng.
The Duc de Guise came with a troop of gentlemen all warm still from recent carnage. They escorted a richly decorated litter, which stopped in front of the King.
"The Duchesse de Nevers!" cried Charles IX., "Ah! let that lovely robust Catholic come and receive our compliments. Why, they tell me, cousin, that from your own window you have been hunting Huguenots, and that you killed one with a stone."
The Duchesse de Nevers blushed exceedingly red.
"Sire," she said in a low tone, and kneeling before the King, "on the contrary, it was a wounded Catholic whom I had the good fortune to rescue."
"Good—good, my cousin! there are two ways of serving me: one is by exterminating my enemies, the other is by rescuing my friends. One does what one can, and I am certain that if you could have done more you would!"
While this was going on, the populace, seeing the harmony existing between the house of Lorraine and Charles IX., shouted exultantly:
"Vive le Roi!"
"Vive le Duc de Guise!"
"Vive la Messe!"
"Do you return to the Louvre with us, Henriette?" inquired the queen mother of the lovely duchess.
Marguerite touched her friend on the elbow, and she, understanding the sign, replied:
"No, madame, unless your majesty desire it; for I have business in the city with her majesty the Queen of Navarre."
"And what are you going to do together?" inquired Catharine.
"To see some very rare and curious Greek books found at an old Protestant pastor's, and which have been taken to the Tower of Saint Jacques la Boucherie," replied Marguerite.
"You would do much better to see the last Huguenots flung into the Seine from the top of the Pont des Meuniers," said Charles IX.; "that is the place for all good Frenchmen."
"We will go, if it be your Majesty's desire," replied the Duchesse de Nevers.
Catharine cast a look of distrust on the two young women. Marguerite, on the watch, remarked it, and turning round uneasily, looked about her.
This assumed or real anxiety did not escape Catharine.
"What are you looking for?"
"I am seeking—I do not see"—she replied.
"Whom are you seeking? Who is it you fail to see?"
"La Sauve," said Marguerite; "can she have returned to the Louvre?"
"Did I not say you were jealous?" said Catharine, in her daughter's ear. "Oh,bestia! Come, come, Henriette," she added, shrugging her shoulders, "begone, and take the Queen of Navarre with you."
Marguerite pretended to be still looking about her; then, turning to her friend, she said in a whisper:
"Take me away quickly; I have something of the greatest importance to say to you."
The duchess courtesied to the King and queen mother, and then, bowing low before the Queen of Navarre:
"Will your majesty deign to come into my litter?"
"Willingly, only you will have to take me back to the Louvre."
"My litter, like my servants and myself, are at your majesty's orders."
Queen Marguerite entered the litter, while Catharine and her gentlemen returned to the Louvre just as they had come. But during the route it was observed that the queen mother kept talking to the King, pointing several times to Madame de Sauve, and at each time the King laughed—as Charles IX. laughed; that is, with a laugh more sinister than a threat.
As soon as Marguerite felt the litter in motion, and had no longer to fear Catharine's searching eyes, she quickly drew from her sleeve Madame de Sauve's note and read as follows:
"I have received orders to send to-night to the King of Navarre two keys; one is that of the room in which he is shut up, and the other is the key of my chamber; when once he has reached my apartment, I am enjoined to keep him there until six o'clock in the morning."Let your majesty reflect—let your majesty decide. Let your majesty esteem my life as nothing."
"I have received orders to send to-night to the King of Navarre two keys; one is that of the room in which he is shut up, and the other is the key of my chamber; when once he has reached my apartment, I am enjoined to keep him there until six o'clock in the morning.
"Let your majesty reflect—let your majesty decide. Let your majesty esteem my life as nothing."
"There is now no doubt," murmured Marguerite, "and the poor woman is the tool of which they wish to make use to destroy us all. But we will see if the Queen Margot, as my brother Charles calls me, is so easily to be made a nun of."
"Tell me, whom is the letter from?" asked the Duchesse de Nevers.
"Ah, duchess, I have so many things to say to you!" replied Marguerite, tearing the note into a thousand bits.
"And, first, where are we going?" asked Marguerite; "not to the Pont des Meuniers, I suppose,—I have seen enough slaughter since yesterday, my poor Henriette."
"I have taken the liberty to conduct your majesty"—
"First and foremost, my majesty requests you to forget my majesty—you were taking me"—
"To the Hôtel de Guise, unless you decide otherwise."
"No, no, let us go there, Henriette; the Duc de Guise is not there, your husband is not there."
"Oh, no," cried the duchess, her bright emerald eyes sparkling with joy; "no, neither my husband, nor my brother-in-law, nor any one else. I am free—free as air, free as a bird,—free, my queen! Do you understand the happiness there is in that word? I go, I come, I command. Ah, poor queen, you are not free—and so you sigh."
"You go, you come, you command. Is that all? Is that all the use of liberty? You are happy with only freedom as an excuse!"
"Your majesty promised to tell me a secret."
"Again 'your majesty'! I shall be angry soon, Henriette. Have you forgotten our agreement?"
"No; your respectful servant in public—in private, your madcap confidante, is it not so, madame? Is it not so, Marguerite?"
"Yes, yes," said the queen, smiling.
"No family rivalry, no treachery in love; everything fair, open, and aboveboard! An offensive and defensive alliance, for the sole purpose of finding and, if we can, catching on the fly, that ephemeral thing called happiness."
"Just so, duchess. Let us again seal the compact with a kiss."
And the two beautiful women, the one so pale, so full of melancholy, the other so roseate, so fair, so animated, joined their lips as they had united their thoughts.
"Tell me, what is there new?" asked the duchess, giving Marguerite an eager, inquisitive look.
"Isn't everything new since day before yesterday?"
"Oh, I am speaking of love, not of politics. When we are as old as dame Catharine we will take part in politics; but we are only twenty, my pretty queen, and so let us talk about something else. Let me see! can it be that you are really married?"
"To whom?" asked Marguerite, laughing.
"Ah! you reassure me, truly!"
"Well, Henriette, that which reassures you, alarms me. Duchess, I must be married."
"When?"
"To-morrow."
"Oh, poor little friend! and is it necessary?"
"Absolutely."
"Mordi! as an acquaintance of mine says, this is very sad."
"And so you know some one who saysmordi?" asked Marguerite, with a smile.
"Yes."
"And who is this some one?"
"You keep asking me questions when I am talking to you. Finish and I will begin."
"In two words, it is this: The King of Navarre is in love, and not with me; I am not in love, but I do not want him, yet we must both of us change, or seem to change, between now and to-morrow."
"Well, then, you change, and be very sure he will do the same."
"That is quite impossible, for I am less than ever inclined to change."
"Only with respect to your husband, I hope."
"Henriette, I have a scruple."
"A scruple! about what?"
"A religious one. Do you make any difference between Huguenots and Catholics?"
"In politics?"
"Yes."
"Of course."
"And in love?"
"My dear girl, we women are such heathens that we admit every kind of sect, and recognize many gods."
"In one, eh?"
"Yes," replied the duchess, her eyes sparkling; "he who is calledEros,Cupido,Amor. He who has a quiver on his back, wings on his shoulders, and a fillet over his eyes.Mordi, vive la dévotion!"
"You have a peculiar method of praying; you throw stones on the heads of Huguenots."
"Let us do our duty and let people talk. Ah, Marguerite! how the finest ideas, the noblest actions, are spoilt in passing through the mouths of the vulgar!"
"The vulgar!—why, it was my brother Charles who congratulated you on your exploits, wasn't it?"
"Your brother Charles is a mighty hunter blowing the horn all day, and that makes him very thin. I reject his compliments; besides, I gave him his answer—didn't you hear what I said?"
"No; you spoke so low."
"So much the better. I shall have more news to tell you. Now, then, finish your story, Marguerite."
"I was going to say—to say"—
"Well?"
"I was going to say," continued the queen, laughing, "if the stone my brother spoke of be a fact, I should resist."
"Ah!" cried Henriette, "so you have chosen a Huguenot, have you? Well, to reassure your conscience, I promise you that I will choose one myself on the first opportunity."
"Ah, so you have chosen a Catholic, have you?"
"Mordi!" replied the duchess.
"I see, I see."
"And what is this Huguenot of yours?"
"I did not choose him. The young man is nothing and probably never will be anything to me."
"But what sort is he? You can tell me that; you know how curious I am about these matters."
"A poor young fellow, beautiful as Benvenuto Cellini's Nisus,—and he came and took refuge in my room."
"Oho!—of course without any suggestion on your part?"
"Poor fellow! Do not laugh so, Henriette; at this very moment he is between life and death."
"He is ill, is he?"
"He is grievously wounded."
"A wounded Huguenot is very disagreeable, especially in these times; and what have you done with this wounded Huguenot, who is not and never will be anything to you?"
"He is in my closet; I am concealing him and I want to save him."
"He is handsome! he is young! he is wounded. You hide him in your closet; you want to save him. This Huguenot of yours will be very ungrateful if he is not too grateful."
"I am afraid he is already—much more so than I could wish."
"And this poor young man interests you?"
"From motives of humanity—that's all."
"Ah, humanity! my poor queen, that is the very virtue that is the ruin of all of us women."
"Yes; and you understand: as the King, the Duc d'Alençon, my mother, even my husband, may at any moment enter my room"—
"You want me to hide your little Huguenot as long as he is ill, on condition I send him back to you when he is cured?"
"Scoffer!" said Marguerite, "no! I do not lay my plans so far in advance; but if you could conceal the poor fellow,—if you could preserve the life I have saved,—I confess I should be most grateful. You are free at the Hôtel de Guise; you have neither brother-in-law nor husband to spy on you or constrain you; besides, behind your room there is a closet like mine into which no one is entitled to enter; so lend me your closet for my Huguenot, and when he is cured open the cage and let the bird fly away."
"There is only one difficulty, my dear queen: the cage is already occupied."
"What, haveyoualso saved somebody?"
"That is exactly what I answered your brother with."
"Ah, I understand! that's why you spoke so low that I could not hear you."
"Listen, Marguerite: it is an admirable story—is no less poetical and romantic than yours. After I had left you six of my guards, I returned with the rest to the Hôtel de Guise, and I was watching them pillage and burn a house separated from my brother's palace only by the Rue des Quatre Fils, when I heard the voices of men swearing and of women crying. I went out on the balcony and the first thing I saw was a sword flashing so brilliantly that it seemed to light up the whole scene. I was filled with admiration for this fiery sword. I am fond of fine things, you know! Then naturally enough I tried to distinguish the arm wielding it and then the body to which the arm belonged. Amid sword-thrusts and shouts I at last made out the man and I saw—a hero, an Ajax Telamon. I heard a voice—the voice of a Stentor. My enthusiasm awoke—I stood there panting, trembling at every blow aimed at him, at every thrust he parried! That was a quarter hour of emotion such as I had never before experienced, my queen; and never believed was possible to experience. So there I was panting, holding my breath, trembling, and voiceless, when all of a sudden my hero disappeared."
"How?"
"Struck down by a stone an old woman threw at him. Then, like Cyrus, I found my voice, and screamed, 'Help! help!' my guards went out, lifted him up, and bore him to the room which you want for yourprotégé."
"Alas, my dear Henriette, I can better understand this story because it is so nearly my own."
"With this difference, queen, that as I am serving my King and my religion, I have no reason to send Monsieur Annibal de Coconnas away."
"His name is Annibal de Coconnas!" said Marguerite, laughing.
"A terrible name, is it not? Well, he who bears it is worthy of it. What a champion he is, by Heaven! and how he made the blood flow! Put on your mask, my queen, for we are now at the palace."
"Why put on my mask?"
"Because I wish to show you my hero."
"Is he handsome?"
"He seemed magnificent to me during the conflict. To be sure, it was at night and he was lighted up by the flames. This morning by daylight I confess he seemed to me to have lost a little."
"So then myprotégéis rejected at the Hôtel de Guise. I am sorry for it, for that is the last place where they would look for a Huguenot."
"Oh, no, your Huguenot shall come; I will have him brought this evening: one shall sleep in the right-hand corner of the closet and the other in the left."
"But when they recognize each other as Protestant and Catholic they will fight."
"Oh, there is no danger. Monsieur de Coconnas has had a cut down the face that prevents him from seeing very well; your Huguenot is wounded in the chest so that he can't move; and, besides, you have only to tell him to be silent on the subject of religion, and all will go well."
"So be it."
"It's a bargain; and now let us go in."
"Thanks," said Marguerite, pressing her friend's hand.
"Here, madame," said the duchess, "you are again 'your majesty;' suffer me, then, to do the honors of the Hôtel de Guise fittingly for the Queen of Navarre."
And the duchess, alighting from the litter, almost knelt on the ground in helping Marguerite to step down; then pointing to the palace door guarded by two sentinels, arquebuse in hand, she followed the queen at a respectful distance, and this humble attitude she maintained as long as she was in sight.
As soon as she reached her room, the duchess closed the door, and, calling to her waiting-woman, a thorough Sicilian, said to her in Italian,
"Mica, how is Monsieur le Comte?"
"Better and better," replied she.
"What is he doing?"
"At this moment, madame, he is taking some refreshment."
"It is always a good sign," said Marguerite, "when the appetite returns."
"Ah, that is true. I forgot you were a pupil of Ambroise Paré. Leave us, Mica."
"Why do you send her away?"
"That she may be on the watch."
Mica left the room.
"Now," said the duchess, "will you go in to see him, or shall I send for him here?"
"Neither the one nor the other. I wish to see him without his seeing me."
"What matters it? You have your mask."
"He may recognize me by my hair, my hands, a jewel."
"How cautious she is since she has been married, my pretty queen!"
Marguerite smiled.
"Well," continued the duchess, "I see only one way."
"What is that?"
"To look through the keyhole."
"Very well! take me to the door."
The duchess took Marguerite by the hand and led her to a door covered with tapestry; then bending one knee, she applied her eye to the keyhole.
"’Tis all right; he is sitting at table, with his face turned toward us; come!"
The queen took her friend's place, and looked through the keyhole; Coconnas, as the duchess had said, was sitting at a well-served table, and, despite his wounds, was doing ample justice to the good things before him.
"Ah, great heavens!" cried Marguerite, starting back.
"What is the matter?" asked the duchess in amazement.
"Impossible!—no!—yes!—on my soul, ’tis the very man!"
"Who?"
"Hush," said Marguerite, getting to her feet and seizing the duchess's hand; "’tis the man who pursued my Huguenot into my room, and stabbed him in my arms! Oh, Henriette, how fortunate he did not see me!"
"Well, then, you have seen him fighting; was he not handsome?"
"I do not know," said Marguerite, "for I was looking at the man he was pursuing."
"What is his name?"
"You will not mention it before the count?"
"No, I give you my promise!"
"Lerac de la Mole."
"And what do you think of him now?"
"Of Monsieur de la Mole?"
"No, of Monsieur de Coconnas?"
"Faith!" said Marguerite, "I confess I think"—
She stopped.
"Come, come," said the duchess, "I see you are angry with him for having wounded your Huguenot."
"Why, so far," said Marguerite, laughing, "my Huguenot owes him nothing; the slash he gave him under his eye"—
"They are quits, then, and we can reconcile them. Send me your wounded man."
"Not now—by and by."
"When?"
"When you have found yours another room."
"Which?"
Marguerite looked meaningly at her friend, who, after a moment's silence, laughed.
"So be it," said the duchess; "alliance firmer than ever."
"Friendship ever sincere!"
"And the word, in case we need each other?"
"The triple name of your triple god, 'Eros, Cupido, Amor.'"
And the two princesses separated after one more kiss, and pressing each other's hand for the twentieth time.
The Queen of Navarre on her return to the Louvre found Gillonne in great excitement. Madame de Sauve had been there in her absence. She had brought a key sent her by the queen mother. It was the key of the room in which Henry was confined. It was evident that the queen mother for some purpose of her own wished the Béarnais to spend that night in Madame de Sauve's apartment.
Marguerite took the key and turned it over and over; she made Gillonne repeat Madame de Sauve's every word, weighed them, letter by letter, in her mind, and at length thought she detected Catharine's plan.
She took pen and ink, and wrote:
"Instead of going to Madame de Sauve to-night, come to the Queen of Navarre.""Marguerite."
"Instead of going to Madame de Sauve to-night, come to the Queen of Navarre."
"Marguerite."
She rolled up the paper, put it in the hollow of the key, and ordered Gillonne to slip the key under the king's door as soon as it was dark.
This first duty having been attended to, Marguerite thought of the wounded man, closed all the doors, entered the closet, and, to her great surprise, found La Mole dressed in all his clothes, torn and blood-stained as they were.
On seeing her he strove to rise, but, still dizzy, could not stand, and fell back upon the sofa which had served for his bed.
"What is the matter, sir?" asked Marguerite; "and why do you thus disobey your physician's orders? I recommended you rest, and instead of following my advice you do just the contrary."
"Oh, madame," said Gillonne, "it is not my fault; I have entreated Monsieur le Comte not to commit this folly, but he declares that nothing shall keep him any longer at the Louvre."
"Leave the Louvre!" said Marguerite, gazing with astonishment at the young man, who cast down his eyes. "Why, it is impossible—you cannot walk; you are pale and weak; your knees tremble. Only a few hours ago the wound in your shoulder was still bleeding."
"Madame," said the young man, "as earnestly as I thanked your majesty for having given me shelter, as earnestly do I pray you now to suffer me to depart."
"I scarcely know what to call such a resolution," said Marguerite; "it is worse than ingratitude."
"Oh," cried La Mole, clasping his hands, "think me not ungrateful; my gratitude will cease only with my life."
"It will not last long, then," said Marguerite, moved at these words, the sincerity of which it was impossible to doubt; "for your wounds will open, and you will die from loss of blood, or you will be recognized for a Huguenot and killed ere you have gone fifty yards in the street."
"Nevertheless I must leave the Louvre," murmured La Mole.
"Must," returned Marguerite, fixing her serene, inscrutable eyes upon him; then turning rather pale she added, "ah, yes; forgive me, sir, I understand; doubtless there is some one outside the Louvre who is anxiously waiting for you. You are right, Monsieur de la Mole; it is natural, and I understand it. Why didn't you say so at first? or rather, why didn't I think of it myself? It is duty in the exercise of hospitality to protect one's guest's affections as well as to cure his wounds, and to care for the spirit just as one cares for the body."
"Alas, madame," said La Mole, "you are laboring under a strange mistake. I am well nigh alone in the world, and altogether so in Paris, where no one knows me. My assassin is the first man I have spoken to in this city; your majesty the first woman who has spoken to me."
"Then," said Marguerite, "why would you go?"
"Because," replied La Mole, "last night you got no rest, and to-night"—
Marguerite blushed.
"Gillonne," said she, "it is already evening and time to deliver that key."
Gillonne smiled, and left the room.
"But," continued Marguerite, "if you are alone in Paris, without friends, what will you do?"
"Madame, I soon shall have friends enough, for while I was pursued I thought of my mother, who was a Catholic; methought I saw her with a cross in her hand gliding before me toward the Louvre, and I vowed that if God should save my life I would embrace my mother's religion. Madame, God did more than save my life, he sent me one of his angels to make me love life."
"But you cannot walk; before you have gone a hundred steps you will faint away."
"Madame, I have made the experiment in the closet, I walk slowly and painfully, it is true; but let me get as far as the Place du Louvre; once outside, let befall what will."
Marguerite leaned her head on her hand and sank into deep thought.
"And the King of Navarre," said she, significantly, "you no longer speak of him? In changing your religion, have you also changed your desire to enter his service?"
"Madame," replied La Mole, growing pale, "you have just hit upon the actual reason of my departure. I know that the King of Navarre is exposed to the greatest danger, and that all your majesty's influence as a daughter of France will barely suffice to save his life."
"What do you mean, sir," exclaimed Marguerite, "and what danger do you refer to?"
"Madame," replied La Mole, with some hesitation, "one can hear everything from the closet where I am."
"’Tis true," said Marguerite to herself; "Monsieur de Guise told me so before."
"Well," added she, aloud, "what did you hear?"
"In the first place, the conversation between your majesty and your brother."
"With François?" said Marguerite, changing color.
"Yes, madame, with the Duc d'Alençon; and then after you went out I heard what Gillonne and Madame de Sauve said."
"And these two conversations"—
"Yes, madame; married scarcely a week, you love your husband; your husband will come, in his turn, in the same way that the Duc d'Alençon and Madame de Sauve came. He will confide his secrets to you. Well, then, I must not overhear them; I should be indiscreet—I cannot—I must not—I will not be!"
By the tone in which La Mole uttered these last words, by the anxiety expressed in his voice, by the embarrassment shown in his eyes, Marguerite was enlightened as by a sudden revelation.
"Aha!" said she, "so you have heard everything that has been said in this room?"
"Yes, madame."
These words were uttered in a sigh.
"And you wish to depart to-night, this evening, to avoid hearing any more?"
"This moment, if it please your majesty to allow me to go."
"Poor fellow!" said Marguerite, with a strange accent of tender pity.
Astonished by such a gentle reply when he was expecting a rather forcible outburst, La Mole timidly raised his head; his eyes met Marguerite's and were riveted as by a magnetic power on their clear and limpid depths.
"So then you feel you cannot keep a secret, Monsieur de la Mole?" said Marguerite in a soft voice as she stood leaning on the back of her chair, half hidden in the shadow of a thick tapestry and enjoying the felicity of easily reading his frank and open soul while remaining impenetrable herself.
"Madame," said La Mole, "I have a miserable disposition: I distrust myself, and the happiness of another gives me pain."
"Whose happiness?" asked Marguerite, smiling. "Ah, yes—the King of Navarre's! Poor Henry!"
"You see," cried La Mole, passionately, "he is happy."
"Happy?"
"Yes, for your majesty is sorry for him."
Marguerite crumpled up the silk of her purse and smoothed out the golden fringe.
"So then you decline to see the King of Navarre?" said she; "you have made up your mind; you are decided?"
"I fear I should be troublesome to his majesty just at the present time."
"But the Duc d'Alençon, my brother?"
"Oh, no, madame!" cried La Mole, "the Duc d'Alençon even still less than the King of Navarre."
"Why so?" asked Marguerite, so stirred that her voice trembled as she spoke.
"Because, although I am already too bad a Huguenot to be a faithful servant of the King of Navarre, I am not a sufficiently good Catholic to be friends with the Duc d'Alençon and Monsieur de Guise."
This time Marguerite cast down her eyes, for she felt the very depths of her heart stirred by what he said, and yet she could not have told whether his reply was meant to give her joy or pain.
At this moment Gillonne came back. Marguerite asked her a question with a glance; Gillonne's answer, also conveyed by her eyes, was in the affirmative. She had succeeded in getting the key to the King of Navarre.
Marguerite turned her eyes toward La Mole, who stood before her, his head drooping on his breast, pale, like one suffering alike in mind and in body.
"Monsieur de la Mole is proud," said she, "and I hesitate to make him a proposition he will doubtless reject."
La Mole rose, took one step toward Marguerite, and was about to bow low before her to signify that he was at her service; but an intense, keen, burning pang forced the tears from his eyes, and conscious that he was in danger of falling, he clutched a piece of tapestry and clung to it.
"Don't you see, sir," cried Marguerite, springing to him and supporting him in her arms, "don't you see that you still need me?"
A scarcely perceptible movement passed over La Mole's lips.
"Oh, yes!" he whispered, "like the air I breathe, like the light I see!"
At this moment three knocks were heard at Marguerite's door.
"Do you hear, madame?" cried Gillonne, alarmed.
"Already!" exclaimed Marguerite.
"Shall I open?"
"Wait! perhaps it is the King of Navarre."
"Oh, madame!" cried La Mole, recalled to himself by these words, which the queen had spoken in such a low tone that she hoped Gillonne only had heard them, "on my knees I entreat you, let me depart. Yes, dead or alive! madame, have pity on me! Oh! you do not answer. I will tell you all, and then you will drive me away, I hope."
"Be silent," said Marguerite, who found an indescribable charm in the young man's reproaches; "be silent."
"Madame," replied La Mole, who did not find that anger he expected in the voice of the queen, "madame, I tell you again, everything is audible in this closet. Oh, do not make me perish by tortures more cruel than the executioner could inflict"—
"Silence! silence!" said Marguerite.
"Oh, madame, you are merciless! you will not hear me, you will not understand me. Know, then, that I love you"—
"Silence! I tell you," interrupted Marguerite, placing on his mouth her warm, perfumed hand, which he seized between both of his and pressed eagerly to his lips.
"But"—he whispered.
"Be silent, child—who is this rebel that refuses to obey his queen?"
Then darting out of the closet, she shut the door and stood leaning against the wall pressing her trembling hand to her heart, as if to control it.
"Open, Gillonne."
Gillonne left the room, and an instant after, the fine, intellectual, but rather anxious countenance of the King of Navarre appeared behind the tapestry.
"You have sent for me, madame?"
"Yes, sire. Your majesty received my letter?"
"And not without some surprise, I confess," said Henry, looking round with distrust, which, however, almost instantly vanished from his mind.
"And not without some apprehension," added Marguerite.
"I confess it, madame! But still, surrounded as I am by deadly enemies, by friends still more dangerous, perhaps, than my open foes, I recollected that one evening I had seen a noble generosity shining in your eyes—’twas the night of our marriage; that one other evening I had seen the star of courage beaming in them—’twas yesterday, the day fixed for my death."
"Well, sire?" said Marguerite, smiling, while Henry seemed striving to read her heart.
"Well, madame," returned the king, "thinking of these things, I said to myself, as I read your letter bidding me come: 'Without friends, for he is a disarmed prisoner, the King of Navarre has but one means of dying nobly, of dying a death that will be recorded in history. It is to die betrayed by his wife; and I am come'"—
"Sire," replied Marguerite, "you will change your tone when you learn that all this is the work of a woman who loves you—and whom you love."
Henry started back at these words, and his keen gray eyes under their black lashes were fixed on the queen with curiosity.
"Oh, reassure yourself, sire," said the queen, smiling; "I am not that person."
"But, madame," said Henry, "you sent me this key, and this is your writing."
"It is my writing, I confess; the letter came from me, but the key is a different matter. Let it satisfy you to know that it has passed through the hands of four women before it reached you."
"Of four women?" exclaimed Henry in astonishment.
"Yes," said Marguerite; "Queen Catharine's, Madame de Sauve's, Gillonne's, and mine."
Henry pondered over this enigma.
"Now let us talk reasonably, sire," said Marguerite, "and above all let us speak frankly. Common report has it that your majesty has consented to abjure. Is it true?"
"That report is mistaken; I have not yet consented."
"But your mind is made up?"
"That is to say, I am deliberating. When one is twenty and almost a king,ventre saint gris! there are many things well worth a mass."
"And among other things life, for instance!"
Henry could not repress a fleeting smile.
"You do not tell me your whole thought," said Marguerite.
"I have reservations for my allies, madame; and you know we are but allies as yet; if indeed you were both my ally—and"—
"And your wife, sire?"
"Faith! yes, and my wife"—
"What then?"
"Why, then, it might be different, and I perhaps might resolve to remain King of the Huguenots, as they call me. But as it is, I must be content to live."
Marguerite looked at Henry in such a peculiar manner that it would have awakened suspicion in a less acute mind than his.
"And are you quite sure of succeeding even in that?" she asked.
"Why, almost; but you know, in this world nothing is certain."
"It is true," replied Marguerite, "your majesty shows such moderation and professes such disinterestedness, that after having renounced your crown, after having renounced your religion, you will probably renounce your alliance with a daughter of France; at least this is hoped for."
These words bore a significance which sent a thrill through Henry's whole frame; but instantaneously repressing the emotion, he said:
"Deign to recollect, madame, that at this moment I am not my own master; I shall therefore do what the King of France orders me. If I were consulted the least in the world on this question, affecting as it does my throne, my honor, and my life, rather than build my future on this forced marriage of ours, I should prefer to enter a monastery or turn gamekeeper."
This calm resignation, this renunciation of the world, alarmed Marguerite. She thought perhaps this rupture of the marriage had been agreed upon by Charles IX., Catharine, and the King of Navarre. Why should she not be taken as a dupe or a victim? Because she was sister of the one and daughter of the other? Experience had taught her that this relationship gave her no ground on which to build her security.
So ambition was gnawing at this young woman's, or rather this young queen's heart, and she was too far above vulgar frailties to be drawn into any selfish meanness; in the case of every woman, however mediocre she may be, when she loves her love has none of these petty trials, for true love is also an ambition.
"Your majesty," said Marguerite, with a sort of mocking disdain, "has no confidence in the star that shines over the head of every king!"
"Ah," said Henry, "I vainly look for mine now, I cannot see it; ’tis hidden by the storm which now threatens me!"
"And suppose a woman's breath were to dispel this tempest, and make the star reappear, brilliant as ever?"
"’Twere difficult."
"Do you deny the existence of this woman?"
"No, I deny her power."
"You mean her will?"
"I said her power, and I repeat, her power. A woman is powerful only when love and interest are combined within her in equal degrees; if either sentiment predominates, she is, like Achilles, vulnerable; now as to this woman, if I mistake not, I cannot rely on her love."
Marguerite made no reply.
"Listen," said Henry; "at the last stroke of the bell of Saint Germain l'Auxerrois you must have thought of regaining your liberty, sacrificed for the purpose of destroying my followers. My concern was to save my life: that was the most essential thing. We lose Navarre, indeed; but what is that compared with your being enabled to speak aloud in your room, which you dared not do when you had some one listening to you in yonder closet?"
Deeply absorbed as she was in her thoughts, Marguerite could not refrain from smiling. The king rose and prepared to seek his own apartment, for it was some time after eleven, and every one at the Louvre was, or seemed to be, asleep.
Henry took three steps toward the door, then suddenly stopped as if for the first time recollecting the motive of his visit to the queen.
"By the way, madame," said he, "had you not something to communicate to me? or did you desire to give me an opportunity of thanking you for the reprieve which your brave presence in the King's armory brought me? In truth it was just in time, madame; I cannot deny it, you appeared like a goddess of antiquity, in the nick of time to save my life."
"Unfortunate man!" cried Marguerite, in a muffled voice, and seizing her husband's arm, "do you not see that nothing is saved, neither your liberty, your crown, nor your life? Infatuated madman! Poor madman! Did you, then, see nothing in my letter but a rendezvous? Did you believe that Marguerite, indignant at your coldness, desired reparation?"
"I confess, madame," said Henry in astonishment, "I confess"—
Marguerite shrugged her shoulders with an expression impossible to describe.
At this instant a strange sound was heard, like a sharp insistent scratching at the secret door.
Marguerite led the king toward the little door.
"Listen," said she.
"The queen mother is leaving her room," said a trembling voice outside, which Henry instantly recognized as Madame de Sauve's.
"Where is she going?" asked Marguerite.
"She is coming to your majesty."
And then the rustling of a silk gown, growing fainter, showed that Madame de Sauve was hastening rapidly away.
"Oho!" exclaimed Henry.
"I was sure of this," said Marguerite.
"And I," replied Henry, "feared it, and this is the proof of it."
And half opening his black velvet doublet, he showed the queen that he had beneath it a shirt of mail, and a long Milan poniard, which instantly glittered in his hand like a viper in the sun.
"As if you needed weapon and cuirass here!" cried Marguerite. "Quick, quick, sire! conceal that dagger; ’tis the queen mother, indeed, but the queen mother only."
"Yet"—
"Silence!—I hear her."
And putting her mouth close to Henry's ear, she whispered something which the young king heard with attention mingled with astonishment. Then he hid himself behind the curtains of the bed.
Meantime, with the quickness of a panther, Marguerite sprang to the closet, where La Mole was waiting in a fever of excitement, opened the door, found the young man, and pressing his hand in the darkness—"Silence," said she, approaching her lips so near that he felt her warm and balmy breath; "silence!"
Then returning to her chamber, she tore off her head-dress, cut the laces of her dress with her poniard, and sprang into bed.
It was time—the key turned in the lock. Catharine had a key for every door in the Louvre.
"Who is there?" cried Marguerite, as Catharine placed on guard at the door the four gentlemen by whom she was attended.
And, as if frightened by this sudden intrusion into her chamber, Marguerite sprang out from behind the curtains of her bed in a white dressing-gown, and then recognizing Catharine, came to kiss her hand with such well-feigned surprise that the wily Florentine herself could not help being deceived by it.
The queen mother cast a marvellously rapid glance around her. The velvet slippers at the foot of the bed, Marguerite's clothes scattered over the chairs, the way she rubbed her eyes as if to drive away her sleepiness, all convinced Catharine that she had awakened her daughter.
Then she smiled as a woman does when she has succeeded in her plans, and drawing up an easy chair, she said:
"Let us sit down, Marguerite, and talk."
"Madame, I am listening."
"It is time," said Catharine, slowly shutting her eyes in the characteristic way of people who weigh each word or who deeply dissimulate, "it is time, my daughter, that you should know how ardently your brother and myself desire to see you happy."
This exordium for one who knew Catharine was alarming.
"What can she be about to say?" thought Marguerite.
"To be sure," continued La Florentine, "in giving you in marriage we fulfilled one of those acts of policy frequently required by important interests of those who govern; but I must confess, my poor child, that we had no expectation that the indifference manifested by the King of Navarre for one so young, so lovely, and so fascinating as yourself would be so obstinate."
Marguerite arose, and folding her robe de chambre around her, courtesied with ceremonious respect to her mother.
"I have heard to-night only," continued Catharine, "otherwise I should have paid you an earlier visit, that your husband is far from showing you those attentions you have a right to claim, not merely as a beautiful woman, but as a princess of France."
Marguerite sighed, and Catharine, encouraged by this mute approval, proceeded.
"In fact, that the King of Navarre is openly cohabiting one of my maids of honor who is scandalously smitten with him, that he scorns the love of the woman graciously given to him, is an insult to which we poor powerful ones of the earth cannot apply a remedy, and yet the meanest gentleman in our kingdom would avenge it by calling out his son-in-law or having his son do so."
Marguerite dropped her head.
"For some time, my daughter," Catharine went on to say, "I have seen by your reddened eyes, by your bitter sallies against La Sauve, that in spite of your efforts your heart must show external signs of its bleeding wound."
Marguerite trembled: a slight movement had shaken the curtains; but fortunately Catharine did not notice it.
"This wound," said she with affectionate sweetness redoubled, "this wound, my daughter, a mother's hand must cure. Those who with the intention of securing your happiness have brought about your marriage, and who in their anxiety about you notice that every night Henry of Navarre goes to the wrong rooms; those who cannot allow a kinglet like him to insult a woman of such beauty, of such high rank, and so worthy, by scorning your person and neglecting his chances of posterity; those who see that at the first favorable wind, this wild and insolent madcap will turn against our family and expel you from his house—I say have not they the right to secure your interests by entirely dividing them from his, so that your future may be better suited to yourself and your rank?"
"And yet, madame," replied Marguerite, "in spite of these observations so replete with maternal love, and filling me with joy and pride, I am bold enough to affirm to your majesty that the King of Navarre is my husband."
Catharine started with rage, and drawing closer to Marguerite she said:
"He, your husband? Is it sufficient to make you husband and wife that the Church has pronounced its blessing upon you? And is the marriage consecration only in the words of the priest? He, your husband? Ah, my daughter! if you were Madame de Sauve you might give me this reply. But wholly contrary of what we expected of him since you granted Henry of Navarre the honor of calling you his wife, he has given all your rights to another woman, and at this very instant even," said Catharine, raising her voice,—"this key opens the door of Madame de Sauve's apartment—come with me and you will see"—
"Oh, not so loud, madame, not so loud, I beseech you!" said Marguerite, "for not only are you mistaken, but"—
"Well?"
"Well, you will awaken my husband!"
As she said these words Marguerite arose with a perfectly voluptuous grace, her white dress fluttering loosely around her, while the large open sleeves displayed her bare and faultlessly modelled arm and truly royal hand, and taking a rose-colored taper she held it near the bed, and drawing back the curtain, and smiling significantly at her mother, pointed to the haughty profile, the black locks, and the parted lips of the King of Navarre, who, as he lay upon the disordered bed, seemed buried in profound repose.
Pale, with haggard eyes, her body thrown back as if an abyss had opened at her feet, Catharine uttered not a cry, but a hoarse bellow.
"You see, madame," said Marguerite, "you were misinformed."
Catharine looked first at Marguerite, then at Henry. In her active mind she combined Marguerite's smile with the picture of that pale and dewy brow, those eyes circled by dark-colored rings, and she bit her thin lips in silent fury.