"Let us see," said La Mole.
Both drew up the cord, and with indescribable joy saw a ladder of hair and silk at the end of it.
"Ah! you are saved," cried Marguerite.
"It is a miracle of heaven!"
"No, it is a gift from the King of Navarre."
"But suppose it were a snare?" said La Mole. "If this ladder were to break under me? Madame, did you not acknowledge your love for me to-day?"
Marguerite, whose joy had dissipated her grief, became ashy pale.
"You are right," said she, "that is possible."
She started to the door.
"What are you going to do?" cried La Mole.
"To find out if they are really waiting for you in the corridor."
"Never! never! For their anger to fall on you?"
"What can they do to a daughter of France? As a woman and a royal princess I am doubly inviolable."
The queen uttered these words with so much dignity that La Mole understood she ran no risk, and that he must let her do as she wished.
Marguerite put La Mole under the protection of Gillonne, leaving to him to decide, according to circumstances, whether to run or await her return, and started down the corridor. A side hall led to the library as well as to several reception-rooms, and at the end led to the apartments of the King, the queen mother, and to the small private stairway by which one reached the apartments of the Duc d'Alençon and Henry. Although it was scarcely nine o'clock, all the lights were extinguished, and the corridor, except for the dim glimmer which came from the side hall, was quite dark. The Queen of Navarre advanced boldly. When she had gone about a third of the distance she heard whispering which sounded mysterious and startling from an evident effort made to suppress it. It ceased almost instantly, as if by order from some superior, and silence was restored. The light, dim as it was, seemed to grow less. Marguerite walked on directly into the face of the danger if danger there was. To all appearances she was calm, although her clinched hands indicated a violent nervous tension. As she approached, the intense silence increased, while a shadow like that of a hand obscured the wavering and uncertain light.
At the point where the transverse hall crossed the main corridor a man sprang in front of the queen, uncovered a red candlestick, and cried out:
"Here he is!"
Marguerite stood face to face with her brother Charles. Behind him, a silken cord in hand, was the Duc d'Alençon. At the rear, in the darkness, stood two figures side by side, reflecting no light other than that of the drawn swords which they held in their hands. Marguerite saw everything at a glance. Making a supreme effort, she said smilingly to Charles:
"You mean, heresheis, sire!"
Charles recoiled. The others stood motionless.
"You, Margot!" said he. "Where are you going at this hour?"
"At this hour!" said Marguerite. "Is it so late?"
"I ask where you are going?"
"To find a book of Cicero's speeches, which I think I left at our mother's."
"Without a light?"
"I supposed the corridor was lighted."
"Do you come from your own apartments?"
"Yes."
"What are you doing this evening?"
"Preparing my address for the Polish ambassadors. Is there not a council to-morrow? and does not each one have to submit his address to your Majesty?"
"Have you not some one helping you with this work?"
Marguerite summoned all her strength.
"Yes, brother," said she, "Monsieur de la Mole. He is very learned."
"So much so," said the Duc d'Alençon, "that I asked him when he had finished with you, sister, to come and help me, for I am not as clever as you are."
"And were you waiting for him?" asked Marguerite as naturally as possible.
"Yes," said D'Alençon, impatiently.
"Then," said Marguerite, "I will send him to you, brother, for we have finished my work."
"But your book?" said Charles.
"I will have Gillonne get it."
The two brothers exchanged a sign.
"Go," said Charles, "and we will continue our round."
"Your round!" said Marguerite; "whom are you looking for?"
"The little red man," said Charles. "Do you not know that there is a little red man who is said to haunt the old Louvre? My brother D'Alençon claims to have seen him, and we are looking for him."
"Good luck to you," said Marguerite, and she turned round. Glancing behind her, she saw the four figures gather close to the wall as if in conference. In an instant she had reached her own door.
"Open, Gillonne," said she, "open."
Gillonne obeyed.
Marguerite sprang into the room and found La Mole waiting for her, calm and quiet, but with drawn sword.
"Flee," said she, "flee. Do not lose a second. They are waiting for you in the corridor to kill you."
"You command me to do this?" said La Mole.
"I command it. We must part in order to see each other again."
While Marguerite had been away La Mole had made sure of the ladder at the window. He now stepped out, but before placing his foot on the first round he tenderly kissed the queen's hand.
"If the ladder is a trap and I should perish, Marguerite, remember your promise."
"It was not a promise, La Mole, but an oath. Fear nothing. Adieu!"
And La Mole, thus encouraged, let himself slip down the ladder. At the same instant there was a knock at the door.
Marguerite watched La Mole's perilous descent and did not turn away from the window until she was sure he had reached the ground in safety.
"Madame," said Gillonne, "madame!"
"Well?" asked Marguerite.
"The King is knocking at the door."
"Open it."
Gillonne did so.
The four princes, impatient at waiting, no doubt, stood on the threshold.
Charles entered.
Marguerite came forward, a smile on her lips.
The King cast a rapid glance around.
"Whom are you looking for, brother?" asked Marguerite.
"Why," said Charles, "I am looking—I am looking—why, the devil! I am looking for Monsieur de la Mole."
"Monsieur de la Mole!"
"Yes; where is he?"
Marguerite took her brother by the hand and led him to the window.
Just then two horsemen were seen galloping away, around the wooden tower. One of them unfastened his white satin scarf and waved it in the darkness, as a sign of adieu. The two men were La Mole and Orthon.
Marguerite pointed them out to Charles.
"Well!" said the King, "what does this mean?"
"It means," replied Marguerite, "that Monsieur le Duc d'Alençon may put his cord back into his pocket, and that Messieurs d'Anjou and de Guise may sheathe their swords, for Monsieur de la Mole will not pass through the corridor again to-night."
Since his return to Paris, Henry of Anjou had not seen his mother Catharine alone, and, as every one knows, he was her favorite son.
This visit was not merely for the sake of etiquette, nor the carrying out of a painful ceremony, but the accomplishment of a very sweet duty for this son who, if he did not love his mother, was at least sure of being tenderly loved by her.
Catharine loved this son best either because of his bravery, his beauty,—for besides the mother, there was the woman in Catharine,—or because, according to some scandalous chronicles, Henry of Anjou reminded the Florentine of a certain happy epoch of secret love.
Catharine alone knew of the return of the Duc d'Anjou to Paris. Charles IX. would have been ignorant of it had not chance led him to the Hôtel de Condé just as his brother was leaving it. Charles had not expected him until the following day, and Henry of Anjou had hoped to conceal from him the two motives which had hastened his arrival by a day, namely, his visit to the beautiful Marie of Clèves, princess of Condé, and his conference with the Polish ambassadors.
It was this last reason, of the object of which Charles was uncertain, which the Duc d'Anjou had to explain to his mother. And the reader, ignorant on this point as was Henry of Navarre, will profit by the explanation.
When the Duc d'Anjou, so long expected, entered his mother's rooms, Catharine, usually so cold and formal, and who since the departure of her favorite son had embraced with effusion no one but Coligny, who was to be assassinated the following day, opened her arms to the child of her love, and pressed him to her heart with a burst of maternal affection most surprising in a heart already long grown cold.
Then pushing him from her she gazed at him and again drew him into her arms.
"Ah, madame," said he, "since Heaven grants me the privilege of embracing my mother in private, console me, for I am the most wretched man alive."
"Oh, my God! my beloved child," cried Catharine, "what has happened to you?"
"Nothing which you do not know, mother. I am in love. I am loved; but it is this very love which is the cause of my unhappiness."
"Tell me about it, my son," said Catharine.
"Well, mother,—these ambassadors,—this departure"—
"Yes," said Catharine, "the ambassadors have arrived; the departure is near at hand."
"It need not be near at hand, mother, but my brother hastens it. He detests me. I am in his way, and he wants to rid himself of me."
Catharine smiled.
"By giving you a throne, poor, unhappy crowned head!"
"Oh, no, mother," said Henry in agony, "I do not wish to go away. I, a son of France, brought up in the refinement of polite society, near the best of mothers, loved by one of the dearest women in the world, must I go among snows, to the ends of the earth, to die by inches among those rough people who are intoxicated from morning until night, and who gauge the capacity of their king by that of a cask, according to what he can hold? No, mother, I do not want to go; I should die!"
"Come, Henry," said Catharine, pressing her son's hands, "come, is that the real reason?"
Henry's eyes fell, as though even to his mother he did not dare to confess what was in his heart.
"Is there no other reason?" asked Catharine; "less romantic, but more rational, more political?"
"Mother, it is not my fault if this thought comes to me, and takes stronger hold of me, perhaps, than it should; but did not you yourself tell me that the horoscope of my brother Charles prophesied that he would die young?"
"Yes," said Catharine, "but a horoscope may lie, my son. Indeed, I myself hope that all horoscopes are not true."
"But his horoscope said this, did it not?"
"His horoscope spoke of a quarter of a century; but it did not say whether it referred to his life or his reign."
"Well, mother, bring it about so that I can stay. My brother is almost twenty-four. In one year the question will be settled."
Catharine pondered deeply.
"Yes," said she; "it would certainly be better if it could be so arranged."
"Oh, imagine my despair, mother," cried Henry, "if I were to exchange the crown of France for that of Poland! My being tormented there with the idea that I might be reigning in the Louvre in the midst of this elegant and lettered court, near the best mother in the world, whose advice would spare me half my work and fatigue, who, accustomed to bearing, with my father, a portion of the burden of the State, would like to bear it with me too! Ah, mother, I should have been a great king!"
"There! there! dear child," said Catharine, to whom this outlook had always been a very sweet hope, "there! do not despair. Have you thought of any way of arranging the matter?"
"Oh, yes, certainly, and that is why I came back two or three days before I was expected, letting my brother Charles suppose that it was on account of Madame de Condé. Then I have been with De Lasco, the chief ambassador. I became acquainted with him, and did all I could in that first interview to make him hate me. I hope I have succeeded."
"Ah, my dear child," said Catharine, "that is wrong. You must place the interest of France above your petty dislikes."
"Mother, in case any accident happened to my brother, would it be to the interest of France for the Duc d'Alençon or the King of Navarre to reign?"
"Oh! the King of Navarre, never, never!" murmured Catharine, letting anxiety cover her face with that veil of care which spread over it every time this question arose.
"Faith," continued Henry, "my brother D'Alençon is not worth much more, and is no fonder of you."
"Well," said Catharine, "what did Lasco say?"
"Even Lasco hesitated when I urged him to seek an audience. Oh, if he could write to Poland and annul this election!"
"Folly, my son, madness! What a Diet has consecrated is sacred."
"But, mother, could not these Poles be prevailed on to accept my brother in my stead?"
"It would be difficult, if not impossible," said Catharine.
"Never mind, try, make the attempt, speak to the King, mother. Ascribe everything to my love for Madame de Condé; say that I am mad over her, that I am losing my mind. He saw me coming out of the prince's hôtel with De Guise, who did everything for me a friend could do."
"Yes, in order to help the League. You do not see this, but I do."
"Yes, mother, yes; but meanwhile I am making use of him. Should we not be glad when a man serves us while serving himself?"
"And what did the King say when he met you?"
"He apparently believed what I told him, that love alone had brought me back to Paris."
"But did he ask you what you did the rest of the night?"
"Yes, mother; but I had supper at Nantouillet's, where I made a frightful riot, so that the report of it might get abroad and deceive the King as to where I was."
"Then he is ignorant of your visit to Lasco?"
"Absolutely."
"Good, so much the better. I will try to influence him in your favor, dear child. But you know no influence makes any impression on his coarse nature."
"Oh, mother, mother, what happiness if I could stay! I would love you even more than I do now if that were possible!"
"If you stay you will be sent to war."
"Oh, never mind! if only I do not have to leave France."
"You will be killed."
"Mother, one does not die from blows; one dies from grief, from meanness. But Charles will not let me remain; he hates me."
"He is jealous of you, my beautiful conqueror, that is well known. Why are you so brave and so fortunate? Why, at scarcely twenty years of age, have you won battles like Alexander or Cæsar? But, in the meantime, do not let your wishes be known to any one; pretend to be resigned, pay your court to the King. To-day there is a private council to read and discuss the speeches which are to be made at the ceremony. Act like the King of Poland, and leave the rest to me. By the way, how about your expedition of last night?"
"It failed, mother. The gallant was warned and escaped by the window."
"Well," said Catharine, "some day I shall know who this evil genius is who upsets all my plans in this way. Meanwhile I suspect and—let him beware!"
"So, mother"—said the Duc d'Anjou.
"Let me manage this affair."
She kissed Henry tenderly on his eyes and pushed him from the room.
Before long the princes of her household arrived at the rooms of the queen. Charles was in a good humor, for the cleverness of his sister Margot had pleased rather than vexed him. Moreover, he had nothing against La Mole, and he had waited for him somewhat eagerly in the corridor merely because it was a kind of hunt.
D'Alençon, on the contrary, was greatly preoccupied. The repulsion he had always felt for La Mole had turned into hate the instant he knew that La Mole was loved by his sister.
Marguerite possessed both a dreamy mind and a quick eye. She had to remember as well as to watch.
The Polish deputies had sent a copy of the speeches which they were to make.
Marguerite, to whom no more mention had been made of the affair of the previous evening than as if it had never occurred, read the speeches, and, except Charles, every one discussed what he would answer. Charles let Marguerite reply as she pleased. As far as D'Alençon was concerned he was very particular as to the choice of terms; but as to the discourse of Henry of Anjou he seemed determined to attack it, and made numerous corrections.
This council, without being in any way decisive, had greatly embittered the feelings of those present.
Henry of Anjou, who had to rewrite nearly all his discourse, withdrew to begin the task.
Marguerite, who had not heard of the King of Navarre since the injury he had given to her window-pane, returned to her rooms, hoping to find him there.
D'Alençon, who had read hesitation in the eyes of his brother of Anjou, and who had surprised a meaning glance between him and his mother, retired to ponder on what he regarded as a fresh plot. Charles was about to go to his workshop to finish a boar-spear he was making for himself when Catharine stopped him.
The King, who suspected that he was to meet some opposition to his will, paused and looked at his mother closely.
"Well," he said, "what now?"
"A final word, sire, which we forgot, and yet it is of much importance: what day shall we decide on for the public reception?"
"Ah, that is true," said the King, seating himself again. "Well, what day would suit you?"
"I thought," replied Catharine, "from your Majesty's silence and apparent forgetfulness, that there was some deep-laid plan."
"No," said Charles; "why so, mother?"
"Because," added Catharine, very gently, "it seems to me, my son, that these Poles should not see us so eager after their crown."
"On the contrary, mother," said Charles, "it is they who are in haste. They have come from Varsovia by forced marches. Honor for honor, courtesy for courtesy."
"Your Majesty may be right in one sense; I am not curious. So your idea is that the public reception should be held soon?"
"Faith, yes, mother; is this not your idea too?"
"You know that my ideas are only such as can further your glory. I will tell you, therefore, that by this haste I fear you will be accused of profiting very quickly by this opportunity to relieve the house of France of the burdens your brother imposes on it, but which he certainly returns in glory and devotion."
"Mother," said Charles, "on his departure from France I will endow my brother so richly that no one will ever dare to think what you fear may be said."
"Well," said Catharine, "I surrender, since you have such a ready reply to each of my objections. But to receive this warlike people, who judge of the power of the states by exterior signs, you must have a considerable array of troops, and I do not think there are enough yet assembled in the Isle de France."
"Pardon me, mother. I have foreseen this event, and am prepared for it. I have recalled two battalions from Normandy and one from Guyenne; my company of archers arrived yesterday from Brittany; the light horse, scattered throughout Lorraine, will be in Paris in the course of the day; and while it is supposed that I have scarcely four regiments at my disposition, I have twenty thousand men ready to appear."
"Ah, ah!" said Catharine, surprised. "In that case only one thing is lacking, but that can be procured."
"What is that?"
"Money. I believe that you are not furnished with an over-supply."
"On the contrary, madame, on the contrary," said Charles IX., "I have fourteen hundred thousand crowns in the Bastille; my private estates have yielded me during the last few days eight hundred thousand crowns, which I have put in my cellar in the Louvre, and in case of need Nantouillet holds three hundred thousand crowns at my disposal."
Catharine shivered. Until then she had known Charles to be violent and passionate, but never provident.
"Well," said she, "your Majesty thinks of everything. That is fine; and provided the tailors, the embroiderers, and the jewellers make haste, your Majesty will be in a position to hold this audience within six weeks."
"Six weeks!" exclaimed Charles. "Mother, the tailors, the embroiderers, and the jewellers have been at work ever since we heard of my brother's nomination. As a matter of fact, everything could be ready to-day, but, at the latest, it will take only three or four days."
"Oh!" murmured Catharine; "you are in greater haste than I supposed, my son."
"Honor for honor, I told you."
"Well, is it this honor done to the house of France which flatters you?"
"Certainly."
"And is your chief desire to see a son of France on the throne of Poland?"
"Exactly."
"Then it is the event, the fact, and not the man, which is of interest to you, and whoever reigns there"—
"No, no, mother, by Heaven! Let us keep to the point! The Poles have made a good choice. They are a skilful and strong people! A military people, a nation of soldiers, they choose a captain for their ruler. That is logical, plague it! D'Anjou is just the man for them. The hero of Jarnac and Montcontour fits them like a glove. Whom would you have me send them? D'Alençon? a coward! He would give them a fine idea of the Valois!—D'Alençon! He would run at the first bullet that whistled by his ears, while Henry of Anjou is a fighter. Yes! his sword always in his hand, he is ever pushing forward, on foot or horseback!—forward! thrust! overpower! kill! Ah! my brother of Anjou is a man, a valiant soldier, who will lead them to battle from morning until night, from one year's end to the next. He is not a hard drinker, it is true; but he will kill in cold blood. That is all. This dear Henry will be in his element; there! quick! quick! to battle! Sound the trumpet and the drum! Long live the king! Long live the conqueror! Long live the general! He will be proclaimedimperatorthree times a year. That will be fine for the house of France, and for the honor of the Valois; he may be killed, but, by Heaven, it will be a glorious death!"
Catharine shuddered. Her eyes flashed fire.
"Say that you wish to send Henry of Anjou away from you," she cried, "say that you do not love your brother!"
"Ah! ah! ah!" cried Charles, bursting into a nervous laugh, "you have guessed, have you, that I want to send him away? You have guessed that I do not love him? And when did you reach this conclusion? Come! Love my brother! Why should I love him? Ah! ah! ah! Do you want to make me laugh?"
As he spoke, his pale cheeks grew flushed with a feverish glow.
"Does he love me? Do you love me? Has any one, except my dogs, and Marie Touchet, and my nurse, ever loved me? No! I do not love my brother, I love only myself. Do you hear? And I shall not prevent my brother from doing as I do."
"Sire," said Catharine, growing excited on her part, "since you have opened your heart to me I must open mine to you. You are acting like a weak king, like an ill-advised monarch; you are sending away your second brother, the natural support of the throne, who is in every way worthy to succeed you if any accident happened, in which case your crown would be left in jeopardy. As you said, D'Alençon is young, incapable, weak, more than weak, cowardly! And the Béarnais rises up in the background, you understand?"
"Well, the devil!" exclaimed Charles, "what does it matter to me what happens when I am dead? The Béarnais rises behind my brother, you say! By Heaven! so much the better! I said that I loved no one—I was mistaken, I love Henriot. Yes, I love this good Henriot. He has a frank manner, a warm handshake, while I see nothing but false looks around me, and touch, only icy hands. He is incapable of treason towards me, I swear. Besides, I owe him amends, poor boy! His mother was poisoned by some members of my family, I am told. Moreover, I am well. But if I were to be taken ill, I would call him, I should want him to stay with me, I would take nothing except from him, and when I died I would make him King of France and of Navarre. And by Heaven! instead of laughing at my death as my brothers would do, he would weep, or at least he would pretend to weep."
Had a thunderbolt fallen at Catharine's feet she would have been less startled than at these words. She stood speechless, gazing at Charles with haggard eyes. Then at the end of a few moments:
"Henry of Navarre!" she cried, "Henry of Navarre King of France to the detriment of my children! Ah! Holy Virgin! we shall see! So this is why you wish to send away my son?"
"Your son—and what am I, then? the son of a wolf, like Romulus?" cried Charles, trembling with anger, his eyes shining as though they were on fire. "Your son, you are right; the King of France is not your son, the King of France has no brothers, the King of France has no mother, the King of France has only subjects. The King of France has no need of feelings, he has wishes. He can get on without being loved, but he shall be obeyed."
"Sire, you have misunderstood my words. I called my son the one who was going to leave me. I love him better just now because just now he is the one I am most afraid I shall lose. Is it a crime for a mother to wish that her child should not leave her?"
"And I, I tell you that he shall leave you. I tell you that he shall leave France, that he shall go to Poland, and within two days, too, and if you add one word he shall go to-morrow. Moreover, if you do not smooth your brow, if you do not take that threatening look from your eyes, I will strangle him this evening, as yesterday you yourself would have strangled your daughter's lover. Only I shall not fail, as we failed in regard to La Mole."
At the first threat Catharine's head fell; but she raised it again almost immediately.
"Ah, poor child!" said she, "your brother would kill you. But do not fear, your mother will protect you."
"Ah, you defy me!" cried Charles. "Well! by the blood of Christ, he shall die, not this evening, not soon, but this very instant. Ah, a weapon! a dagger! a knife! Ah!"
Having looked around in vain for what he wanted, Charles perceived the little dagger his mother always wore at her belt, sprang toward it, snatched it from its shagreen case encrusted with silver, and rushed from the room to strike down Henry of Anjou wherever he might meet him. But on reaching the hall, his strength, excited beyond human endurance, suddenly left him. He put out his arm, dropped the sharp weapon, which stuck point downwards into the wood, uttered a piercing cry, sank down, and rolled over on the floor.
At the same instant a quantity of blood spurted forth from his mouth and nose.
"Jesus!" said he. "They kill me! Help! help!"
Catharine, who had followed, saw him fall. For one instant she stood motionless, watching him. Then recollecting herself, not because of any maternal affection, but because of the awkwardness of the situation, she called out:
"The King is ill! Help! help!"
At the cry a crowd of servants, officers, and courtiers gathered around the young King. But ahead of them all a woman rushed out, pushed aside the others, and raised Charles, who had grown as pale as death.
"They kill me, nurse, they kill me," murmured the King, covered with perspiration and blood.
"They kill you, my Charles?" cried the good woman, glancing at the group of faces with a look which reached even Catharine. "Who kills you?"
Charles heaved a feeble sigh, and fainted.
"Ah!" said the physician, Ambroise Paré, who was summoned at once, "ah! the King is very ill!"
"Now, from necessity or compulsion," said the implacable Catharine to herself, "he will have to grant a delay."
Whereupon she left the King to join her second son, who was in the oratory, anxiously waiting to hear the result of an interview which was of such importance to him.
On leaving the oratory, in which she had just informed Henry all that had occurred, Catharine found Réné in her chamber. It was the first time that the queen and the astrologer had seen each other since the visit the queen had made to his shop at the Pont Saint Michel. But the previous evening she had written him, and Réné had brought the answer to her note in person.
"Well," said the queen, "have you seen him?"
"Yes."
"How is he?"
"Somewhat better."
"Can he speak?"
"No, the sword traversed his larynx."
"I told you in that case to have him write."
"I tried. He collected all his strength, but his hand could trace only two letters. They are almost illegible. Then he fainted. The jugular vein was cut and the blood he lost has taken away all his strength."
"Have you seen the letters?"
"Here they are."
Réné drew a paper from his pocket and handed it to Catharine, who hastily unfolded it.
"Anmand ano," said she. "Could it have been La Mole, and was all that acting of Marguerite done to throw me off the track?"
"Madame," said Réné, "if I dared to express my opinion in a matter about which your majesty hesitates to give yours I should say that I believe Monsieur de la Mole is too much in love to be seriously interested in politics."
"You think so?"
"Yes, and above all too much in love with the Queen of Navarre to serve the King very devotedly; for there is no real love without jealousy."
"You think that he is very much in love, then?"
"I am sure of it."
"Has he been to you?"
"Yes."
"Did he ask you for some potion or philter?"
"No, we kept to the wax figure."
"Pierced to the heart?"
"To the heart."
"And this figure still exists?"
"Yes."
"Have you it?"
"It is in my rooms."
"It would be strange," said Catharine, "if these cabalistic preparations really had the power attributed to them."
"Your majesty is a better judge of that than I."
"Is the Queen of Navarre in love with Monsieur de la Mole?"
"She loves him enough to ruin herself for him. Yesterday she saved him from death at the risk of her honor and her life. You see, madame, and yet you still doubt."
"Doubt what?"
"Science."
"Science also deceives me," said Catharine, looking steadily at Réné, who bore her gaze without flinching.
"About what?"
"Oh! you know what I mean; unless, of course, it was the scholar and not science."
"I do not know what you mean, madame," replied the Florentine.
"Réné, have your perfumes lost their odor?"
"No, madame, not when I use them; but it is possible that in passing through the hands of others"—
Catharine smiled and shook her head.
"Your opiate has done wonders, Réné," said she; "Madame de Sauve's lips are fresher and rosier than ever."
"It is not my opiate that is responsible for that, madame. The Baroness de Sauve, using the privilege of every pretty woman to be capricious, has said nothing more to me about this opiate, and after the suggestion from your majesty I thought it best to send her no more of it. So that all the boxes are still in my house just as you left them, with the exception of one which disappeared, I know not how or why."
"That is well, Réné," said Catharine; "perhaps later we may return to this. In the meantime, let us speak of the other matter."
"I am all attention, madame."
"What is necessary to gain an idea of the length of any one's life?"
"In the first place to know the day of his birth, his age, and under what condition he first saw light."
"And then?"
"To have some of his blood and a lock of his hair."
"If I bring you some of his blood and a lock of his hair, if I tell you the circumstance connected with his birth, the time, and his present age, will you tell me the probable date of his death?"
"Yes, to within a few days."
"Very well; I have a lock of his hair and will get some of his blood."
"Was he born during the day or night?"
"At twenty-three minutes past five in the afternoon."
"Be at my room at five o'clock to-morrow. The experiment must be made at the hour of his birth."
"Very well," said Catharine, "wewill be there."
Réné bowed, and withdrew without apparently noticing the "wewill be there," which, however, contrary to her usual habit, indicated that Catharine would not go alone.
The following morning at dawn Catharine went to her son's apartments. At midnight she had sent to inquire after him, and had been told that Maître Ambroise Paré was with him, ready to bleed him if the nervous troubles continued.
Still starting up from his sleep, and still pale from loss of blood, Charles dozed on the shoulder of his faithful nurse, who leaning against the bed had not moved for three hours for fear of waking her dear child.
A slight foam appeared from time to time on the lips of the sick man, and the nurse wiped it off with a fine embroidered linen handkerchief. On the bed lay another handkerchief covered with great spots of blood.
For an instant Catharine thought she would take possession of the handkerchief; but she feared that this blood mixed with the saliva would be weak, and would not be efficacious. She asked the nurse if the doctor had bled her son as he had said he would do. The nurse answered "Yes" and that the flow of blood had been so great that Charles had fainted twice. The queen mother, who, like all princesses in those days, had some knowledge of medicine, asked to see the blood. Nothing was easier to do, as the physician had ordered that the blood be kept in order that he might examine it. It was in a basin in an adjoining closet. Catharine went in to look at it, poured some into a small bottle which she had brought for this purpose; and then came back, hiding in her pocket her fingers, the tips of which otherwise would have betrayed her.
Just as she came back from the closet Charles opened his eyes and saw his mother. Then remembering as in a dream all his bitter thoughts:
"Ah! is it you, madame?" said he. "Well, say to your well loved son, to your Henry of Anjou, that it shall be to-morrow."
"My dear Charles," said Catharine, "it shall be just when you please. Be quiet now and go to sleep."
As if yielding to this advice Charles closed his eyes; and Catharine, who had spoken to him as one does to calm a sick person or a child, left the room. But when he heard the door close Charles suddenly sat up, and in a voice still weak from suffering, said:
"My chancellor! The seals! the court!—send for them all."
The nurse, with gentle insistence, laid the head of the King back on her shoulder, and in order to put him to sleep strove to rock him as she would have done a child.
"No, no, nurse, I cannot sleep any more. Call my attendants. I must work this morning."
When Charles spoke in that way he was obeyed; and even the nurse, in spite of the privileges allowed her by her foster-child, dared not disobey. She sent for those whom the King wanted, and the council was planned, not for the next day, which was out of the question, but for five days from then.
At the hour agreed on, that is, at five o'clock, the queen mother and the Duc d'Anjou repaired to the rooms of Réné, who, expecting their visit, had everything ready for the mysterious seance. In the room to the right, that is, in the chamber of sacrifices, a steel blade was heating over a glowing brazier. From its fanciful arabesques this blade was intended to represent the events of the destiny about which the oracle was to be consulted. On the altar lay the Book of Fate, and during the night, which had been very clear, Réné had studied the course and the position of the stars.
Henry of Anjou entered first. He wore a wig, a mask concealed his face, and a long cloak hid his figure. His mother followed. Had she not known beforehand that the man who had preceded her was her son she never would have recognized him. Catharine removed her mask; the Duc d'Anjou kept his on.
"Did you make any observations last night?" asked Catharine.
"Yes, madame," said Réné; "and the answer of the stars has already told me the past. The one you wish to know about, like every one born under the sign of the Cancer, has a warm heart and great pride. He is powerful. He has lived nearly a quarter of a century. He has until now had glory and wealth. Is this so, madame?"
"Possibly," said Catharine.
"Have you a lock of his hair, and some of his blood?"
"Yes."
Catharine handed to the necromancer a lock of fair hair and a small bottle filled with blood.
Réné took the flask, shook it thoroughly, so that the fibrine and water would mix, and poured a large drop of it on the glowing steel. The living liquid boiled for an instant, and then spread out into fantastic figures.
"Oh, madame," cried Réné, "I see him twisting in awful agony. Hear how he groans, how he calls for help! Do you see how everything around him becomes blood? Do you see how about his death-bed great combats are taking place? See, here are the lances; and look, there are the swords!"
"Will it be long before this happens?" asked Catharine, trembling from an indescribable emotion and laying her hand on that of Henry of Anjou, who in his eager curiosity was leaning over the brazier.
Réné approached the altar and repeated a cabalistic prayer, putting such energy and conviction into the act that the veins of his temples swelled, and caused the prophetic convulsions and nervous twinges from which the ancient priestesses suffered before their tripods, and even on their death-beds.
At length he rose and announced that everything was ready, took the flask, still three-quarters full, in one hand, and in the other the lock of hair. Then telling Catharine to open the book at random, and to read the first words she looked at, he poured the rest of the blood on the steel blade, and threw the hair into the brazier, pronouncing a cabalistic sentence composed of Hebrew words which he himself did not understand.
Instantly the Duc d'Anjou and Catharine saw a white figure appear on the sword like that of a corpse wrapped in his shroud. Another figure, which seemed that of a woman, was leaning over the first.
At the same time the hair caught fire and threw out a single flame, clear, swift, and barbed like a fiery tongue.
"One year," cried Réné, "scarcely one year, and this man shall die. A woman alone shall weep for him. But no, there at the end of the sword is another woman, with a child in her arms."
Catharine looked at her son, and, mother though she was, seemed to ask him who these two women were.
But Réné had scarcely finished speaking before the steel became white and everything gradually disappeared from its surface. Then Catharine opened the book and read the following lines in a voice which, in spite of her effort at control, she could not keep from shaking:
A deep silence reigned for some moments.
"For the one whom you know," asked Catharine, "what are the signs for this month?"
"As favorable as ever, madame; unless Providence interferes with his destiny he will be fortunate. And yet"—
"And yet what?"
"One of the stars in his pleiad was covered with a black cloud while I made my observations."
"Ah!" exclaimed Catharine, "a black cloud—there is some hope, then?"
"Of whom are you speaking, madame?" asked the Duc d'Anjou.
Catharine drew her son away from the light of the brazier and spoke to him in a low tone.
Meanwhile Réné knelt down, and in the glow of the flame poured into his hand the last drop of blood which had remained in the bottom of the flask.
"Strange contradiction," said he, "which proves how little to be depended on is the evidence of simple science practised by ordinary men! To any one but myself, a physician, a scholar, even for Maître Ambroise Paré, this blood would seem so pure, so healthy, so full of life and animal spirits, that it would promise long years of life; and yet all this vigor will soon disappear, all this life will be extinct within a year!"
Catharine and Henry of Anjou had turned round and were listening.
The eyes of the prince glowed through his mask.
"Ah!" continued Réné, "the present alone is known to ordinary mortals; while to us the past and the future are known."
"So," continued Catharine, "you still think he will die within the year?"
"As surely as we are three living persons who some day will rest in our coffins."
"Yet you said that the blood was pure and healthy, and that it indicated a long life."
"Yes, if things followed their natural course. But might not an accident"—
"Ah, yes, do you hear?" said Catharine to Henry, "an accident"—
"Alas!" said the latter, "all the more reason for my staying."
"Oh, think no more about that: it is not possible."
Then turning to Réné:
"Thanks," said the young man, disguising his voice, "thanks; take this purse."
"Come,count," said Catharine, intentionally giving her son this title to throw Réné off the track.
They left.
"Oh, mother, you see," said Henry, "an accident—and if an accident should happen, I shall not be on hand; I shall be four hundred leagues from you"—
"Four hundred leagues are accomplished in eight days, my son."
"Yes; but how do I know whether those Poles will let me come back? If I could only wait, mother!"
"Who knows?" said Catharine; "might not this accident of which Réné speaks be the one which since yesterday has laid the King on a bed of pain? Listen, return by yourself, my child. I shall go back by the private door of the monastery of the Augustines. My suite is waiting for me in this convent. Go, now, Henry, go, and keep from irritating your brother in case you see him."
The first thing the Duc d'Anjou heard on arriving at the Louvre was that the formal reception of the ambassadors was arranged for the fifth day from that. The tailors and the jewellers were waiting for the prince with magnificent clothes and superb jewels which the King had ordered for him.
While the duke tried them on with an anger which brought the tears to his eyes, Henry of Navarre was very gay in a magnificent collar of emeralds, a sword with a gold handle, and a precious ring which Charles had sent him that morning.
D'Alençon had just received a letter and had shut himself up in his own room to read it.
As to Coconnas, he was searching every corner of the Louvre for his friend.
In fact, as may easily be imagined, he had been somewhat surprised at not seeing La Mole return that night, and by morning had begun to feel some anxiety.
Consequently he had started out to find his friend. He began his search at the Hôtel de la Belle Étoile, went from there to the Rue Cloche Percée, from the Rue Cloche Percée to the Rue Tizon, from there to the Pont Saint Michel, and finally from the Pont Saint Michel to the Louvre. This search, so far as those who had been questioned were concerned, had been carried on in a way so original and exacting (which may easily be believed when one realizes the eccentric character of Coconnas) that it had caused some explanations between him and three courtiers. These explanations had ended, as was the fashion of the times, on the ground. In these encounters Coconnas had been as conscientious as he usually was in affairs of that kind, and had killed the first man and wounded the two others, saying:
"Poor La Mole, he knew Latin so well!"
The last victim, who was the Baron de Boissey, said as he fell:
"Oh, for the love of Heaven, Coconnas, do vary a little and at least say that he knew Greek!"
At last the report of the adventure in the corridor leaked out. Coconnas was heartbroken over it; for an instant he thought that all these kings and princes had killed his friend and thrown him into some dungeon.
He learned that D'Alençon had been of the party; and overlooking the majesty which surrounded a prince of the blood, he went to him and demanded an explanation as he would have done of a simple gentleman.
At first D'Alençon was inclined to thrust out of the door the impertinent fellow who came and asked for an account of his actions. But Coconnas spoke so curtly, his eyes flashed with such brightness, and the affair of the three duels in less than twenty-four hours had raised the Piedmontese so high, that D'Alençon reflected, and instead of yielding to his first inclination, he answered the gentleman with a charming smile:
"My dear Coconnas, it is true that the King was furious at receiving a silver bowl on his shoulder, that the Duc d'Anjou was vexed at being hit on the head by some orange marmalade, and the Duc de Guise humiliated at having the breath knocked out of him by a haunch of venison, and so they were all determined to kill Monsieur de la Mole. But a friend of your friend's turned aside the blow. The party therefore failed in their attempt. I give you my word as prince."
"Ah!" said Coconnas, breathing as hard as a pair of bellows. "By Heaven, monseigneur, this is good news, and I should like to know this friend to show him my gratitude."
Monsieur d'Alençon made no reply, but smiled more pleasantly than he had yet done, implying to Coconnas that this friend was none other than the prince himself.
"Well, monseigneur!" said Coconnas, "since you have gone so far as to tell me the beginning of the story, crown your kindness by finishing it. They tried to kill him, but failed, you say. Well, what happened then? I am brave and can bear the news. Have they thrown him into some dungeon? So much the better. It will make him more careful in future. He never would listen to my advice; besides, we can get him out, by Heaven! Stone does not baffle every one."
D'Alençon shook his head.
"The worst of all this, my brave Coconnas," said he, "is that your friend disappeared after the affair, and no one knows where he went."
"By Heaven!" cried the Piedmontese, again growing pale, "had he gone to hell I should at least have known where he is."
"Listen," said D'Alençon, who, although for different reasons, was as anxious as Coconnas to know La Mole's whereabouts, "I will give you the advice of a friend."
"Give it, my lord," said Coconnas, eagerly.
"Go to Queen Marguerite. She must know what has become of the friend you mourn."
"I will confess to your highness," said Coconnas, "that I had thought of going to her, but I scarcely dared. Madame Marguerite has a way of making me feel somewhat uncomfortable at times, and besides this, I feared that I might find her in tears. But since your highness assures me that La Mole is not dead and that her majesty knows where he is I will take heart and go to her."
"Do so, my friend," said François. "And when you find out where La Mole is, let me know, for really I am as anxious as you are. But remember one thing, Coconnas"—
"What?"
"Do not say you have come at my suggestion, for if you do you will learn nothing."
"Monseigneur," said Coconnas, "since your highness recommends secrecy on this point, I shall be as silent as a tench or as the queen mother."
"What a kind, good, generous prince he is!" murmured Coconnas as he set out to find the Queen of Navarre.
Marguerite was expecting Coconnas, for the report of his despair had reached her, and on hearing by what exploits his grief had showed itself she almost forgave him for his somewhat rude treatment of her friend Madame la Duchesse de Nevers, to whom he had not spoken for two or three days, owing to some misunderstanding between them. Therefore as soon as he was announced to the queen he was admitted.
Coconnas entered the room, unable to overcome the constraint which he had mentioned to D'Alençon, and which he had always felt in the presence of the queen. It was caused more by her superior intellect than by her rank. But Marguerite received him with a smile which at once put him at his ease.
"Ah, madame," said he, "give me back my friend, I beg you, or at least tell me what has become of him, for without him I cannot live. Imagine Euryalus without Nisus, Damon without Pythias, or Orestes without Pylades, and pity my grief for the sake of one of the heroes I have just mentioned, whose heart, I swear, was no more tender than mine."
Marguerite smiled, and having made Coconnas promise not to reveal the secret, she told him of La Mole's escape from the window. As to his hiding-place, insistent as were the prayers of the Piedmontese, she preserved the strictest silence. This only half satisfied Coconnas, so he resorted to diplomatic speeches of the highest order.
The result was that Marguerite saw clearly that the Duc d'Alençon was partly the cause of the courtier's great desire to know what had become of La Mole.
"Well," said the queen, "if you must know something definite about your friend, ask King Henry of Navarre. He alone has the right to speak. As to me, all I can tell you is that the friend for whom you are searching is alive, and you may believe what I say."
"I believe one thing still more, madame," replied Coconnas; "that is, that your beautiful eyes have not wept."
Thereupon, thinking that there was nothing to add to a remark which had the double advantage of expressing his thought as well as the high opinion he had of La Mole, Coconnas withdrew, pondering on a reconciliation with Madame de Nevers, not on her account, but in order that he might find out from her what he had been unable to learn from Marguerite.
Deep griefs are abnormal conditions in which the mind shakes off the yoke as soon as possible. The thought of leaving Marguerite had at first broken La Mole's heart, and it was in order to save the reputation of the queen rather than to preserve his own life that he had consented to run away.
Therefore, the following evening he returned to Paris to see Marguerite from her balcony. As if instinct told her of the young man's plan, the queen spent the whole evening at her window. The result was that the lovers met again with the indescribable delight which accompanies forbidden pleasures. More than this, the melancholy and romantic temperament of La Mole found a certain charm in the situation. But a man really in love is happy only for the time being, while he sees or is with the woman he loves. After he has left her he suffers. Anxious to see Marguerite again, La Mole set himself busily to work to bring about the event which would make it possible for him to be with her; namely, the flight of the King of Navarre.
Marguerite on her part willingly gave herself up to the happiness of being loved with so pure a devotion. Often she was angry with herself for what she regarded as a weakness. Her strong mind despised the poverty of ordinary love, insensible to the details which for tender souls make it the sweetest, the most delicate, and the most desirable of all pleasures. So she felt that the days, if not happily filled, were at least happily ended. When, at about nine o'clock every evening, she stepped out on her balcony in a white dressing-gown, she perceived in the darkness of the quay a horseman whose hand was raised first to his lips, then to his heart. Then a significant cough reminded the lover of a cherished voice. Sometimes a note was thrown by a little hand, and in the note was hidden some costly jewel, precious not on account of its value, but because it had belonged to her who threw it; and this would fall on the pavement a few feet from the young man. Then La Mole would swoop down on it like a kite, press it to his heart, answer in the same voice, while Marguerite stood at her balcony until the sound of the horse's hoofs had died away in the darkness. The steed, ridden at full speed when coming, on leaving seemed as if made of material as lifeless as that of the famous horse which lost Troy.
This was why the queen was not anxious as to the fate of La Mole. But fearing that he might be watched and followed she persistently refused all interviews except these clandestine ones, which began immediately after La Mole's flight and continued every evening until the time set for the formal reception of the ambassadors, a reception which by the express orders of Ambroise Paré, as we have seen, was postponed for several days.
The evening before this reception, at about nine o'clock, when every one in the Louvre was engaged in preparations for the following day, Marguerite opened her window and stepped out upon her balcony. As she did so, without waiting for her note, La Mole, in greater haste than usual, threw his note which with his usual skill fell at the feet of his royal mistress.
Marguerite realized that the missive contained something special, and retired from the balcony to read it. The note consisted of two separate sheets.
On the first page were these words:
"Madame, I must speak to the King of Navarre. The matter is urgent. I will wait."
On the second page were these words: