"Sire: The moment has come for putting our plan of flight into execution. The day after to-morrow there will be hunting along the Seine, from Saint Germain to Maisons, that is, all along the forest."Go to the hunt, although it is hawking; wear a good coat of mail under your suit; take your best sword and ride the best horse in your stable. About noon, when the chase is at its height, and the King is galloping after the falcon, escape alone if you come alone; with the Queen of Navarre if the queen will follow you."Fifty of our men will be hidden in the Pavilion of François I., of which we have the key; no one will know that they will be there, for they will have come at night, and the shutters will be closed."You will pass by the Alley of the Violettes, at the end of which I shall be watching; at the right of this alley in an open space will be Messieurs de la Mole and Coconnas, with two horses. These horses are intended to replace yours and that of her majesty the Queen of Navarre, if necessary."Adieu, sire; be ready, as we shall be."
"Sire: The moment has come for putting our plan of flight into execution. The day after to-morrow there will be hunting along the Seine, from Saint Germain to Maisons, that is, all along the forest.
"Go to the hunt, although it is hawking; wear a good coat of mail under your suit; take your best sword and ride the best horse in your stable. About noon, when the chase is at its height, and the King is galloping after the falcon, escape alone if you come alone; with the Queen of Navarre if the queen will follow you.
"Fifty of our men will be hidden in the Pavilion of François I., of which we have the key; no one will know that they will be there, for they will have come at night, and the shutters will be closed.
"You will pass by the Alley of the Violettes, at the end of which I shall be watching; at the right of this alley in an open space will be Messieurs de la Mole and Coconnas, with two horses. These horses are intended to replace yours and that of her majesty the Queen of Navarre, if necessary.
"Adieu, sire; be ready, as we shall be."
"You will be," said Marguerite, uttering after sixteen hundred years the same words that Cæsar spoke on the banks of the Rubicon.
"Be it so, madame," replied Henry; "I will not fail you."
"Now, sire, be a hero; it is not difficult. You have but to follow the path that is indicated, and make a beautiful throne for me," said the daughter of Henry II.
An imperceptible smile rose to the thin lips of the Béarnais. He kissed Marguerite's hand, and went out to explore the corridor, whistling the refrain of an old song:
The precaution was wise, for just as he opened the door of his sleeping-room the Duc d'Alençon opened that of his antechamber. Henry motioned to Marguerite, and then, aloud, said:
"Ah! is it you, brother? Welcome."
At the sign from her husband the queen had understood everything, and stepped hurriedly into a dressing-closet, in front of the door of which hung a thick tapestry. The Duc d'Alençon entered with a timorous step and looked around him.
"Are we alone, brother?" asked he in a whisper.
"Entirely. But what is the matter? You seem disturbed."
"We are discovered, Henry."
"How?—discovered?"
"Yes, De Mouy has been arrested."
"I know it."
"Well, De Mouy has told the King all."
"What has he told him?"
"He has told him that I desire the throne of Navarre, and that I have conspired to obtain it."
"Ah, the stupid!" cried Henry, "so that now you are compromised, my poor brother! How is it, then, that you have not been arrested?"
"I do not know. The King joked with me by pretending to offer me the throne of Navarre. He hoped, no doubt, to draw some confession from me, but I said nothing."
"And you did well,ventre saint gris!" said the Béarnais. "Stand firm, for our lives depend on that."
"Yes," said François, "the position is unsafe, I know. That is why I came to ask your advice, brother; what do you think I ought to do—run or stay?"
"You must have seen the King, since he spoke to you?"
"Yes, of course."
"Well! you must have read his thoughts. So follow your inspiration."
"I prefer to remain," replied François.
Notwithstanding the fact that he was almost thorough master of himself, Henry could not prevent a movement of joy from escaping him, and slight as it was, François saw it.
"Remain, then," said Henry.
"But you?"
"Why!" replied Henry, "if you remain, I have no motive for leaving. I was going only to follow you from devotion, in order not to be separated from my brother."
"So," said D'Alençon, "there is an end to all our plans; you give up without a struggle at the first stroke of ill luck?"
"I do not look upon it as a stroke of ill luck to remain here," said Henry. "Thanks to my careless disposition, I am contented everywhere."
"Well, then," said D'Alençon, "we need say no more about it, only in case you decide anything different let me know."
"By Heaven! I shall not fail to do that, you may be sure," replied Henry. "Was it not agreed that we were to have no secrets from each other?"
D'Alençon said no more, but withdrew, pondering, however; for at one time he thought he had seen the tapestry in front of the closet move.
Scarcely was the duke gone when the curtain was raised and Marguerite reappeared.
"What do you think of this visit?" asked Henry.
"That there is something new and important on hand."
"What do you think it is?"
"I do not know yet; but I will find out."
"In the meanwhile?"
"In the meanwhile do not fail to come to my room to-morrow evening."
"Indeed I will not fail, madame!" said Henry, gallantly kissing the hand of his wife.
With the same caution she had used in coming Marguerite returned to her own apartments.
Three days had elapsed since the events we have just related. Day was beginning to dawn, but every one was already up and awake at the Louvre as usual on hunting days, when the Duc d'Alençon entered the apartments of the queen mother in answer to the invitation he had received. Catharine was not in her bedroom; but she had left orders that if her son came he was to wait for her.
At the end of a few minutes she came out of a private closet, to which no one but herself had admission, and in which she carried on her experiments in chemistry. As Catharine entered the room there came either from the closet or from her clothes the penetrating odor of some acrid perfume, and through the open door D'Alençon perceived a thick vapor, as of some burnt aromatic substance, floating in the laboratory like a white cloud.
The duke could not repress a glance of curiosity.
"Yes," said Catharine de Médicis, "I have been burning several old parchments which gave out such an offensive smell that I put some juniper into the brazier, hence this odor."
D'Alençon bowed.
"Well," said the queen, concealing under the wide sleeves of her dressing-gown her hands, which here and there were stained with reddish spots, "is there anything new since yesterday?"
"Nothing, mother."
"Have you seen Henry?"
"Yes."
"Does he still refuse to leave?"
"Absolutely."
"The knave!"
"What do you say, madame?"
"I say that he will go."
"You think so?"
"I am sure of it."
"Then he will escape us?"
"Yes," said Catharine.
"And shall you let him go?"
"Not only that, but I tell you he must go."
"I do not understand, mother."
"Listen well to what I am about to tell you, François. A very skilful physician, the one who let me take the book on hunting which you are to give him, has told me that the King of Navarre is on the point of being attacked with consumption, one of those incurable diseases for which science has no remedy. Now, you understand that if he has to die from such a cruel malady it would be better for him to die away from us than among us here at court."
"In fact," said the duke, "that would cause us too much pain."
"Especially your brother Charles," said Catharine; "whereas, if he dies after having betrayed him the King will regard his death as a punishment from Heaven."
"You are right, mother," said François in admiration, "he must leave. But are you sure that he will?"
"All his plans are made. The meeting-place is in the forest of Saint Germain. Fifty Huguenots are to escort him as far as Fontainebleau, where five hundred others will await him."
"And," said D'Alençon, with a slight hesitation and visible pallor, "will my sister Margot accompany him?"
"Yes," replied Catharine, "that is agreed on. But at Henry's death Margot is to return to court a widow and free."
"And Henry will die, madame? Are you sure of this?"
"The physician who gave me the book assured me of it."
"Where is this book, madame?"
Catharine went slowly towards the mysterious closet, opened the door, entered, and a moment later appeared with the book in her hand.
"Here it is," said she.
D'Alençon looked at the volume with a certain feeling of terror.
"What is this book, madame?" he asked, shuddering.
"I have already told you, my son. It is a treatise on the art of raising and training falcons, gerfalcons, and hawks, written by a very learned scholar for Lord Castruccio Castracani, tyrant of Lucca."
"What must I do with it?"
"Take it to your good friend Henriot, who you told me had asked you for a treatise on the art of hunting. As he is going hawking to-day with the King he will not fail to read some of it, in order to prove to Charles that he has followed his advice and taken a lesson or two. The main thing is to give it into Henry's own hands."
"Oh! I do not dare!" said D'Alençon, shuddering.
"Why not?" asked Catharine; "it is a book like any other except that it has been packed away for so long that the leaves stick together. Do not attempt to read it, François, for it can be read only by wetting the finger and turning over each leaf, and this takes time and trouble."
"So that only a man who is very anxious to be instructed in the sport of hawking would waste his time and go to this trouble?" asked D'Alençon.
"Exactly, my son; you understand."
"Oh!" said D'Alençon; "there is Henriot in the court-yard. Give me the book, madame. I will take advantage of his absence and go to his room with it. On his return he will find it."
"I should prefer you to give it to him yourself, François, that would be surer."
"I have already said that I do not dare, madame," replied the duke.
"Very well; but at least put it where he can see it."
"Open? Is there any reason why it should not be open?"
"None."
"Then give it to me."
D'Alençon tremblingly took the book, which Catharine with a firm hand held out to him.
"Take it," said the queen, "there is no danger—I touch it; besides, you have gloves on."
This precaution was not enough for D'Alençon, who wrapped the volume in his cloak.
"Make haste," said Catharine; "Henry may return at any moment."
"You are right, madame. I will go at once."
The duke went out, trembling with fright.
We have often introduced the reader into the apartments of the King of Navarre, and he has been present at the events which have taken place in them, events bright or gloomy, according to the smile or frown of the protecting genius of the future king of France.
But perhaps never had these walls, stained with the blood of murders, sprinkled with the wine of orgies, scented with the perfumes of love,—perhaps never had this corner of the Louvre seen a paler face than that of the Duc d'Alençon, as with book in hand he opened the door of the bedchamber of the King of Navarre. And no one, as the duke had expected, was in the room to question with curious or anxious glances what he was about to do. The first rays of the morning sun alone were lighting up the vacant chamber.
On the wall in readiness hung the sword which Monsieur de Mouy had advised Henry to take with him. Some links of a coat of mail were scattered on the floor. A well-filled purse and a small dagger lay on a table, and some light ashes in the fireplace, joined to the other evidence, clearly showed D'Alençon that the King of Navarre had put on the shirt of mail, collected some money from his treasurer, and burned all papers that might compromise him.
"My mother was not mistaken," said D'Alençon "the knave would have betrayed me."
Doubtless this conviction gave added strength to the young man. He sounded the corners of the room at a glance, raised the portieres, and realizing from the loud noise in the court-yard below and the dense silence in the apartments that no one was there to spy on him, he drew the book from under his cloak, hastily laid it on the table, near the purse, propping it up against a desk of sculptured oak; then drawing back, he reached out his arm, and, with a hesitation which betrayed his fears, with his gloved hand he opened the volume to an engraving of a hunt. This done, D'Alençon again stepped back, and drawing off his glove threw it into the still warm fire, which had just consumed the papers. The supple leather crackled over the coals, twisted and flattened itself out like the body of a great reptile, leaving nothing but a burned and blackened lump.
D'Alençon waited until the flame had consumed the glove, then rolling up the cloak which had been wrapped around the book, he put it under his arm, and hastily returned to his own apartments. As he entered with beating heart, he heard steps on the winding stairs, and not doubting but that it was Henry he quickly closed his door. Then he stepped to the window, but he could see only a part of the court-yard of the Louvre. Henry was not there, however, and he felt convinced that it was the King of Navarre who had just returned.
The duke sat down, opened a book, and tried to read. It was a history of France from Pharamond to Henry II., for which, a few days after his accession to the throne, Henry had given a license.
But the duke's thoughts were not on what he was reading; the fever of expectation burned in his veins. His temples throbbed clear to his brain, and as in a dream or some magnetic trance, it seemed to François that he could see through the walls. His eyes appeared to probe into Henry's chamber, in spite of the obstacles between.
In order to drive away the terrible object before his mind's eye the duke strove to fix his attention on something besides the terrible book opened on the oak desk; but in vain he looked at his weapons, his ornaments; in vain he gazed a hundred times at the same spot on the floor; every detail of the picture at which he had merely glanced remained graven on his memory. It consisted of a gentleman on horseback fulfilling the duties of a beater of hawking, throwing the bait, calling to the falcon, and galloping through the deep grass of a swamp. Strong as was the duke's will, his memory triumphed over it.
Then it was not only the book he saw, but the King of Navarre approaching it, looking at the picture, trying to turn the pages, finally wetting his thumb and forcing the leaves apart. At this sight, fictitious and imaginary as it was, D'Alençon staggered and was forced to lean one hand against a table, while with the other he covered his eyes, as if by so doing he did not see more clearly than before the vision he wished to escape. This vision was in his own thoughts.
Suddenly D'Alençon saw Henry cross the court; he stopped a few moments before the men who were loading two mules with the provisions for the chase—none other than the money and other things he wished to take with him; then, having given his orders, he crossed the court diagonally and advanced towards the door.
D'Alençon stood motionless. It was not Henry, then, who had mounted the secret staircase. All the agony he had undergone during the last quarter of an hour had been useless. What he thought was over or almost over was only beginning.
François opened the door of his chamber, then holding it so he listened. This time he could not be mistaken, it was Henry himself; he recognized his step and the peculiar jingle of his spurs.
Henry's door opened and closed.
D'Alençon returned to his room and sank into an armchair.
"Good!" said he, "this is what is now taking place: he has passed through the antechamber, the first room, the sleeping-room; then he glances to see if his sword, his purse, his dagger are there; at last he finds the book open on his table.
"'What book is this?' he asks himself. 'Who has brought it?'
"Then he draws nearer, sees the picture of the horseman calling his falcon, wants to read, tries to turn the leaves."
A cold perspiration started to the brow of François.
"Will he call? Is the effect of the poison sudden? No, no, for my mother said he would die of slow consumption."
This thought somewhat reassured him.
Ten minutes passed thus, a century of agony, dragging by second after second, each supplying all that the imagination could invent in the way of maddening terror, a world of visions.
D'Alençon could stand it no longer. He rose and crossed the antechamber, which was beginning to fill with gentlemen.
"Good morning, gentlemen," said he, "I am going to the King."
And to distract his consuming anxiety, and perhaps to prepare analibi, D'Alençon descended to his brother's apartments. Why did he go there? He did not know. What had he to say? Nothing! It was not Charles he sought—it was Henry he fled.
He took the winding staircase and found the door of the King's apartments half opened. The guards let the duke enter without opposition. On hunting days there was neither etiquette nor orders.
François traversed successively the antechamber, the salon, and the bedroom without meeting any one. He thought Charles must be in the armory and opened the door leading thither.
The King was seated before a table, in a deep carved armchair. He had his back to the door, and appeared to be absorbed in what he was doing.
The duke approached on tiptoe; Charles was reading.
"By Heaven!" cried he, suddenly, "this is a fine book. I had heard of it, but I did not know it could be had in France."
D'Alençon listened and advanced a step.
"Cursed leaves!" said the King, wetting his thumb and applying it to the pages; "it looks as though they had been stuck together on purpose to conceal the wonders they contain from the eyes of man."
D'Alençon bounded forward. The book over which Charles was bending was the one he had left in Henry's room. A dull cry broke from him.
"Ah, is it you, François?" said Charles, "you are welcome; come and see the finest book on hunting which ever came from the pen of man."
D'Alençon's first impulse was to snatch the volume from the hands of his brother; but an infernal thought restrained him; a frightful smile passed over his pallid lips, and he rubbed his hand across his eyes like a man dazed. Then recovering himself by degrees, but without moving:
"Sire," he asked, "how did this book come into your Majesty's possession?"
"I went into Henriot's room this morning to see if he was ready; he was not there, he was probably strolling about the kennels or the stables; at any rate, instead of him I found this treasure, which I brought here to read at my leisure."
And the King again moistened his thumb, and again turned over an obstinate page.
"Sire," stammered D'Alençon, whose hair stood on end, and whose whole body was seized with a terrible agony. "Sire, I came to tell you"—
"Let me finish this chapter, François," said Charles, "and then you shall tell me anything you wish. I have read or rather devoured fifty pages."
"He has tasted the poison twenty-five times," murmured François; "my brother is a dead man!"
Then the thought came to him that there was a God in heaven who perhaps after all was not chance.
With trembling hand the duke wiped away the cold perspiration which stood in drops on his brow, and waited in silence, as his brother had bade him do, until the chapter was finished.
Charles still read. In his curiosity he seemed to devour the pages, and each page, as we have said, either because of the dampness to which it had been exposed for so long or from some other cause, adhered to the next.
With haggard eyes D'Alençon gazed at this terrible spectacle, the end of which he alone could see.
"Oh!" he murmured, "what will happen? I shall go away, into exile, and seek an imaginary throne, while at the first news of Charles's illness Henry will return to some fortified town near the capital, and watch this prey sent us by chance, able at a single stride to reach Paris; so that before the King of Poland even hears the news of my brother's death the dynasty will be changed. This cannot be!"
Such were the thoughts which dominated the first involuntary feeling of horror that had urged François to warn Charles. It was the never-failing fatality which seemed to preserve Henry and follow the Valois which the duke was again going to try to thwart. In an instant his whole plan with regard to Henry was altered. It was Charles and not Henry who had read the poisoned book. Henry was to have gone, and gone condemned to die. The moment fate had again saved him, Henry must remain; for Henry was less to be feared in the Bastille or as prisoner at Vincennes than as the King of Navarre at the head of thirty thousand men.
The Duc d'Alençon let Charles finish his chapter, and when the King had raised his head:
"Brother," said the duke, "I have waited because your Majesty ordered me to do so, but I regret it, because I have something of the greatest importance to say to you."
"Go to the devil!" said Charles, whose cheeks were slowly turning a dull red, either because he had been too much engrossed in his reading or because the poison had begun to act. "Go to the devil! If you have come to discuss that same subject again, you shall leave as did the King of Poland. I rid myself of him, and I will do the same to you without further talk about it."
"It is not about my leaving, brother, that I want to speak to you, but about some one else who is going away. Your Majesty has touched me in my most sensitive point, my love for you as a brother, my devotion to you as a subject; and I hope to prove to you that I am no traitor."
"Well," said Charles, as he leaned his elbow on the book, crossed his legs, and looked at D'Alençon like a man who is trying to be patient. "Some fresh report, some accusation?"
"No, sire, a certainty, a plot, which my foolish scruples alone prevented my revealing to you before."
"A plot?" said Charles, "well, let us hear about it."
"Sire," said François, "while your Majesty hawks near the river in the plain of Vesinet the King of Navarre will escape to the forest of Saint Germain, where a troop of friends will be waiting to flee with him."
"Ah, I knew it," said Charles, "another calumny against my poor Henry! When will you be through with him?"
"Your Majesty need not wait long at least to find out whether or not what I have just had the honor of telling you is a calumny."
"How so?"
"Because this evening our brother-in-law will be gone."
Charles rose.
"Listen," said he, "I will try for the last time to believe you; but I warn you, both you and your mother, that it will be the last time."
Then raising his voice:
"Summon the King of Navarre!" he cried.
A guard started to obey, but François stopped him with a gesture.
"This is a poor way, brother, to learn anything," said he. "Henry will deny, will give a signal, his accomplices will be warned and will disappear. Then my mother and myself will be accused not only of being visionary but of being calumniators."
"What do you want, then?"
"In the name of our brotherly love I ask your Majesty to listen to me, in the name of my devotion, which you will realize, I want you to do nothing hastily. Act so that the real culprit, who for two years has been betraying your Majesty in will as well as in deed, may at last be recognized as guilty by an infallible proof, and punished as he deserves."
Charles did not answer, but going to a window raised it. The blood was rushing to his head.
Then turning round quickly:
"Well!" said he, "what would you do? Speak, François."
"Sire," said D'Alençon, "I would surround the forest of Saint Germain with three detachments of light horse, who at a given hour, eleven o'clock, for instance, should start out and drive every one in the forest to the Pavilion of Francis I., which I would, as if by chance, have indicated as the meeting-place. Then I would spur on, as if following my falcon, to the meeting-place, where Henry should be captured with his companions."
"The idea is good," said the King; "summon the captain of the guards."
D'Alençon drew from his doublet a silver whistle, suspended from a gold chain, and raised it to his lips.
De Nancey appeared.
Charles gave him some orders in a low tone.
Meanwhile Actéon, the great greyhound, had dragged a book from the table, and was tossing it about the room, making great bounds after it.
Charles turned round and uttered a terrible oath. The book was the precious treatise on hunting, of which there existed only three copies in the world.
The punishment was proportionate to the offence.
Charles seized a whip and gave the dog three whistling blows.
Actéon uttered a howl, and fled under a table covered with a large cloth which served him as a hiding-place.
Charles picked up the book and saw with joy that only one leaf was gone, and that was not a page of the text, but an engraving. He placed the volume carefully away on a shelf where Actéon could not reach it. D'Alençon looked anxiously at him. Now that the book had fulfilled its dread mission he would have liked to see it out of Charles's hands.
Six o'clock struck. It was time for the King to descend to the court-yard, already filled with horses richly caparisoned, and elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen. The hunters held on their wrists their hooded falcons; some outriders carried horns wound with scarfs, in case the King, as sometimes happened, grew weary of hawking, and wished to hunt a deer or a chamois.
Charles closed the door of his armory and descended. D'Alençon watched each movement closely, and saw him put the key in his pocket.
As he went down the stairs Charles stopped and raised his hand to his head.
The limbs of the Duc d'Alençon trembled no less than did those of the King.
"It seems to me," said the duke, "that there is going to be a storm."
"A storm in January!" said Charles; "you are mad. No, I am dizzy, my skin is dry, I am weak, that is all."
Then in a low tone:
"They will kill me," he murmured, "with their hatred and their plots."
But on reaching the court the fresh morning air, the shouts of the hunters, the loud greetings of the hundred people gathered there, produced their usual effect on Charles.
He breathed freely and happily. His first thought was for Henry, who was beside Marguerite.
This excellent couple seemed to care so much for each other that they were unable to be apart.
On perceiving Charles, Henry spurred his horse, and in three bounds was beside him.
"Ah, ah!" said Charles, "you are mounted as if you were going to hunt the stag, Henriot; but you know we are going hawking to-day."
Then without waiting for a reply:
"Forward, gentlemen, forward! we must be hunting by nine o'clock!" and Charles frowned and spoke in an almost threatening tone.
Catharine was watching everything from a window, behind which a curtain was drawn back, showing her pale face. She herself was dressed in black and was hidden from view.
At the order from Charles all this gilded, embroidered, perfumed crowd, with the King at its head, lengthened out to pass through the gate of the Louvre, and swept like an avalanche along the road to Saint Germain, amid the shouts of the people, who saluted the young King as he rode by, thoughtful and pensive, on his white horse.
"What did he say to you?" asked Marguerite of Henry.
"He congratulated me on the speed of my horse."
"Was that all?"
"Yes."
"Then he suspects something."
"I fear so."
"Let us be cautious."
Henry's face lighted up with one of his beautiful smiles, which meant especially to Marguerite, "Be easy, my love." As to Catharine, scarcely had the cortège left the court of the Louvre before she dropped the curtain.
But she had not failed to see one thing, namely, Henry's pallor, his nervousness, and his low-toned conversation with Marguerite.
Henry was pale because, not having physical courage, his blood, under all circumstances in which his life was at stake, instead of rushing to his head, as is usually the case, flowed to his heart. He was nervous because the manner in which he had been received by Charles, so different from usual, had made a deep impression on him. Finally, he had conferred with Marguerite because, as we know, the husband and wife had formed, so far as politics were concerned, an alliance offensive and defensive.
But Catharine had interpreted these facts differently.
"This time," she murmured, with her Florentine smile, "I think I may rely on my dear Henriot."
Then to satisfy herself, having waited a quarter of an hour to give the party time to leave Paris, she went out of her room, mounted the winding staircase, and with the help of her pass-key opened the door of the apartments of the King of Navarre. She searched, but in vain, for the book. In vain she looked on every table, shelf, and in every closet; nowhere could she find it.
"D'Alençon must have taken it away," said she, "that was wise."
And she descended to her own chamber, quite sure this time that her plan would succeed.
The King went on towards Saint Germain, which he reached after a rapid ride of an hour and a half. They did not ascend to the old castle, which rose dark and majestic in the midst of the houses scattered over the mountain. They crossed the wooden bridge, which at that time was opposite the tree to-day called the "Sully Oak." Then they signed for the boats adorned with flags which followed the hunting-party to aid the King and his suite in crossing the river. This was done. Instantly all the joyous procession, animated by such varied interests, again began to move, led by the King, over the magnificent plain which stretched from the wooded summit of Saint Germain, and which suddenly assumed the appearance of a great carpet covered with people, dotted with a thousand colors, and of which the river foaming along its banks seemed a silver fringe.
Ahead of the King, still on his white horse and holding his favorite falcon, rode the beaters, in their long green close-fitting coats and high boots, calling now and then to the half dozen great dogs, and beating, with their whips, the reeds which grew along the river banks.
At that moment the sun, until then hidden behind a cloud, suddenly burst forth and lighted with one of its rays all that procession of gold, all the ornaments, all the glowing eyes, and turned everything into a torrent of flame. Then, as if it had waited for that moment so that the sun might shine on its defeat, a heron rose from the midst of the reeds with a prolonged and plaintiff cry.
"Haw! Haw!" cried Charles, unhooding his falcon and sending it after the fugitive.
"Haw! Haw!" cried every voice to encourage the bird.
The falcon, dazzled for an instant by the light, turned, described a circle, then suddenly perceiving the heron, dashed after it.
But the heron, like a prudent bird, had risen a hundred yards before the beaters, and while the King had been unhooding his falcon, and while the latter had been growing accustomed to the light, it had gained a considerable height, so that by the time its enemy saw it, it had risen more than five hundred feet, and finding in the higher zones the air necessary for its powerful wings, continued to mount rapidly.
"Haw! Haw! Iron Beak!" cried Charles, cheering his falcon. "Show us that you are a thoroughbred! Haw! Haw!"
As if it understood the words the noble bird rose like an arrow, described a diagonal line, then a vertical one, as the heron had done, and mounted higher as though it would soon disappear in the upper air.
"Ah! coward!" cried Charles, as if the fugitive could hear him, and, spurring his horse, he followed the flight of the birds as far as he could, his head thrown back so as not to lose sight of them for an instant. "Ah! double coward! You run! My Iron Beak is a thoroughbred; on! on! Haw, Iron Beak! Haw!"
The contest was growing exciting. The birds were beginning to approach each other, or rather the falcon was nearing the heron. The only question was which could rise the higher.
Fear had stronger wings than courage. The falcon passed under the heron, and the latter, profiting by its advantage, dealt a blow with its long beak.
The falcon, as though hit by a dagger, described three circles, apparently overcome, and for an instant it looked as if the bird would fall. But like a warrior, who when wounded rises more terrible than before, it uttered a sharp and threatening cry, and went after the heron. The latter, making the most of its advantage, had changed the direction of its flight and turned toward the forest, trying this time to gain in distance instead of in height, and so escape. But the falcon was indeed a thoroughbred, with the eye of a gerfalcon.
It repeated the same manœuvre, rose diagonally after the heron, which gave two or three cries of distress and strove to rise perpendicularly as at first.
At the end of a few seconds the two birds seemed again about to disappear. The heron looked no larger than a lark, and the falcon was a black speck which every moment grew smaller.
Neither Charles nor his suite any longer followed the flight of the birds. Each one stopped, his eyes fixed on the clouds.
"Bravo! Bravo! Iron-beak!" cried Charles, suddenly. "See, see, gentlemen, he is uppermost! Haw! haw!"
"Faith, I can see neither of them," said Henry.
"Nor I," said Marguerite.
"Well, but if you cannot see them, Henry, you can hear them," said Charles, "at least the heron. Listen! listen! he asks quarter!"
Two or three plaintive cries were heard which a practised ear alone could detect.
"Listen!" cried Charles, "and you will see them come down more quickly than they went up."
As the King spoke, the two birds reappeared. They were still only two black dots, but from the size of the dots the falcon seemed to be uppermost.
"See! see!" cried Charles, "Iron Beak has him!"
The heron, outwitted by the bird of prey, no longer strove to defend itself. It descended rapidly, constantly struck at by the falcon, and answered only by its cries. Suddenly it folded its wings and dropped like a stone; but its adversary did the same, and when the fugitive again strove to resume its flight a last blow of the beak finished it; it continued to fall, turning over and over, and as it touched the earth the falcon swooped down and uttered a cry of victory which drowned the cry of defeat of the vanquished.
"To the falcon! the falcon!" shouted Charles, spurring his horse to the place where the birds had fallen. But suddenly he reined in his steed, uttered a cry, dropped his bridle, and grasping his horse's mane with one hand pressed the other to his stomach as though he would tear out his very vitals.
All the courtiers hastened to him.
"It is nothing, nothing," said Charles, with inflamed face and haggard eye; "it seemed as if a red-hot iron were passing through me just now; but forward! it is nothing."
And Charles galloped on.
D'Alençon turned pale.
"What now?" asked Henry of Marguerite.
"I do not know," replied she; "but did you see? My brother was purple in the face."
"He is not usually so," said Henry.
The courtiers glanced at one another in surprise and followed the King.
They arrived at the scene of combat. The falcon had already begun to peck at the head of the heron.
Charles sprang from his horse to obtain a nearer view; but on alighting he was obliged to seize hold of the saddle. The ground seemed to spin under him. He felt very sleepy.
"Brother! Brother!" cried Marguerite; "what is the matter?"
"I feel," said Charles, "as Portia must have felt when she swallowed her burning coals. I am burning up and my breath seems on fire."
Charles exhaled his breath and seemed surprised not to see fire issue from his lips.
The falcon had been caught and hooded again, and every one had gathered around the King.
"Why, what does it mean? Great Heavens! It cannot be anything, or if it is it must be the sun which is affecting my head and blinding my eyes. So on, on, to the hunt, gentlemen! There is a whole flight of herons. Unhood the falcons, all of them, by Heaven! now for some sport!"
Instantly five or six falcons were unhooded and let loose. They rose in the direction of the prey, while the entire party, the King at their head, reached the bank of the river.
"Well! what do you say, madame?" asked Henry of Marguerite.
"That the moment is favorable, and that if the King does not look back we can easily reach the forest from here."
Henry called the attendant who was carrying the heron, and while the noisy, gilded avalanche swept along the road which to-day is a terrace he remained behind as if to examine the dead bird.
Hawking was a beautiful sport as carried on by kings, when kings were almost demi-gods, and when the chase was not only a pastime but an art.
Nevertheless we must leave the royal spectacle to enter a part of the forest where the actors in the scene we have just described will soon join us.
The Allée des Violettes was a long, leafy arcade and mossy retreat in which, among lavender and heather, a startled hare now and then pricked up its ears, and a wandering stag raised its head heavy with horns, opened its nostrils, and listened. To the right of this alley was an open space far enough from the road to be invisible, but not so far but that the road could be seen from it.
In the middle of the clearing two men were lying on the grass. Under them were travellers' cloaks, at their sides long swords, and near each of them a musketoon (then called a petronel) with the muzzle turned from them. In the richness of their costume they resembled the joyous characters of the "Decameron;" on closer view, by the threatening aspect of their weapons, they seemed like those forest robbers whom a hundred years later Salvator Rosa painted from nature in his landscapes. One of them was leaning on his hand and on one knee, listening as attentively as the hare or deer we mentioned above.
"It seems to me," said this one, "that the hunt was very near us just now. I heard the cries of the hunters cheering the falcon."
"And now," said the other, who seemed to await events with much more philosophy than his companion, "now I hear nothing more; they must have gone away. I told you this was a poor place from which to see anything. We cannot be seen, it is true; but we cannot see, either."
"The devil! my dear Annibal," said the first speaker, "we had to put our horses somewhere, as well as the mules, which, by the way, are so heavily laden that I do not see how they can follow us. Now I know that these old beeches and oaks are perfectly suited to this difficult task. I should venture to say that far from blaming Monsieur de Mouy as you are doing, I recognize in every detail of the enterprise he is directing the common sense of a true conspirator."
"Good!" said the second gentleman, whom no doubt our reader has already recognized as Coconnas; "good! that is the word! I expected it! I relied on you for it! So we are conspiring?"
"We are not conspiring; we are serving the king and the queen."
"Who are conspiring and which amounts to the same for us."
"Coconnas, I have told you," said La Mole, "that I do not in the least force you to follow me in this affair. I have undertaken it only because of a particular sentiment, which you can neither feel nor share."
"Well, by Heaven! Who said that you were forcing me? In the first place, I know of no one who could compel Coconnas, to do what he did not wish to do; but do you suppose that I would let you go without following you, especially when I see that you are going to the devil?"
"Annibal! Annibal!" said La Mole, "I think that I see her white palfrey in the distance. Oh! it is strange how my heart throbs at the mere thought of her coming!"
"Yes, it is strange," said Coconnas, yawning; "my heart does not throb in the least."
"It is not she," said La Mole. "What can have happened? They were to be here at noon, I thought."
"It happens that it is not noon," said Coconnas, "that is all, and, apparently, we still have time to take a nap."
So saying, Coconnas stretched himself on his cloak like a man who is about to add practice to precept; but as his ear touched the ground he raised his finger and motioned La Mole to be silent.
"What is it?" asked the latter.
"Hush! this time I am sure I hear something."
"That is singular; I have listened, but I hear nothing."
"Nothing?"
"No."
"Well!" said Coconnas, rising and laying his hand on La Mole's arm, "look at that deer."
"Where?"
"Yonder."
Coconnas pointed to the animal.
"Well?"
"Well, you will see."
La Mole watched the deer. With head bent forward as though about to browse it listened without stirring. Soon it turned its head, covered with magnificent branching horns, in the direction from which no doubt the sound came. Then suddenly, without apparent cause, it disappeared like a flash of lightning.
"Oh!" said La Mole, "I believe you are right, for the deer has fled."
"Because of that," said Coconnas, "it must have heard what you have not heard."
In short, a faint, scarcely perceptible sound quivered vaguely through the passes; to less practised ears it would have seemed like the breeze; for the two men it was the far-off galloping of horses. In an instant La Mole was on his feet.
"Here they are!" said he; "quick."
Coconnas rose, but more calmly. The energy of the Piedmontese seemed to have passed into the heart of La Mole, while on the other hand the indolence of the latter seemed to have taken possession of his friend. One acted with enthusiasm; the other with reluctance. Soon a regular and measured sound struck the ear of the two friends. The neighing of a horse made the coursers they had tied ten paces away prick up their ears, as through the alley there passed like a white shadow a woman who, turning towards them, made a strange sign and disappeared.
"The queen!" they exclaimed together.
"What can it mean?" asked Coconnas.
"She made a sign," said La Mole, "which meant 'presently.'"
"She made a sign," said Coconnas, "which meant 'flee!'"
"The signal meant 'wait for me.'"
"The signal meant 'save yourself.'"
"Well," said La Mole, "let each act on his own conviction; you leave and I will remain."
Coconnas shrugged his shoulders and lay down again.
At that moment in the opposite direction from that in which the queen was going, but in the same alley, there passed at full speed a troop of horsemen whom the two friends recognized as ardent, almost rabid Protestants. Their steeds bounded like the locusts of which Job said, 'They came and went.'"
"The deuce! the affair is growing serious," said Coconnas, rising. "Let us go to the pavilion of François I."
"No," said La Mole; "if we are discovered it will be towards the pavilion that the attention of the King will be at first directed, since that is the general meeting-place."
"You may be right, this time," grumbled Coconnas.
Scarcely had Coconnas uttered these words before a horseman passed among the trees like a flash of lightning, and leaping ditches, bushes, and all barriers reached the two gentlemen.
He held a pistol in each hand and with his knees alone guided his horse in its furious chase.
"Monsieur de Mouy!" exclaimed Coconnas, uneasy and now more on the alert than La Mole; "Monsieur de Mouy running away! Every one for himself, then!"
"Quick! quick!" cried the Huguenot; "away! all is lost! I have come around to tell you so. Away!"
As if he had not stopped to utter these words, he was gone almost before they were spoken, and before La Mole and Coconnas realized their meaning.
"And the queen?" cried La Mole.
But the young man's voice was lost in the distance; De Mouy was too far away either to hear or to answer him.
Coconnas had speedily made up his mind. While La Mole stood motionless, gazing after De Mouy, who had disappeared among the trees, he ran to the horses, led them out, sprang on his own, and, throwing the bridle of the other to La Mole, prepared to gallop off.
"Come! come!" cried he; "I repeat what De Mouy said: Let us be off! De Mouy knows what he is doing. Come, La Mole, quick!"
"One moment," said La Mole; "we came here for something."
"Unless it is to be hanged," replied Coconnas, "I advise you to lose no more time. I know you are going to parse some rhetoric, paraphrase the word 'flee,' speak of Horace, who hurled his buckler, and Epaminondas, who was brought back on his. But I tell you one thing, when Monsieur de Mouy de Saint Phale flees all the world may run too."
"Monsieur de Mouy de Saint Phale," said La Mole, "was not charged to carry off Queen Marguerite! Nor does Monsieur de Mouy de Saint Phale love Queen Marguerite!"
"By Heaven! he is right if this love would make him do such foolish things as you plan doing. May five hundred thousand devils from hell take away the love which may cost two brave gentlemen their heads! By Heaven! as King Charles says, we are conspiring, my dear fellow; and when plans fail one must run. Mount! mount, La Mole!"
"Mount yourself, my dear fellow, I will not prevent you. I even urge you to do so. Your life is more precious than mine. Defend it, therefore."
"You must say to me: 'Coconnas, let us be hanged together,' and not 'Coconnas, save yourself.'"
"Bah! my friend," replied La Mole, "the rope is made for clowns, not for gentlemen like ourselves."
"I am beginning to think," said Coconnas, "that the precaution I took is not bad."
"What precaution?"
"To have made friends with the hangman."
"You are sinister, my dear Coconnas."
"Well, what are we going to do?" cried the latter, impatiently.
"Set out and find the queen."
"Where?"
"I do not know—seek the king."
"Where?"
"I have not the least idea; but we must find him, and we two by ourselves can do what fifty others neither could nor would dare to do."
"You appeal to my pride, Hyacinthe; that is a bad sign."
"Well! come; to horse and away!"
"A good suggestion!"
La Mole turned to seize the pommel of his saddle, but just as he put his foot in the stirrup an imperious voice was heard:
"Halt there! surrender!"
At the same moment the figure of a man appeared behind an oak, then another, then thirty. They were the light-horse, who, dismounted, had glided on all fours in and out among the bushes, searching the forest.
"What did I tell you?" murmured Coconnas, in a low tone.
A dull groan was La Mole's only answer.
The light-horse were still thirty paces away from the two friends.
"Well!" continued the Piedmontese, in a loud tone, to the lieutenant of the dragoons. "What is it, gentlemen?"
The lieutenant ordered his men to aim.
Coconnas continued under breath:
"Mount, La Mole, there is still time. Spring into your saddle as I have seen you do hundreds of times, and let us be off."
Then turning to the light-horse:
"The devil, gentlemen, do not fire; you would kill friends."
Then to La Mole:
"Between the trees they cannot aim well; they will fire and miss us."
"Impossible," said La Mole, "we cannot take Marguerite's horse with us or the two mules. They would compromise us, whereas by my replies I can avert all suspicion. Go, my friend, go!"
"Gentlemen," said Coconnas, drawing his sword and raising it, "gentlemen, we surrender."
The light-horse dropped their muskets.
"But first tell us why we must do so?"
"You must ask that of the King of Navarre."
"What crime have we committed?"
"Monsieur d'Alençon will inform you."
Coconnas and La Mole looked at each other. The name of their enemy at such a moment did not greatly reassure them.
Yet neither of them made any resistance. Coconnas was asked to dismount, a manœuvre which he executed without a word. Then both were placed in the centre of the light-horse and took the road to the pavilion.
"You always wanted to see the pavilion of François I.," said Coconnas to La Mole, perceiving through the trees the walls of a beautiful Gothic structure; "now it seems you will."
La Mole made no reply, but merely extended his hand to Coconnas.
By the side of this lovely pavilion, built in the time of Louis XII., and named after François I., because the latter always chose it as a meeting-place when he hunted, was a kind of hut built for prickers, partly hidden behind the muskets, halberds, and shining swords like an ant-hill under a whitening harvest.
The prisoners were conducted to this hut.
We will now relate what had happened and so throw some light on the situation, which looked very dark, especially for the two friends.
The Protestant gentlemen had assembled, as had been agreed on, in the pavilion of François I., of which, as we know, De Mouy had the key.
Masters of the forest, or at least so they had believed, they had placed sentinels here and there whom the light-horse, having exchanged their white scarfs for red ones (a precaution due to the ingenious zeal of Monsieur de Nancey), had surprised and carried away without a blow.
The light-horse had continued their search surrounding the pavilion; but De Mouy, who, as we know, was waiting for the king at the end of the Allée des Violettes, had perceived the red scarfs stealing along and had instantly suspected them. He sprang to one side so as not to be seen, and noticed that the vast circle was narrowing in such a way as to beat the forest and surround the meeting-place. At the same time, at the end of the principal alley, he had caught a glimpse of the white aigrettes and the shining arquebuses of the King's bodyguard.
Finally he saw the King himself, while in the opposite direction he perceived the King of Navarre.
Then with his hat he had made a sign of the cross, which was the signal agreed on to indicate that all was lost.
At this signal the king had turned back and disappeared. De Mouy at once dug the two wide rowels of his spurs into the sides of his horse and galloped away, shouting as he went the words of warning which we have mentioned, to La Mole and Coconnas.
Now the King, who had noticed the absence of Henry and Marguerite, arrived, escorted by Monsieur d'Alençon, just as the two men came out of the hut to which he had said that all those found, not only in the pavilion but in the forest, were to be conducted.
D'Alençon, full of confidence, galloped close by the King, whose sharp pains were augmenting his ill humor. Two or three times he had nearly fainted and once he had vomited blood.
"Come," said he on arriving, "let us make haste; I want to return to the Louvre. Bring out all these rascals from their hole. This is Saint Blaise's day; he was cousin to Saint Bartholomew."
At these words of the King the entire mass of pikes and muskets began to move, and one by one the Huguenots were forced out not only from the forest and the pavilion but from the hut.
But the King of Navarre, Marguerite, and De Mouy were not there.
"Well," said the King, "where is Henry? Where is Margot? You promised them to me, D'Alençon, and, by Heaven, they will have to be found!"
"Sire, we have not even seen the King and the Queen of Navarre."
"But here they are," said Madame de Nevers.
At that moment, at the end of an alley leading to the river, Henry and Margot came in sight, both as calm as if nothing had happened; both with their falcons on their wrists, riding lovingly side by side, so that as they galloped along their horses, like themselves, seemed to be caressing each other.
It was then that D'Alençon, furious, commanded the forest to be searched, and that La Mole and Coconnas were found within their ivy bower. They, too, in brotherly proximity entered the circle formed by the guards; only, as they were not sovereigns, they could not assume so calm a manner as Henry and Marguerite. La Mole was too pale and Coconnas too red.
The spectacle which struck the young men as they entered the circle, although seen but for a few moments, was one never to be forgotten.
As we have said, Charles IX. had watched the gentlemen as the guards led them one by one from the pricker's hut.
Both he and D'Alençon anxiously followed every movement, waiting to see the King of Navarre come out. Both, however, were doomed to disappointment. But it was not enough to know that the king was not there, it was necessary to find out what had become of him.
Therefore when the young couple were seen approaching from the end of the alley, D'Alençon turned pale, while Charles felt his heart grow glad; he instinctively desired that everything his brother had forced him to do should fall back on the duke.
"He will outwit us again," murmured François, growing still paler.
At that moment the King was seized with such violent pains that he dropped his bridle, pressed both hands to his sides, and shrieked like a madman.
Henry hastily approached him, but by the time he had traversed the few hundred feet which separated them, Charles had recovered.
"Whence do you come, monsieur?" said the King, with a sternness that frightened Marguerite.
"Why, from the hunt, brother," replied she.
"The hunt was along the river bank, and not in the forest."
"My falcon swooped down on a pheasant just as we stopped behind every one to look at the heron."
"Where is the pheasant?"
"Here; a beautiful bird, is it not?"
And Henry, in perfect innocence, held up his bird of purple, blue, and gold plumage.
"Ah!" said Charles, "and this pheasant caught, why did you not rejoin me?"
"Because the bird had directed its flight towards the park, sire, and when we returned to the river bank we saw you half a mile ahead of us, riding towards the forest. We set out to gallop after you, therefore, for being in your Majesty's hunting-party we did not wish to lose you."
"And were all these gentlemen invited also?" said Charles.
"What gentlemen?" asked Henry, casting an inquiring look about.
"Why, your Huguenots, by Heaven!" said Charles; "at all events if they were invited it was not by me."
"No, sire," replied Henry, "but possibly Monsieur d'Alençon asked them."
"Monsieur d'Alençon? How so?"
"I?" said the duke.
"Why, yes, brother," said Henry; "did you not announce yesterday that you were King of Navarre? The Huguenots who demanded you for their king have come to thank you for having accepted the crown, and the King for having given it. Is it not so, gentlemen?"
"Yes! yes!" cried twenty voices. "Long live the Duc d'Alençon! Long live King Charles!"
"I am not king of the Huguenots," said François, white with anger; then, glancing stealthily at Charles, "and I sincerely trust I never shall be!"
"No matter!" said Charles, "but you must know, Henry, that I consider all this very strange."
"Sire," said the King of Navarre, firmly, "God forgive me, but one would say that I were undergoing an examination."
"And if I should tell you that you were, what would you answer?"
"That I am a king like yourself, sire," replied Henry, proudly, "for it is not the crown but birth that makes royalty, and that I would gladly answer any questions from my brother and my friend, but never from my judge."
"And yet," murmured Charles, "I should really like to know for once in my life how to act."
"Let Monsieur de Mouy be brought out," said D'Alençon, "and then you will know. Monsieur de Mouy must be among the prisoners."
"Is Monsieur de Mouy here?" asked the King.
Henry felt a moment's anxiety and exchanged glances with Marguerite; but his uneasiness was of short duration.
No voice replied.
"Monsieur de Mouy is not among the prisoners," said Monsieur de Nancey; "some of our men think they saw him, but no one is sure of it."
D'Alençon uttered an oath.
"Well!" said Marguerite, pointing to La Mole and Coconnas, who had heard all that had passed, and on whose intelligence she felt she could depend, "there are two gentlemen in the service of Monsieur d'Alençon; question them; they will answer."
The duke felt the blow.
"I had them arrested on purpose to prove that they do not belong to me," said he.
The King looked at the two friends and started on seeing La Mole again.
"Ah! that Provençal here?" said he.
Coconnas bowed graciously.
"What were you doing when you were arrested?" asked the King.
"Sire, we were planning deeds of war and of love."
"On horseback, armed to the teeth, ready for flight!"
"No, sire," said Coconnas; "your Majesty is misinformed. We were lying under the shade of a beech tree—sub tegmine fagi."
"Ah! so you were lying under the shade of a beech tree?"
"And we might easily have escaped had we thought that in any way we had roused your Majesty's anger. Now, gentlemen, on your honor as soldiers," continued Coconnas, turning to the light-horse, "do you not think that had we so wished we could have escaped?"
"The fact is," said the lieutenant, "that these gentlemen did not even attempt to run."
"Because their horses were too far away," said the Duc d'Alençon.
"I humbly beg monseigneur's pardon," said Coconnas; "but I was on mine, and my friend the Comte Lerac de la Mole was holding his by the bridle."
"Is this true, gentlemen?" said the King.
"Yes, sire," replied the lieutenant; "on seeing us Monsieur de Coconnas even dismounted."
Coconnas smiled in a way which signified, "You see, sire!"
"But the other horses, the mules, and the boxes with which they were laden?" asked François.
"Well," said Coconnas, "are we stable boys? Send for the groom who had charge of them."
"He is not here," exclaimed the duke, furious.
"Then he must have become frightened and run away," said Coconnas; "one cannot expect a clown to have the manners of a gentleman."
"Always the same system," said D'Alençon, gnashing his teeth. "Fortunately, sire, I told you that for some time these gentlemen have not been in my service."
"I!" exclaimed Coconnas, "am I unfortunate enough no longer to belong to your highness?"
"By Heaven! monsieur, you ought to know that better than any one, since you yourself gave me your dismissal, in a letter so impertinent that, thank God, I kept it, and fortunately have it with me."
"Oh!" exclaimed Coconnas, "I had hoped that your highness would forgive me for a letter written under the first impulse of anger. I had been told that your highness had tried to strangle my friend La Mole in one of the corridors of the Louvre."
"What is he saying?" interrupted the King.
"At first I thought your highness was alone," continued Coconnas, ingenuously, "but afterwards I learned that three others"—
"Silence!" exclaimed Charles; "we have heard enough. Henry," said he to the King of Navarre, "your word not to try to escape."
"I give it to your Majesty, sire."
"Return to Paris with Monsieur de Nancey, and remain in your chamber under arrest. You, gentlemen," continued he, addressing the two friends, "give up your swords."
La Mole looked at Marguerite. She smiled. La Mole at once handed his sword to the nearest officer. Coconnas did the same.
"Has Monsieur de Mouy been found?" asked the King.
"No, sire," said Monsieur de Nancey; "either he was not in the forest or he escaped."
"So much the worse," said the King; "but let us return. I am cold and dizzy."
"Sire, it is from anger, probably," said François.
"Possibly; but my eyes trouble me. Where are the prisoners? I cannot see them. Is it night already? Oh! mercy! I am burning up! Help! Help!"
The unfortunate King dropped the bridle of his horse, stretched out his arms, and fell backward. The courtiers, frightened at this second attack, caught him as he fell.
François, standing apart, wiped the perspiration from his brow, for he alone knew the cause of the trouble from which his brother was suffering.
On the other side the King of Navarre, already under the guard of Monsieur de Nancey, looked upon the scene with growing astonishment.
"Well! well!" murmured he, with that wonderful intuition which at times made him seem inspired, "was I perhaps fortunate in having been stopped in my flight?"
He glanced at Margot, whose great eyes, wide open with surprise, were looking first at him and then at the King.
This time Charles was unconscious. A litter was brought and he was laid on it. They covered him with a cloak, taken from the shoulders of one of the courtiers. The procession silently set out in the direction of Paris, whence that morning light-hearted conspirators and a happy King had started forth, and to which now a dying King was returning, surrounded by rebel prisoners.
Marguerite, who throughout all this had lost neither the control of her mind nor body, gave her husband a look of intelligence; then, passing so close to La Mole that the latter was able to catch the following two Greek words, she said:
"Me deide," which meant, "Fear nothing."
"What did she say?" asked Coconnas.
"She told me to fear nothing," replied La Mole.
"So much the worse," murmured the Piedmontese, "so much the worse; that means that it is not good for us to be here. Every time that word has been said to me in an encouraging tone I have either received a bullet or a sword-thrust in my body, or a flower pot on my head. 'Fear nothing,' whether in Hebrew, Greek, Latin, or French, has always meant for me: 'Take care!'"
"Forward, gentlemen!" said the lieutenant of the light-horse.