"This evening at ten o'clock, Rue de l'Arbre Sec, Hôtel de la Belle Étoile. If you come send no reply; otherwise send back NO by the bearer."De Mouy De Saint Phale."
"This evening at ten o'clock, Rue de l'Arbre Sec, Hôtel de la Belle Étoile. If you come send no reply; otherwise send back NO by the bearer.
"De Mouy De Saint Phale."
As Catharine read this note a smile came to her lips. She was thinking of the victory she was to gain, forgetting the price at which she had bought it. But after all what was Orthon? A faithful, devoted follower, a handsome young boy; that was all.
That, one may well imagine, would not for an instant have turned the scales on which the fate of empires had been weighed.
The note read, Catharine at once went to Madame de Sauve's and placed it behind the mirror.
As she came down she found the captain of the guards at the entrance of the corridor.
"Madame," said Monsieur de Nancey, "according to your majesty's orders the horse is ready."
"My dear baron," said Catharine, "we shall not need it. I have made the boy speak, and he is really too stupid to be charged with the errand I wanted to entrust to him. I thought he was a lackey, but he is nothing but a groom at best. I gave him some money and dismissed him by the private gate."
"But," said Monsieur de Nancey, "the errand?"
"The errand?" asked Catharine.
"The one on which he was to go to Saint Germain. Does your majesty wish me to undertake it, or shall I have one of my men attend to it?"
"No, no," said Catharine, "this evening you and your men will have something else to do."
Whereupon the queen mother returned to her room, hoping that evening to hold in her hands the fate of the accursed King of Navarre.
Two hours after the event we have described, no trace of which remained on Catharine's face, Madame de Sauve, having finished her work for the queen, returned to her own rooms. Henry followed her, and learning from Dariole that Orthon had been there he went directly to the mirror and found the note.
It was, as we have said, couched in these terms:
"This evening at ten o'clock, Rue de l'Arbre Sec, Hôtel de la Belle Étoile. If you come send no reply; otherwise send back NO by the bearer."
There was no address.
"Henry will not fail to keep the appointment," said Catharine, "for even had he not wished to do so there is no longer a messenger to take back his answer."
Catharine was not mistaken.
Henry inquired for Orthon. Dariole said that he had gone out with the queen mother; but as the note had been found in its place, and as the poor boy was known to be incapable of treason, Henry felt no anxiety.
He dined as usual at the table of the King, who joked him greatly on the mistakes he had made while hawking that morning.
Henry made excuses for himself, saying that he came from the mountains and not the plain, but he promised Charles to study the art. Catharine was charming, and on leaving the table begged Marguerite to pass the evening with her.
At eight o'clock Henry took two attendants, left by the Porte Saint Honoré, made a long circuit, returned by the Tour de Bois, and crossing the Seine at the ferry of Nesle, rode up the Rue Saint Jacques, where he dismissed his gentlemen, as if he were going to keep some love appointment. At the corner of the Rue des Mathurins he found a man on horseback, wrapped in a cloak. He approached him.
"Mantes!" said the man.
"Pau!" replied the king.
The man at once dismounted. Henry put on his splashed mantle, mounted the horse, which was covered with foam, returned by the Rue de la Harpe, crossed the Pont Saint Michel, passed down the Rue Barthélemy, again crossed the river at the Pont aux Meuniers, descended the quays, took the Rue de l'Arbre Sec, and knocked at the door of Maître la Hurière's.
La Mole was in a room writing a long love-letter—to whom may easily be imagined.
Coconnas was in the kitchen with La Hurière, watching half a dozen partridges roasting, and disputing with his friend the host as to when they should be removed from the spit. At this moment Henry knocked. Grégoire opened the door and led the horse to the stable, while the traveller entered, stamping on the floor as if to warm his benumbed feet.
"Maître La Hurière," said La Mole, as he continued to write, "here is a gentleman asking for you."
La Hurière advanced, looked at Henry from head to foot, and as his thick cloth mantle did not inspire the innkeeper with very great veneration:
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Well, by Heaven!" said Henry, pointing to La Mole, "monsieur has just told you; I am a gentleman from Gascony come to court."
"What do you want?"
"A room and supper."
"Humph!" said La Hurière, "have you a lackey?"
This was the question usually asked, as is well known.
"No," replied Henry, "but I hope to have one when I make my fortune."
"I do not let rooms to any one unless he has a lackey," said La Hurière.
"Even if I offered to pay you double for your supper?"
"Oh! you are very generous, worthy sir!" said La Hurière, looking suspiciously at Henry.
"Not at all, but, hoping to pass the night in your hotel, which has been highly recommended by a nobleman from my county who has been here, I invited a friend to sup with me. Have you any good wine of Arbois?"
"I have some which is better than the King of Navarre drinks."
"Good! I will pay well for it. Ah! here is my friend."
Just then the door opened and a gentleman entered older by a few years than the first, and dragging a long rapier at his side.
"Ah!" said he, "you are prompt, my young friend. For a man who has just made two hundred leagues it is something to be so punctual."
"Is this your guest?" asked La Hurière.
"Yes," said the first, going up to the young man with the rapier and shaking him by the hand, "we will have our supper now."
"Here or in your room?"
"Wherever you please."
"Maître," said La Mole to La Hurière, "rid us of these Huguenot fellows. Coconnas and I cannot say a word before them."
"Carry the supper to room No. 2, on the third floor. Upstairs, gentlemen."
The two travellers followed Grégoire, who preceded them with lights.
La Mole watched them until they had disappeared. Then turning round he saw Coconnas, whose head was thrust out of the kitchen door. Two great eyes and an open mouth gave to the latter's face a remarkable expression of astonishment.
La Mole stepped up to him.
"By Heaven!" said Coconnas, "did you see?"
"What?"
"Those two gentlemen."
"Well?"
"I would swear that it was"—
"Who?"
"Why—the King of Navarre and the man in the red cloak."
"Swear if you will, but not too loud."
"Did you recognize them too?"
"Certainly."
"What are they here for?"
"Some love affair."
"You think so?"
"I am sure of it."
"La Mole, I prefer sword-thrusts to these love affairs. I would have sworn a moment ago, now I will bet."
"What will you bet?"
"That there is some plot on hand."
"You are mad."
"I tell you"—
"I tell you that even if they are plotting it is their own affair."
"That is true. However," said Coconnas, "I no longer belong to Monsieur d'Alençon. So let them do as they see fit."
As the partridges had apparently reached the state in which Coconnas liked them, the Piedmontese, who counted on making the most of his dinner of them, called Maître la Hurière to remove them from the spit.
Meantime Henry and De Mouy were installed in their chamber.
"Well, sire," said De Mouy, when Grégoire had set the table, "have you seen Orthon?"
"No; but I found the note he left behind the mirror. The boy must have become frightened, I suppose, for Queen Catharine came in while he was there, so he went away without waiting for my answer."
"For a moment I felt somewhat anxious about him, as Dariole told me that the queen mother had had a long talk with him."
"Oh! there is no danger. The boy is clever, and although the queen mother knows his profession he will not let her find out much from him, I am sure."
"But have you seen him, De Mouy?" asked Henry.
"No, but I expect to this evening. At midnight he is to come here for me with a good petronel. He will tell me what happened as we walk along."
"And the man at the corner of the Rue des Mathurins?"
"What man?"
"The man who gave me his horse and cloak. Are you sure of him?"
"He is one of our most devoted followers. Besides, he neither knows your majesty nor why he himself was there."
"Can we discuss our affairs without fear, then?"
"Certainly. Besides, La Mole is on the watch."
"Well, sire, what says Monsieur d'Alençon?"
"Monsieur d'Alençon will not go, De Mouy. He said so positively. The election of D'Anjou to the throne of Poland and the king's illness have changed his mind."
"So he is the one who spoiled our plan?"
"Yes."
"Has he betrayed us?"
"Not yet; but he will do so at the first opportunity."
"Coward! traitor! Why did he not answer my letters?"
"In order to have proofs against you, and none against himself. Meantime, all is lost, is it not, De Mouy?"
"On the contrary, sire, all is won. You know that the whole party, except the faction of the Prince de Condé, was for you, and used the duke, with whom it seemed to have relations, only as a safeguard. Well, since the day of the ceremony I have arranged so that everything is for you. One hundred men were enough to escape with the Duc d'Alençon; I have raised fifteen hundred. In one week they will be ready and drawn up on the road to Pau. It will not be a flight but a retreat. Fifteen hundred men will suffice, sire, will they not? Shall you feel safe with such an army?"
Henry smiled and touched him on the shoulder.
"You know, De Mouy," said he, "and you alone know it, that Henry of Navarre is not naturally such a coward as is supposed."
"Yes, I know that, sire; and I trust before long that all France will know it too."
"But where one plots one must succeed. The first condition of success is decision; and for decision to be rapid, frank, and to the point, one must be sure of success."
"Well, sire, what days do you hunt?"
"Every week or ten days we either hunt or hawk."
"When did you hunt last?"
"To-day."
"Then a week or ten days from now you will hunt again?"
"No doubt; possibly before then."
"Listen, sire; everything seems perfectly quiet. The Duc d'Anjou has left; no one thinks of him. The King is getting better every day. The persecution against us has almost ceased. Play the amiable with the queen mother and Monsieur d'Alençon; keep telling him that you cannot go without him, and try to make him believe you, which is more difficult."
"Do not worry, he will believe me."
"Do you think he has such confidence in you?"
"No, God forbid, but he believes everything the queen says."
"And is the queen true to us?"
"Oh! I have proof of it. Besides, she is ambitious and is dying for this far-off crown of Navarre."
"Well! three days before the hunt send me word where it will take place—whether it is to be at Bondy, at Saint Germain, or at Rambouillet. Monsieur de la Mole will ride ahead of you; follow him, and ride fast. Once out of the forest if the queen mother wants you she will have to run after you; and I trust that her Norman horses will not see even the hoofs of our Barbary steeds and our Spanish ponies."
"Agreed, De Mouy."
"Have you any money, sire?"
Henry made the same grimace he made all his life at this question.
"Not much," said he; "but I think Margot has some."
"Well! whether it is yours or hers, bring as much as you can."
"And in the meantime what are you going to do?"
"Having paid some attention to your majesty's affairs, as you see, will your majesty permit me to devote a little time to my own?"
"Certainly, De Mouy, certainly, but what are yours?"
"Yesterday Orthon told me (he is a very intelligent boy, whom I recommend to your majesty) that he met that scoundrel of a Maurevel near the arsenal, that thanks to Réné he has recovered, and that he was warming himself in the sun like the snake that he is."
"Ah, yes, I understand," said Henry.
"Very good, then. You will be king some day, sire, and if you have anything such as I have to avenge you can do so in a kingly way. I am a soldier and must avenge myself like a soldier. So while all our little affairs are being arranged, which will give that scoundrel five or six days in which to recover more fully, I too shall take a stroll around the arsenal, and I will pin him to the grass with four blows of my rapier, after which I shall leave Paris with a lighter heart."
"Attend to your affairs, my friend, by all means," said the Béarnais. "By the way, you are pleased with La Mole, are you not?"
"Yes; he is a charming fellow, devoted to you body and soul, sire, and on whom you can depend as you can on me—brave"—
"And above all, discreet. So he must follow us to Navarre, De Mouy; once there we will look about and see what we can do to recompense him."
As Henry concluded these words with a sly smile, the door opened or rather was broken in, and the man they had just been praising appeared, pale and agitated.
"Quick, sire," cried he; "quick, the house is surrounded."
"Surrounded!" cried Henry, rising; "by whom?"
"By the King's guards."
"Oh!" said De Mouy, drawing his pistols from his belt, "we are to have a battle, apparently."
"Well," said La Mole, "you may well talk of pistols and battle, but what can you do against fifty men?"
"He is right," said the king; "and if there were any means of escape"—
"There is one which has already been of use to me, and if your majesty will follow me"—
"And De Mouy?"
"And De Mouy too if he wishes, but you must be quick."
Steps were heard on the stairs.
"It is too late," said Henry.
"Ah! if any one would only engage them for five minutes," cried La Mole, "I would save the king."
"Save him, then, monsieur," said De Mouy; "I will look after them. Go, sire, go."
"But what shall you do?"
"Do not fear, sire, but go."
And De Mouy began by hiding the king's plate, napkin, and goblet, so that it might seem as though he had been alone at table.
"Come, sire, come," cried La Mole, seizing the king by the arm and dragging him towards the stairway.
"De Mouy, my brave De Mouy!" exclaimed Henry, holding out his hand to the young man.
De Mouy kissed the hand, pushed Henry from the room, and closed and bolted the door after him.
"Yes, I understand," said Henry, "he will be caught, while we escape; but who the devil can have betrayed us?"
"Come, sire, come. They are on the stairs."
In fact, the light of the torches was beginning to be seen on the wall, while at the foot of the stairs sounds like the clanking of swords were heard.
"Quick, quick, sire!" cried La Mole.
And, guiding the king in the darkness, he ascended two flights, pushed open a door, which he locked behind him, and, opening the window of a closet:
"Sire," said he, "is your majesty very much afraid of a walk across the roofs?"
"I?" said Henry, "come, now; am I not a chamois hunter?"
"Well, your majesty must follow me. I know the way and will guide you."
"Go on," said Henry, "I will follow."
La Mole stepped out, went along the ledge, which formed a sort of gutter, at the end of which they came to a depression between two roofs. In this way they reached an open window leading to an empty garret.
"Sire," said La Mole, "here we are at the opening."
"Ah! so much the better," said Henry, wiping the perspiration from his pale face.
"Now," said La Mole, "it will be easier: this garret opens on to a stairway, the stairway leads to an alley, and the alley to the street. I travelled the same road, sire, on a much more terrible night than this."
"Go on, go on," said Henry.
La Mole sprang through the open window, reached the unlocked door, opened it, came to a winding stairway, and placing in the king's hand the cord that served as a baluster:
"Come, sire," said he.
Half way down the stairs Henry stopped. He was before a window which overlooked the courtyard of theBelle Étoile. On the opposite stairway soldiers were seen running, some carrying swords, others torches.
Suddenly in the midst of a group the King of Navarre perceived De Mouy. He had surrendered his sword and was quietly descending the stairs.
"Poor fellow," said Henry, "so brave and devoted!"
"Faith, sire," said La Mole, "your majesty is right. He certainly does seem calm; and see, he even laughs! It must be that he is planning some scheme, for you know he seldom laughs."
"And the young man who was with you?"
"Monsieur de Coconnas?" asked La Mole.
"Yes; what has become of him?"
"Oh! sire, I am not anxious about him. On seeing the soldiers he said only one word to me: 'Do we risk anything?'
"'Our heads,' I answered.
"'Can you escape?'
"'I hope so.'
"'Well, I can too,' he replied. And I promise you he will! Sire, when Coconnas is caught it will be because he wishes to be caught."
"Then," said Henry, "all is well. Let us try to get back to the Louvre."
"That will be easy enough, sire," said La Mole. "Let us wrap ourselves in our cloaks and start. The street is full of people running to see the commotion, and we shall be taken for spectators."
The gate was open and Henry and La Mole encountered no obstacle beyond the crowds in the street.
They reached the Rue d'Avernon; but in passing by the Rue Poulies they saw De Mouy and his escort cross the Place Saint Germain l'Auxerrois, led by the captain of the guards, Monsieur de Nancey.
"Ah!" said Henry, "they are taking him to the Louvre, apparently. The devil! the gates will be closed. They will take the names of all those who enter, and if I am seen returning after him they will think I have been with him."
"Well! but, sire," said La Mole, "enter some other way than by the gate."
"How the devil do you mean?"
"Well, sire, there is the Queen of Navarre's window."
"Ventre saint gris, Monsieur de la Mole," said Henry, "you are right. I never thought of that! But how can I attract the attention of the queen?"
"Oh," said La Mole, bowing with an air of respectful gratitude, "your majesty throws stones so well!"
This time Catharine had taken such precautions that she felt sure of her object.
Consequently, about ten o'clock she sent away Marguerite, thoroughly convinced, as was the case, that the Queen of Navarre was ignorant of the plot against her husband, and went to the King, begging him not to retire so early.
Mystified by the air of triumph which, in spite of her usual dissimulation, appeared on his mother's face, Charles questioned Catharine, who merely answered:
"I can say only one thing to your Majesty: that this evening you will be freed from two of your bitterest enemies."
Charles raised his eyebrows like a man who says to himself:
"That is well; we shall see;" and whistling to his great boar-hound, who came to him dragging his belly along the ground like a serpent to lay his fine and intelligent head on his master's knee, he waited. At the end of a few minutes, during which Catharine sat with eyes and ears alert, a pistol-shot was heard in the courtyard of the Louvre.
"What is that noise?" asked Charles, frowning, while the hound sprang up and pricked his ears.
"Nothing except a signal," said Catharine; "that is all."
"And what is the meaning of the signal?"
"It means that from this moment, sire, your one real enemy can no longer injure you."
"Have they killed a man?" asked Charles, looking at his mother with that look of command which signifies that assassination and mercy are two inherent attributes of royal power.
"No, sire, they have only arrested two."
"Oh!" murmured Charles, "always hidden plots, always conspiracies around the King. And yet, the devil! mother, I am grown up, and big enough to look out for myself. I need neither leading-strings nor padded caps. Go to Poland with your son Henry if you wish to reign; I tell you you are wrong to play this kind of game here."
"My son," said Catharine, "this is the last time I shall meddle with your affairs. But the enterprise in which you have always thwarted me was begun long ago, and I have earnestly endeavored to prove to your Majesty that I am right."
At that moment several men stopped in the outer hall and the butt-ends of muskets were heard on the pavement. Almost at the same instant Monsieur de Nancey begged an audience of the King.
"Let him enter," said Charles, hastily.
Monsieur de Nancey appeared, saluted the King, and turning to Catharine said:
"Madame, your majesty's orders are executed; he is captured."
"Whathe?" cried Catharine, greatly troubled. "Have you arrested only one?"
"He was alone, madame."
"Did he defend himself?"
"No, he was supping quietly in a room, and gave up his sword the moment it was demanded."
"Who?" asked the King.
"You shall see," said Catharine. "Bring in the prisoner, Monsieur de Nancey."
Five minutes later De Mouy was there.
"De Mouy!" cried the King; "what is the matter now, monsieur?"
"Well, sire," said De Mouy, with perfect composure, "if your Majesty will allow me the liberty, I will ask the same of you."
"Instead of asking this question of the King," said Catharine, "have the kindness, Monsieur de Mouy, to tell my son who was the man found in the chamber of the King of Navarre a certain night, and who on that night resisted the orders of his Majesty like the rebel that he is, killed two guards, and wounded Monsieur de Maurevel?"
"Yes," said Charles, frowning, "do you know the name of that man, Monsieur de Mouy?"
"Yes, sire; does your Majesty wish to hear it?"
"That will please me, I admit."
"Well, sire, he is called De Mouy de Saint Phale."
"It was you?"
"It was I."
Catharine, astonished at this audacity, recoiled a step.
"How did you dare resist the orders of the King?" asked Charles.
"In the first place, sire, I did not know that there was an order from your Majesty; then I saw only one thing, or rather one man, Monsieur de Maurevel, the assassin of my father and of the admiral. I remembered that a year and a half ago, in the very room in which we now are, on the evening of the 24th of August, your Majesty promised me to avenge us on the murderer, and as since that time very grave events have occurred I thought that in spite of himself the King had changed his mind. Seeing Maurevel within reach, I believed Heaven had sent him to me. Your Majesty knows the rest. Sire, I sprang upon him as upon an assassin and fired at his men as I would have fired at bandits."
Charles made no reply. His friendship for Henry had for some time made him look at many things in a different light from which he had at first seen them, and more than once with terror.
In regard to Saint Bartholomew the queen mother had registered in her memory remarks which had fallen from her son's lips and which resembled remorse.
"But," observed Catharine, "what were you doing at that hour in the apartments of the King of Navarre?"
"Oh!" replied De Mouy, "it is a long story, but if his Majesty has the patience to listen"—
"Yes," said Charles; "speak, I wish to hear it."
"I will obey, sire," said De Mouy, bowing.
Catharine sat down, fixing an anxious look on the young chief.
"We are listening," said Charles. "Here, Actéon!"
The dog resumed the place he had occupied before the prisoner had been admitted.
"Sire," said De Mouy, "I came to his majesty the King of Navarre as the deputy of our brethren, your faithful subjects of the reformed religion."
Catharine signed to Charles IX.
"Be quiet, mother," said the latter. "I do not lose a word. Go on, Monsieur de Mouy, go on; why did you come?"
"To inform the King of Navarre," continued Monsieur de Mouy, "that his abjuration had lost for him the confidence of the Huguenot party; but that, nevertheless, in remembrance of his father, Antoine de Bourbon, and especially on account of his mother, the courageous Jeanne d'Albret, whose name is dear among us, the followers of the reformed religion owed him this mark of deference, to beg him to desist from his claims to the crown of Navarre."
"What did he say?" asked Catharine, unable in spite of her self-control to receive this unexpected blow calmly.
"Ah! ah!" said Charles, "and yet this crown of Navarre, which without my permission has been made to jump from head to head, seems to belong a little to me."
"The Huguenots, sire, recognize better than any one the principle of sovereignty to which your Majesty has just referred. Therefore they hope to induce your Majesty to place the crown on a head that is dear to you."
"To me!" said Charles; "on a head that is dear to me! The devil! what head do you mean, monsieur? I do not understand."
"On the head of Monsieur le Duc d'Alençon."
Catharine became as pale as death, and gave De Mouy a flashing glance.
"Did my brother D'Alençon know this?"
"Yes, sire."
"And did he accept the crown?"
"Subject to the consent of your Majesty, to whom he referred us."
"Ah!" said Charles, "it is a crown which would suit our brother D'Alençon wonderfully well. And I never thought of it! Thanks, De Mouy, thanks! When you have such ideas you will always be welcome at the Louvre."
"Sire, you would long since have been informed of this project had it not been for that unfortunate affair of Maurevel's, which made me afraid I had fallen into disgrace with your Majesty."
"Yes, but what did Henry say to this plan?" asked Catharine.
"The King of Navarre, madame, yielded to the desire of his brethren, and his renunciation was ready."
"In that case," said Catharine, "you must have the renunciation."
"It happens that I have it with me, madame, signed by him and dated."
"Dated previous to the affair in the Louvre?" said Catharine.
"Yes, the evening before, I think."
De Mouy drew from his pocket an abdication in favor of the Duc d'Alençon, written and signed in Henry's hand, and bearing the date indicated.
"Faith, yes," said Charles, "and all is in due form."
"What did Henry demand in return for this renunciation?"
"Nothing, madame; the friendship of King Charles, he told us, would amply repay him for the loss of a crown."
Catharine bit her lips in anger and wrung her beautiful hands.
"All this is perfectly correct, De Mouy," said the King.
"Then," said the queen mother, "if everything was settled between you and the King of Navarre, what was the object of your interview with him this evening?"
"I, madame! with the King of Navarre?" said De Mouy. "Monsieur de Nancey, who arrested me, will bear witness that I was alone. Your majesty can ask him."
"Monsieur de Nancey!" called the King.
The captain of the guards entered.
"Monsieur de Nancey," said Catharine, quickly, "was Monsieur de Mouy entirely alone at the inn of theBelle Étoile?"
"In the room, yes, madame; in the hostelry, no."
"Ah!" said Catharine, "who was his companion?"
"I do not know if he was the companion of Monsieur de Mouy, madame, but I know that a man escaped by a back door after having stretched two of my men on the floor."
"And you recognized this gentleman, no doubt?"
"No, I did not, but my guards did."
"Who was he?" asked Charles IX.
"Monsieur le Comte Annibal de Coconnas."
"Annibal de Coconnas!" exclaimed the King, gloomy and thoughtful; "the one who made such a terrible slaughter of the Huguenots during the massacre of Saint Bartholomew?"
"Monsieur de Coconnas, a gentleman in the suite of Monsieur d'Alençon," said Monsieur de Nancey.
"Very good," said Charles IX. "You may go, Monsieur de Nancey, and another time, remember one thing."
"What is it, sire?"
"That you are in my service, and that you are to obey no one but me."
Monsieur de Nancey withdrew backwards, bowing respectfully.
De Mouy smiled ironically at Catharine.
There was an instant's silence. The queen twisted the tassels of her girdle; Charles caressed his dog.
"But what was your intention, monsieur?" continued Charles; "were you acting violently?"
"Against whom, sire?"
"Why, against Henry, or François, or myself."
"Sire, we have the renunciation of your brother-in-law, the consent of your brother; and, as I have had the honor of telling you, we were on the point of soliciting your Majesty's sanction when that unfortunate affair occurred at the Louvre."
"Well, mother," said Charles, "I see nothing wrong in all this. You were right, Monsieur de Mouy, in asking for a king. Yes, Navarre may and ought to be a separate kingdom. Moreover, it seems made expressly to give to my brother D'Alençon, who has always had so great a desire for a crown that when we wear ours he cannot keep his eyes off of it. The only thing which stood in the way of this coronation was Henriot's rights; but since Henriot voluntarily abdicates"—
"Voluntarily, sire."
"It seems that it is the will of God! Monsieur de Mouy, you are free to return to your brethren, whom I have chastised somewhat roughly, perhaps, but that is between God and myself. Tell them that since they desire to have my brother d'Alençon for King of Navarre the King of France accedes to their wishes. From this moment Navarre is a kingdom, and its sovereign is called François. I ask only eight days for my brother to leave Paris with the brilliancy and pomp befitting a king. Now go, Monsieur de Mouy, go! Monsieur de Nancey, allow Monsieur de Mouy to pass; he is free."
"Sire," said De Mouy, advancing a step, "will your Majesty permit me?"
"Yes," said the King, and he extended his hand to the young Huguenot.
De Mouy knelt and kissed the King's hand.
"By the way," said Charles, detaining him as he was about to rise, "did you not demand from me justice on that scoundrel of a Maurevel?"
"Yes, sire."
"I do not know where he is, as he is hiding; but if you meet him, take justice into your own hands. I authorize you to do this and gladly."
"Ah! sire," cried De Mouy, "your Majesty overwhelms me. Your Majesty may rely on me. I have no idea where he is, but I will find him, you may rest assured."
De Mouy respectfully saluted King Charles and Queen Catharine, and withdrew without hindrance from the guards who had brought him thither. He passed rapidly through the corridors, reached the gate, and once outside hurried to Place Saint Germain l'Auxerrois, to the inn of theBelle Étoile. Here he found his horse, thanks to which, three hours after the scene we have just described, the young man breathed in safety behind the walls of Mantes.
Catharine, consumed with rage, returned to her apartments, whence she passed into those of Marguerite.
She found Henry there in his dressing-gown, apparently ready for bed.
"Satan!" she murmured, "aid a poor queen for whom God will do nothing more!"
"Ask Monsieur d'Alençon to come to me," said Charles as he dismissed his mother.
Monsieur de Nancey, in accordance with the remark of the King that henceforth he was to obey him alone, hastened to the duke's apartments and delivered word for word the order he had just received.
The Duc d'Alençon gave a start. He had always feared Charles, and now more than ever since by conspiring he had reason to be afraid.
Nevertheless, he went to his brother in all haste.
Charles was standing up, whistling a hunting-song.
As he entered, the Duc d'Alençon caught from the glassy eye of the King one of those bitter looks of hatred which he knew so well.
"Your Majesty has sent for me," said he. "Here I am; what does your Majesty desire?"
"I desire to tell you, my good brother, that as a reward for the great friendship you bear me I have decided to-day to do for you the thing you most want."
"For me?"
"Yes, for you. Think what for some time you have been dreaming of, without daring to ask it of me, and I will give it to you."
"Sire," said François, "I swear to you that I desire nothing but the continued good health of the King."
"In that case you will be glad to know, D'Alençon, that the indisposition I experienced at the time the Poles arrived has passed by. Thanks to Henriot, I escaped a furious wild boar, which would have ripped me open, and I am so well that I do not envy the most healthy man in my kingdom. Without being an unkind brother you can, therefore, ask for something besides the continuation of my health, which is excellent."
"I want nothing, sire."
"Yes, yes, François," said Charles, impatiently, "you desire the crown of Navarre, since you have had an understanding with Henriot and De Mouy,—with the first, that he would abdicate; with the second, that he would give it to you. Well! Henriot renounces it! De Mouy has told me of your wish, and this crown for which you are ambitious"—
"Well?" asked D'Alençon in a trembling voice.
"Well, the devil! it is yours."
D'Alençon turned frightfully pale; then suddenly the blood rushed from his heart, which almost burst, flowed to his face, and his cheeks became suffused with a burning flush. The favor the King granted him at that moment threw him into despair.
"But, sire," said he, trembling with emotion and trying in vain to recover his self-possession, "I never desired and certainly never asked for such a thing."
"That is possible," said the King, "for you are very discreet, brother; but it has been desired and asked for you."
"Sire, I swear to you that never"—
"Do not swear."
"But, sire, are you going to exile me, then?"
"Do you call this exile, François? Plague it, you are hard to please! What better do you hope for?"
D'Alençon bit his lips in despair.
"Faith!" continued Charles, affecting kindness, "I did not think you were so popular, François, especially with the Huguenots. But they have sought you, and I have to confess to myself that I was mistaken. Besides, I could ask nothing better than to have one of my family—my brother who loves me and who is incapable of betraying me—at the head of a party which for thirty years has made war against us. This will quell everything as if by enchantment, to say nothing of the fact that we shall all be kings in the family. There will be no one except poor Henriot who will be nothing but my friend. But he is not ambitious and he shall take this title which no one else claims."
"Oh, sire! you are mistaken. I claim this title, and who has a better right to it than I? Henry is only your brother by marriage. I am your brother by blood, and more than this, my love—Sire, I beg you, keep me near you."
"No, no, François," replied Charles; "that would be to your unhappiness."
"How so?"
"For many reasons."
"But, sire, shall you ever find as faithful a companion as I am? From my childhood I have never left your Majesty."
"I know that very well; and sometimes I have wished you farther away."
"What does your Majesty mean?"
"Nothing, nothing; I understand myself. Oh, what fine hunts you will have there, François! How I envy you! Do you know that in those devilish mountains they hunt the bear as here we do the wild boar? You will send us all such magnificent skins! They hunt there with a dagger, you know; they wait for the animal, excite him, irritate him; he advances towards the hunter, and when within four feet of him he rises on his hind legs. It is then that they plunge the steel into his heart as Henry did to the boar at our last hunt. It is dangerous sport, but you are brave, François, and the danger will be a real pleasure for you."
"Ah! your Majesty increases my grief, for I shall hunt with you no more."
"By Heaven! so much the better!" said the King. "It helps neither of us to hunt together."
"What does your Majesty mean?"
"That hunting with me causes you such pleasure and rouses in you such emotion that you who are the personification of skill, you who with any musket can bring down a magpie a hundred feet away, the last time we hunted together failed at twenty paces to hit a wild boar; but with your weapon, a weapon, too, with which you are familiar, you broke the leg of my best horse. The devil, François, that makes one reflect, you know!"
"Oh! sire, pardon me, it was from emotion," said D'Alençon, who had become livid.
"Yes," replied Charles, "I can well imagine what the emotion was; and it is on account of this emotion that I realize all that it means when I say to you: 'Believe me, François, when one has such emotions it is best for us to hunt at a distance from each other. Think about it, brother, not while you are with me, because I can see my presence troubles you, but when you are alone, and you will see that I have every reason to fear that in another hunt you might be seized with another emotion. There is nothing like emotion for causing the hand to rise, and you might kill the rider instead of the horse, the king instead of the beast. Plague it, a bullet aimed too high or too low changes an entire government. We have an example of this in our own family. When Montgommery killed our father, Henry II., by accident—emotion, perhaps—the blow placed our brother, François II., on the throne and sent our father Henry to Saint Denis. So little is necessary for Providence to effect much!"
The duke felt the perspiration running down his face at this attack, as formidable as it was unforeseen.
It would have been impossible for the King to show more clearly that he had surmised all. Veiling his anger under a jesting manner, Charles was perhaps more terrible than as if he had let himself pour forth the lava of hate which was consuming his heart; his vengeance seemed in proportion to his rancor. As the one grew sharper, the other increased, and for the first time D'Alençon felt remorse, or rather regret for having meditated a crime which had not succeeded. He had sustained the struggle as long as he could, but at this final blow he bent his head, and Charles saw dawning in his eyes that devouring fire which in beings of a tender nature ploughs the furrow from which spring tears.
But D'Alençon was one of those who weep only from anger. Charles fixed on him his vulture gaze, watching the feelings which succeeded one another across the face of the young man, and all those sensations appeared to him as accurately, thanks to the deep study he had made of his family as if the heart of the duke had been an open book.
He left him a moment, crushed, motionless, and mute; then in a voice stamped with the firmness of hatred:
"Brother," said he, "we have declared to you our resolution; it is immutable. You will go."
D'Alençon gave a start, but Charles did not appear to notice it, and continued:
"I wish Navarre to be proud of having for king a brother of the King of France. Gold, power, honor, all that belongs to your birth you shall have, as your brother Henry had, and like him," he added, smiling, "you will bless me from afar. But no matter, blessings know no distance."
"Sire"—
"Accept my decision, or rather, resign yourself. Once king, we shall find a wife for you worthy of a son of France, and she, perhaps, may bring you another throne."
"But," said the Duc d'Alençon, "your Majesty forgets your good friend Henry."
"Henry! but I told you that he did not want the throne of Navarre! I told you he had abdicated in favor of you! Henry is a jovial fellow, and not a pale-face like you. He likes to laugh and amuse himself at his ease, and not mope, as we who wear crowns are condemned to do."
D'Alençon heaved a sigh.
"Your Majesty orders me then to occupy myself"—
"No, not at all. Do not disturb yourself at all; I will arrange everything; rely on me, as on a good brother. And now that everything is settled, go. However, not a word of our conversation to your friends. I will take measures to give publicity to the affair very soon. Go now, François."
There was nothing further to be said, so the duke bowed and withdrew, rage in his heart.
He was very anxious to find Henry and talk with him about all that had just taken place; but he found only Catharine. As a matter of fact, Henry wished to avoid the interview, whereas the latter sought for it.
On seeing Catharine the duke swallowed his anger and strove to smile. Less fortunate than Henry of Anjou, it was not a mother he sought in Catharine, but merely an ally. He began therefore by dissimulation, for in order to make good alliances it is necessary for each party to be somewhat deceived.
He met Catharine with a face on which there remained only a slight trace of anxiety.
"Well, madame," said he, "here is great news; have you heard it?"
"I know that there is a plan on hand to make a king of you, monsieur."
"It is a great kindness on the part of my brother, madame."
"Is it not?"
"And I am almost tempted to believe that I owe a part of my gratitude to you; for it was really you who advised Charles to make me the present of a throne; it is to you I owe it. However, I will confess that, at heart, it gives me pain thus to rob the King of Navarre."
"You love Henriot very much, apparently."
"Why, yes; we have been intimate for some time."
"Do you think he loves you as much as you love him?"
"I hope so, madame."
"Such a friendship is very edifying; do you know it? especially between princes. Court friendships mean very little, François."
"Mother, you must remember we are not only friends, but almost brothers."
Catharine smiled a strange smile.
"Ah," said she, "are there brothers among kings?"
"Oh! as to that, neither of us was a king, mother, when our intimacy began. Moreover, we never expected to be kings; that is why we loved each other."
"Yes, but things are changed."
"How changed?"
"Why, who can say now whether both of you will not be kings?"
From the nervous start of the duke and the flush which rose to his brow Catharine saw that the arrow aimed by her had hit the mark.
"He?" said he, "Henriot king? And of what kingdom, mother?"
"One of the most magnificent kingdoms in Christendom, my son."
"Oh! mother," said D'Alençon, growing pale, "what are you saying?"
"What a good mother ought to say to her son, and what you have thought of more than once, François."
"I?" said the duke; "I have thought of nothing, madame, I swear to you."
"I can well believe you, for your friend, your brother Henry, as you call him, is, under his apparent frankness, a very clever and wily person, who keeps his secrets better than you keep yours, François. For instance, did he ever tell you that De Mouy was his man of business?"
As she spoke, Catharine turned a glance upon François as though it were a dagger aimed at his very soul.
But the latter had but one virtue, or rather vice,—the art of dissimulation; and he bore her look unflinchingly.
"De Mouy!" said he in surprise, as if it were the first time he had heard the name mentioned in that connection.
"Yes, the Huguenot De Mouy de Saint Phale; the one who nearly killed Monsieur de Maurevel, and who, secretly and in various disguises, is running all over France and the capital, intriguing and raising an army to support your brother Henry against your family."
Catharine, ignorant that on this point her son François knew as much if not more than she, rose at these words and started majestically to leave the room, but François detained her.
"Mother," said he, "another word, if you please. Since you deign to initiate me into your politics, tell me how, with his feeble resources, and being so slightly known, Henry could succeed in carrying on a war serious enough to disturb my family?"
"Child," said the queen, smiling, "he is supported by perhaps more than thirty thousand men; he has but to say the word and these thirty thousand men will appear as suddenly as if they sprang from the ground; and these thirty thousand men are Huguenots, remember, that is, the bravest soldiers in the world, and then he has a protector whom you neither could nor would conciliate."
"Who is that?"
"He has the King, the King, who loves him and who urges him on; the King, who from jealousy of your brother of Poland, and from spite against you, is looking about for a successor. But, blind man that you are if you do not see it, he seeks somewhere else besides in his own family."
"The King!—you think so, mother?"
"Have you not noticed how he loves Henriot, his Henriot?"
"Yes, mother, yes."
"And how he is repaid, for this same Henriot, forgetting that his brother-in-law would have shot him at the massacre of Saint Bartholomew, grovels to the earth like a dog which licks the hand that has beaten him."
"Yes, yes," murmured François, "I have already noticed that Henry is very humble with my brother Charles."
"Clever in trying to please him in everything."
"So much so that because of being always rallied by the King as to his ignorance of hawking he has begun to study it; and yesterday, yes, it was only yesterday, he asked me if I had not some books on that sport."
"Well," said Catharine, whose eyes sparkled as if an idea had suddenly come to her, "what did you answer him?"
"That I would look in my library."
"Good," said Catharine, "he must have this book."
"But I looked, madame, and found nothing."
"I will find one—and you shall give it to him as though it came from you."
"And what will come of this?"
"Have you confidence in me, D'Alençon?"
"Yes, mother."
"Will you obey me blindly so far as Henry is concerned? For whatever you may have said you do not love him."
D'Alençon smiled.
"And I detest him," continued Catharine.
"Yes, I will obey you."
"Well, the day after to-morrow come here for the book; I will give it to you, you shall take it to Henry, and"—
"And?"
"Leave the rest to Providence or to chance."
François knew his mother well enough to realize that she was not in the habit of leaving to Providence or to chance the care of friendships or hatreds. But he said nothing, and bowing like a man who accepts the commission with which he is charged, he returned to his own apartments.
"What does she mean?" thought the young man as he mounted the stairs. "I cannot see. But what I do understand in all this is that she acts like our common enemy. Well, let her go ahead."
Meantime Marguerite, through La Mole, had received a letter from De Mouy to the King of Navarre. As in politics the two illustrious allies had no secrets, she opened the letter and read it.
The letter must have interested her, for, taking advantage of the darkness which was beginning to overshadow the walls of the Louvre, Marguerite at once hurried along the secret corridor, ascended the winding stairway, and, having looked carefully about on all sides, glided on like a shadow and disappeared within the antechamber of the King of Navarre.
This room had been unguarded since the disappearance of Orthon.
This circumstance, of which we have not spoken since the reader learned of the tragic fate of poor Orthon, had greatly troubled Henry. He had spoken of it to Madame de Sauve and to his wife, but neither of them knew any more about it than he did. Madame de Sauve had given him some information from which it was perfectly clear to Henry's mind that the poor boy had been a victim of some machination of the queen mother, and that this was why he himself had been interrupted with De Mouy in the inn of theBelle Étoile. Any other than Henry would have kept silence, fearing to speak, but Henry calculated everything. He realized that his silence would betray him. One does not as a rule lose one's servitor and confidant thus, without making inquiries about him and looking for him. So Henry asked and searched even in the presence of the King and the queen mother, and of every one, from the sentinel who walked before the gate of the Louvre to the captain of the guards, keeping watch in the antechamber of the King; but all inquiry and search was in vain, and Henry seemed so affected by the circumstance and so attached to the poor absent servitor that he said he would not put another in his place until he was perfectly sure that Orthon had disappeared forever.
So the antechamber, as we have said, was empty when Marguerite reached it.
Light as were the steps of the queen, Henry heard them and turned round.
"You, madame!" he exclaimed.
"Yes," said Marguerite. "Quick! Read this!" and she handed him the open letter.
It contained these lines: