"Always so!" cried she, clasping her hands; "and this time clearer than ever; see here!"
Réné approached.
"What is the letter?" asked Catharine.
"An H," replied Réné.
"How many times repeated?"
Réné counted.
"Four," said he.
"Ay, ay! I see it! that is to say,HenryIV. Oh," she cried, flinging the knife from her, "I am accursed in my posterity!"
She was terrible, that woman, pale as a corpse, lighted by the dismal taper, and clasping her bloody hands.
"He will reign!" she exclaimed with a sigh of despair; "he will reign!"
"He will reign!" repeated Réné, plunged in meditation.
Nevertheless, the gloomy expression of Catharine's face soon disappeared under the light of a thought which unfolded in the depths of her mind.
"Réné," said she, stretching out her hand toward the perfumer without lifting her head from her breast, "Réné, is there not a terrible history of a doctor at Perugia, who killed at once, by the aid of a pomade,[7]his daughter and his daughter's lover?"
"Yes, madame."
"And this lover was"—
"Was King Ladislas, madame."
"Ah, yes!" murmured she; "have you any of the details of this story?"
"I have an old book which mentions it," replied Réné.
"Well, let us go into the other room, and you can show it me."
They left the cell, the door of which Réné closed after him.
"Has your majesty any other orders to give me concerning the sacrifices?"
"No, Réné, I am for the present sufficiently convinced. We will wait till we can secure the head of some criminal, and on the day of the execution you must arrange with the hangman."
Réné bowed in token of obedience, then holding his candle up he let the light fall on the shelves where his books stood, climbed on a chair, took one down, and handed it to the queen.
Catharine opened it.
"What is this?" she asked; "'On the Method of Raising and Training Tercels, Falcons, and Gerfalcons to be Courageous, Valiant, and always ready for Flight.'"
"Ah! pardon me, madame, I made a mistake. That is a treatise on venery written by a scientific man of Lucca for the famous Castruccio Castracani. It stood next the other and was bound exactly like it. I took down the wrong one. However, it is a very precious volume; there are only three copies extant—one belongs to the library at Venice, the other was bought by your grandfather Lorenzo and was offered by Pietro de Médicis to King Charles VIII., when he visited Florence, and the third you have in your hands."
"I venerate it," said Catharine, "because of its rarity, but as I do not need it, I return it to you."
And she held out her right hand to Réné to receive the book which she wished, while with her left hand she returned to him the one which she had first taken.
This time Réné was not mistaken; it was the volume she wished. He stepped down, turned the leaves for a moment, and gave it to her open.
Catharine went and sat down at a table. Réné placed the magic taper near her and by the light of its bluish flame she read a few lines in an undertone:
"Good!" said she, shutting the book; "that is all I wanted to know."
She rose from her seat, leaving the book on the table, but bearing away the idea which had germinated in her mind and would ripen there.
Réné waited respectfully, taper in hand, until the queen, who seemed about to retire, should give him fresh orders or ask fresh questions.
Catharine, with her head bent and her finger on her mouth, walked up and down several times without speaking.
Then suddenly stopping before Réné, and fixing on him her eyes, round and piercing like a hawk's:
"Confess you have made for her some love-philter," said she.
"For whom?" asked Réné, starting.
"La Sauve."
"I, madame?" said Réné; "never!"
"Never?"
"I swear it on my soul."
"There must be some magic in it, however, for he is desperately in love with her, though he is not famous for his constancy."
"Who, madame?"
"He, Henry, the accursed,—he who is to succeed my three sons,—he who shall one day be called Henry IV., and is yet the son of Jeanne d'Albret."
And Catharine accompanied these words with a sigh which made Réné shudder, for he thought of the famous gloves he had prepared by Catharine's order for the Queen of Navarre.
"So he still runs after her, does he?" said Réné.
"He does," replied the queen.
"I thought that the King of Navarre was quite in love with his wife now."
"A farce, Réné, a farce! I know not why, but every one is seeking to deceive me. My daughter Marguerite is leagued against me; perhaps she, too, is looking forward to the death of her brothers; perhaps she, too, hopes to be Queen of France."
"Perhaps so," re-echoed Réné, falling back into his own reverie and echoing Catharine's terrible suspicion.
"Ha! we shall see," said Catharine, going to the main door, for she doubtless judged it useless to descend the secret stair, now that she was sure that they were alone.
Réné preceded her, and in a few minutes they stood in the perfumer's shop.
"You promised me some new kind of cosmetic for my hands and lips, Réné; the winter is at hand and you know how sensitive my skin is to the cold."
"I have already provided for this, madame; and I shall bring you some to-morrow."
"You would not find me in before nine o'clock to-morrow evening; I shall be occupied with my devotions during the day."
"I will be at the Louvre at nine o'clock, then, madame."
"Madame de Sauve has beautiful hands and beautiful lips," said Catharine in a careless tone. "What pomade does she use?"
"For her hands?"
"Yes, for her hands first."
"Heliotrope."
"What for her lips?"
"She is going to try a new opiate of my invention. I was going to bring your majesty a box of it at the same time."
Catharine mused an instant.
"She is certainly a very beautiful creature," said she, pursuing her secret thoughts; "and the passion of the Béarnais for her is not strange at all."
"And she is so devoted to your majesty," said Réné. "At least I should think so."
Catharine smiled and shrugged her shoulders.
"When a woman loves, is she faithful to any one but her lover? You must have given her some philter, Réné."
"I swear I have not, madame."
"Well, well; we'll say no more about it. Show me this new opiate you spoke of, that is to make her lips fresher and rosier than ever."
Réné approached a shelf and showed Catharine six small boxes of the same shape,i.e., round silver boxes ranged side by side.
"This is the only philter she ever asked me for," observed Réné; "it is true, as your majesty says, I composed it expressly for her, for her lips are so tender that the sun and wind affect them equally."
Catharine opened one of the boxes; it contained a most fascinating carmine paste.
"Give me some paste for my hands, Réné," said she; "I will take it away with me."
Réné took the taper, and went to seek, in a private compartment, what the queen asked for. As he turned, he fancied that he saw the queen quickly conceal a box under her mantle; he was, however, too familiar with these little thefts of the queen mother to have the rudeness to seem to perceive the movement; so wrapping the cosmetic she demanded in a paper bag, ornamented with fleurs-de-lis:
"Here it is, madame," he said.
"Thanks, Réné," returned the queen; then, after a moment's silence: "Do not give Madame de Sauve that paste for a week or ten days; I wish to make the first trial of it myself."
And she prepared to go.
"Your majesty, do you desire me to accompany you?" asked Réné.
"Only to the end of the bridge," replied Catharine; "my gentlemen and my litter wait for me there."
They left the house, and at the end of the Rue de la Barillerie four gentlemen on horseback and a plain litter were waiting.
On his return Réné's first care was to count his boxes of opiates. One was wanting.
Catharine was not deceived in her suspicions. Henry had resumed his former habits and went every evening to Madame de Sauve's. At first he accomplished this with the greatest secrecy; but gradually he grew negligent and ceased to take any precautions, so that Catharine had no trouble in finding out that while Marguerite was still nominally Queen of Navarre, Madame de Sauve was the real queen.
At the beginning of this story we said a word or two about Madame de Sauve's apartment; but the door opened by Dariole to the King of Navarre closed hermetically behind him, so that these rooms, the scene of the Béarnais's mysterious amours, are totally unknown to us. The quarters, like those furnished by princes for their dependents in the palaces occupied by them in order to have them within reach, were smaller and less convenient than what she could have found in the city itself. As the reader already knows, they were situated on the second floor of the palace, almost immediately above those occupied by Henry himself. The door opened into a corridor, the end of which was lighted by an arched window with small leaded panes, so that even in the loveliest days of the year only a dubious light filtered through. During the winter, after three o'clock in the afternoon, it was necessary to light a lamp, but as this contained no more oil than in summer, it went out by ten o'clock, and thus, as soon as the winter days arrived, gave the two lovers the greatest security.
A small antechamber, carpeted with yellow flowered damask; a reception-room with hangings of blue velvet; a sleeping-room, the bed adorned with twisted columns and rose-satin curtains, enshrining aruelleornamented with a looking-glass set in silver, and two paintings representing the loves of Venus and Adonis,—such was the residence, or as one would say nowadays the nest, of the lovely lady-in-waiting to Queen Catharine de Médicis.
If one had looked sharply one would have found, opposite a toilet-table provided with every accessory, a small door in a dark corner of this room opening into a sort of oratory where, raised on two steps, stood apriedieu. In this little chapel on the wall hung three or four paintings, to the highest degree spiritual, as if to serve as a corrective to the two mythological pictures which we mentioned. Among these paintings were hung on gilded nails weapons such as women carried.
That evening, which was the one following the scenes which we have described as taking place at Maître Réné's, Madame de Sauve, seated in her bedroom on a couch, was telling Henry about her fears and her love, and was giving him as a proof of her love the devotion which she had shown on the famous night following Saint Bartholomew's, the night which, it will be remembered, Henry spent in his wife's quarters.
Henry on his side was expressing his gratitude to her. Madame de Sauve was charming that evening in her simple batiste wrapper; and Henry was very grateful.
At the same time, as Henry was really in love, he was dreamy. Madame de Sauve, who had come actually to love instead of pretending to love as Catharine had commanded, kept gazing at Henry to see if his eyes were in accord with his words.
"Come, now, Henry," she was saying, "be honest; that night which you spent in the boudoir of her majesty the Queen of Navarre, with Monsieur de la Mole at your feet, didn't you feel sorry that that worthy gentleman was between you and the queen's bedroom?"
"Certainly I did, sweetheart," said Henry, "for the only way that I could reach this room where I am so comfortable, where at this instant I am so happy, was for me to pass through the queen's room."
Madame de Sauve smiled.
"And you have not been there since?"
"Only as I have told you."
"You will never go to her without informing me?"
"Never."
"Would you swear to it?"
"Certainly I would, if I were still a Huguenot, but"—
"But what?"
"But the Catholic religion, the dogmas of which I am now learning, teach me that one must never take an oath."
"Gascon!" exclaimed Madame de Sauve, shaking her head.
"But now it is my turn, Charlotte," said Henry. "If I ask you some questions, will you answer?"
"Certainly I will," replied the young woman, "I have nothing to hide from you."
"Now look here, Charlotte," said the king, "explain to me just for once how it came about that after the desperate resistance which you made to me before my marriage, you became less cruel to me who am an awkward Béarnais, an absurd provincial, a prince too poverty-stricken, indeed, to keep the jewels of his crown polished."
"Henry," said Charlotte, "you are asking the explanation of the enigma which the philosophers of all countries have been trying to determine for the past three thousand years! Henry, never ask a woman why she loves you; be satisfied with asking, 'Do you love me?'"
"Do you love me, Charlotte?" asked Henry.
"I love you," replied Madame de Sauve, with a fascinating smile, dropping her pretty hand into her lover's.
Henry retained the hand.
"But," he went on to say, following out his thought, "supposing I have guessed the word which the philosophers have been vainly trying to find for three thousand years—at least as far as you are concerned, Charlotte?"
Madame de Sauve blushed.
"You love me," pursued Henry, "consequently I have nothing else to ask you and I consider myself the happiest man in the world. But you know happiness is always accompanied by some lack. Adam, in the midst of Eden, was not perfectly happy, and he bit into that miserable apple which imposed upon us all that love for novelty that makes every one spend his life in the search for something unknown. Tell me, my darling, in order to help me to find mine, didn't Queen Catharine at first bid you love me?"
"Henry," exclaimed Madame de Sauve, "speak lower when you speak of the queen mother!"
"Oh!" exclaimed Henry, with a spontaneity and boldness which deceived Madame de Sauve herself, "it was a good thing formerly to distrust her, kind mother that she is, but then we were not on good terms; but now that I am her daughter's husband"—
"Madame Marguerite's husband!" exclaimed Charlotte, flushing with jealousy.
"Speak low in your turn," said Henry; "now that I am her daughter's husband we are the best friends in the world. What was it they wanted? For me to become a Catholic, so it seems. Well, grace has touched me, and by the intercession of Saint Bartholomew I have become one. We live together like brethren in a happy family—like good Christians."
"And Queen Marguerite?"
"Queen Marguerite?" repeated Henry; "oh, well, she is the link uniting us."
"But, Henry, you said that the Queen of Navarre, as a reward for the devotion I showed her, had been generous to me. If what you say is true, if this generosity, for which I have cherished deep gratitude toward her, is genuine, she is a connecting link easy to break. So you cannot trust to this support, for you have not made your pretended intimacy impose on any one."
"Still I do rest on it, and for three months it has been the bolster on which I have slept."
"Then, Henry!" cried Madame de Sauve, "you have deceived me, and Madame Marguerite is really your wife."
Henry smiled.
"There, Henry," said Madame de Sauve, "you have given me one of those exasperating smiles which make me feel the cruel desire to scratch your eyes out, king though you are."
"Then," said Henry, "I seem to be imposing now by means of this pretended friendship, since there are moments when, king though I am, you desire to scratch out my eyes, because you believe that it exists!"
"Henry! Henry!" said Madame de Sauve, "I believe that God himself does not know what your thoughts are."
"My sweetheart," said Henry, "I think that Catharine first told you to love me, next, that your heart told you the same thing, and that when those two voices are speaking to you, you hear only your heart's. Now here I am. I love you and love you with my whole heart, and that is the very reason why if ever I should have secrets I should not confide them to you,—for fear of compromising you, of course,—for the queen's friendship is changeable, it is a mother-in-law's."
This was not what Charlotte expected; it seemed to her that the thickening veil between her and her lover every time she tried to sound the depths of his bottomless heart was assuming the consistency of a wall, and was separating them from each other. So she felt the tears springing to her eyes as he made this answer, and as it struck ten o'clock just at that moment:
"Sire," said Charlotte, "it is my bed-time; my duties call me very early to-morrow morning to the queen mother."
"So you drive me away to-night, do you, sweetheart?"
"Henry, I am sad. As I am sad, you would find me tedious and you would not like me any more. You see that it is better for you to withdraw."
"Very good," said Henry, "I will withdraw if you insist upon it, only,ventre saint gris! you must at least grant me the favor of staying for your toilet."
"But Queen Marguerite, sire! won't you keep her waiting if you remain?"
"Charlotte," replied Henry, gravely, "it was agreed between us that we should never mention the Queen of Navarre, but it seems to me that this evening we have talked about nothing but her."
Madame de Sauve sighed; then she went and sat down before her toilet-table. Henry took a chair, pulled it along toward the one that served as his mistress's seat, and setting one knee on it while he leaned on the back of the other, he said:
"Come, my good little Charlotte, let me see you make yourself beautiful, and beautiful for me whatever you said. Heavens! What things! What scent-bottles, what powders, what phials, what perfumery boxes!"
"It seems a good deal," said Charlotte, with a sigh, "and yet it is too little, since with it all I have not as yet found the means of reigning exclusively over your majesty's heart."
"There!" exclaimed Henry; "let us not fall back on politics! What is that little fine delicate brush? Should it not be for painting the eyebrows of my Olympian Jupiter?"
"Yes, sire," replied Madame de Sauve, "and you have guessed at the first shot!"
"And that pretty little ivory rake?"
"’Tis for parting the hair!"
"And that charming little silver box with a chased cover?"
"Oh, that is something Réné sent, sire; ’tis the famous opiate which he has been promising me so long—to make still sweeter the lips which your majesty has been good enough sometimes to find rather sweet."
And Henry, as if to test what the charming woman said, touched his lips to the ones which she was looking at so attentively in the mirror. Now that they were returning to the field of coquetry, the cloud began to lift from the baroness's brow. She took up the box which had thus been explained, and was just going to show Henry how the vermilion salve was used, when a sharp rap at the antechamber door startled the two lovers.
"Some one is knocking, madame," said Dariole, thrusting her head through the opening of the portière.
"Go and find out who it is, and come back," said Madame de Sauve. Henry and Charlotte looked at each other anxiously, and Henry was beginning to think of retiring to the oratory, in which he had already more than once taken refuge, when Dariole reappeared.
"Madame," said she, "it is Maître Réné, the perfumer."
At this name Henry frowned, and involuntarily bit his lips.
"Do you want me to refuse him admission?" asked Charlotte.
"No!" said Henry; "Maître Réné never does anything without having previously thought about it. If he comes to you, it is because he has a reason for coming."
"In that case, do you wish to hide?"
"I shall be careful not to," said Henry, "for Maître Réné knows everything; therefore Maître Réné knows that I am here."
"But has not your majesty some reason for thinking his presence painful to you?"
"I!" said Henry, making an effort, which in spite of his will-power he could not wholly dissimulate. "I! none at all! we are rather cool to each other, it is true; but since the night of Saint Bartholomew we have been reconciled."
"Let him enter!" said Madame de Sauve to Dariole.
A moment later Réné appeared, and took in the whole room at a glance.
Madame de Sauve was still before her toilet-table.
Henry had resumed his place on the couch.
Charlotte was in the light, and Henry in the shadow.
"Madame," said Réné, with respectful familiarity, "I have come to offer my apologies."
"For what, Réné?" asked Madame de Sauve, with that condescension which pretty women always use towards the world of tradespeople who surround them, and whose duty it is to make them more beautiful.
"Because long ago I promised to work for these pretty lips, and because"—
"Because you did not keep your promise until to-day; is that it?" asked Charlotte.
"Until to-day?" repeated Réné.
"Yes; it was only to-day, in fact, this evening, that I received the box you sent me."
"Ah! indeed!" said Réné, looking strangely at the small opiate box on Madame de Sauve's table, which was precisely like those he had in his shop. "I thought so!" he murmured. "And you have used it?"
"No, not yet. I was just about to try it as you entered." Réné's face assumed a dreamy expression which did not escape Henry. Indeed, very few things escaped him.
"Well, Réné, what are you going to do now?" asked the king.
"I? Nothing, sire," said the perfumer, "I am humbly waiting until your majesty speaks to me, before taking leave of Madame la Baronne."
"Come, now!" said Henry, smiling. "Do you need my word to know that it is a pleasure to me to see you?"
Réné glanced around him, made a tour of the room as if to sound the doors and the curtains with his eye and ear, then he stopped and standing so that he could embrace at a glance both Madame de Sauve and Henry:
"I do not know it," said he, thanks to that admirable instinct which like a sixth sense guided him during the first part of his life in the midst of impending dangers. Henry felt that at that moment something strangely resembling a struggle was passing through the mind of the perfumer, and turned towards him, still in the shadow, while the Florentine's face was in the light.
"You here at this hour, Réné?" said he.
"Am I unfortunate enough to be in your majesty's way?" asked the perfumer, stepping back.
"No, but I want to know one thing."
"What, sire?"
"Did you think you would find me here?"
"I was sure of it."
"You wanted me, then?"
"I am glad to have found you, at least."
"Have you something to say to me?" persisted Henry.
"Perhaps, sire!" replied Réné.
Charlotte blushed, for she feared that the revelation which the perfumer seemed anxious to make might have something to do with her conduct towards Henry. Therefore she acted as though, having been wholly engrossed with her toilet, she had heard nothing, and interrupted the conversation.
"Ah! really, Réné," said she, opening the opiate box, "you are a delightful man. This cake is a marvellous color, and since you are here I am going to honor you by experimenting with your new production."
She took the box in one hand, and with the other touched the tip of her finger to the rose paste, which she was about to raise to her lips.
Réné gave a start.
The baroness smilingly lifted the opiate to her mouth.
Réné turned pale.
Still in the shadow, but with fixed and glowing eyes, Henry lost neither the action of the one nor the shudder of the other.
Charlotte's hand had but a short distance to go before it would touch her lips when Réné seized her arm, just as Henry rose to do so.
Henry fell back noiselessly on the couch.
"One moment, madame," said Réné, with a constrained smile, "you must not use this opiate without special directions."
"Who will give me these directions?"
"I."
"When?"
"As soon as I have finished saying what I have to say to his Majesty the King of Navarre."
Charlotte opened her eyes wide, understanding nothing of the mysterious language about her, and sat with the opiate pot in one hand, gazing at the tip of her finger, red with the rouge.
Henry rose, and moved by a thought which, like all those of the young king, had two sides, one which seemed superficial, the other which was deep, he took Charlotte's hand and red as it was, made as though to raise it to his lips.
"One moment," said Réné, quickly, "one moment! Be kind enough, madame, to rinse your lovely hands with this soap from Naples which I neglected to send you at the same time as the rouge, and which I have the honor of bringing you now."
Drawing from its silver wrapping a cake of green soap, he put it in a vermilion basin, poured some water over it, and, with one knee on the floor, offered it to Madame de Sauve.
"Why, really, Maître Réné, I no longer recognize you," said Henry, "you are so gallant that you far outstrip every court fop."
"Oh, what a delicious perfume!" cried Charlotte, rubbing her beautiful hands with the pearly foam made by the scented cake.
Réné performed his office of courtier to the end. He offered a napkin of fine Frisian linen to Madame de Sauve, who dried her hands on it.
"Now," said the Florentine to Henry. "Let your mind be at rest, monseigneur."
Charlotte gave her hand to Henry, who kissed it, and while she half turned on her chair to listen to what Réné was about to say, the King of Navarre returned to his couch, more convinced than ever that something unusual was passing through the mind of the perfumer.
"Well?" asked Charlotte. The Florentine apparently made an effort to collect all his strength, and then turned towards Henry.
"Sire," said Réné to Henry, "I have come to speak of something which has been on my mind for some time."
"Perfumery?" said Henry, smiling.
"Well, yes, sire,—perfumery," replied Réné, with a singular nod of acquiescence.
"Speak, I am listening to you. This is a subject which has always interested me deeply."
Réné looked at Henry to try, in spite of his words, to read the impenetrable thought; but seeing that it was perfectly impossible, he continued:
"One of my friends, sire, has just arrived from Florence. This friend is greatly interested in astrology."
"Yes," interrupted Henry, "I know that it is a passion with Florentines."
"In company with the foremost students of the world he has read the horoscopes of the chief gentlemen of Europe."
"Ah! ah!" exclaimed Henry.
"And as the house of Bourbon is at the head of the highest, descended as it is from the Count of Clermont, the fifth son of Saint Louis, your majesty must know that your horoscope has not been overlooked."
Henry listened still more attentively.
"Do you remember this horoscope?" said the King of Navarre, with a smile which he strove to render indifferent.
"Oh!" replied Réné, shaking his head, "your horoscope is not one to be forgotten."
"Indeed!" said Henry, ironically.
"Yes, sire; according to this horoscope your majesty is to have a most brilliant destiny."
The young prince gave a lightning glance which was almost at once lost under cover of indifference.
"Every Italian oracle is apt to flatter," said Henry; "but he who flatters lies. Are there not those who have predicted that I would command armies? I!" He burst out laughing. But an observer less occupied with himself than Réné would have noticed and realized the effort of this laugh.
"Sire," said Réné, coldly, "the horoscope tells better than that."
"Does it foretell that at the head of one of these armies I shall win battles?"
"Better than that, sire."
"Well," said Henry; "you will see that I shall be conqueror!"
"Sire, you shall be king."
"Well!Ventre saint gris!" exclaimed Henry, repressing a violent beating of his heart; "am I not that already?"
"Sire, my friend knows what he promises; not only will you be king, but you will reign."
"In that case," said Henry, in the same mocking tone, "your friend must have ten crowns of gold, must he not, Réné? for such a prophecy is very ambitious, especially in times like these. Well, Réné, as I am not rich, I will give your friend five now and five more when the prophecy is fulfilled."
"Sire," said Madame de Sauve, "do not forget that you are already pledged to Dariole, and do not overburden yourself with promises."
"Madame," said Henry, "I hope when this time comes that I shall be treated as a king, and that they will be satisfied if I keep half of my promises."
"Sire," said Réné, "I will continue."
"Oh, that is not all, then?" said Henry. "Well, if I am emperor, I will give twice as much."
"Sire, my friend has returned from Florence with the horoscope, which he renewed in Paris, and which always gives the same result; and he told me a secret."
"A secret of interest to his majesty?" asked Charlotte, quickly.
"I think so," said the Florentine.
"He is searching for words," thought Henry, without in any way coming to Réné's rescue. "Apparently the thing is difficult to tell."
"Speak, then," went on the Baroness de Sauve; "what is it about?"
"It is about all the rumors of poisoning," said the Florentine, weighing each of his words separately, "it is about all the rumors of poisoning which for some time have been circulated around court." A slight movement of the nostrils of the King of Navarre was the only indication of his increased attention at the sudden turn in the conversation.
"And your friend the Florentine," said Henry, "knows something about this poisoning?"
"Yes, sire."
"How can you tell me a secret which is not yours, Réné, especially when the secret is such an important one?" said Henry, in the most natural tone he could assume.
"This friend has some advice to ask of your majesty."
"Of me?"
"What is there surprising in that, sire? Remember the old soldier of Actium who, having a law-suit on hand, asked advice of Augustus."
"Augustus was a lawyer, Réné, and I am not."
"Sire, when my friend confided this secret to me, your majesty still belonged to the Calvinist party, of which you were the chief head, and of which Monsieur de Condé was the second."
"Well?" said Henry.
"This friend hoped that you would use your all-powerful influence over Monsieur de Condé and beg him not to be hostile to him."
"Explain this to me, Réné, if you wish me to understand it," said Henry, without betraying the least change in his face or voice.
"Sire, your majesty will understand at the first word. This friend knows all the particulars of the attempt to poison Monseigneur de Condé."
"There has been an attempt to poison the Prince de Condé?" exclaimed Henry with a well-assumed astonishment. "Ah, indeed, and when was this?"
Réné looked fixedly at the king, and replied merely by these words:
"A week ago, your majesty."
"Some enemy?" asked the king.
"Yes," replied Réné, "an enemy whom your majesty knows and who knows your majesty."
"As a matter of fact," said Henry, "I think I have heard this mentioned, but I am ignorant of the details which your friend has to reveal. Tell them to me."
"Well, a perfumed apple was offered to the Prince of Condé. Fortunately, however, when it was brought to him his physician was with him. He took it from the hands of the messenger and smelled it to test its odor and soundness. Two days later a gangrene swelling of the face, an extravasation of the blood, a running sore which ate away his face, were the price of his devotion or the result of his imprudence."
"Unfortunately," replied Henry, "being half Catholic already, I have lost all influence over Monsieur de Condé. Your friend was wrong, therefore, in addressing himself to me."
"It was not only in regard to the Prince de Condé that your majesty could be of use to my friend, but in regard to the Prince de Porcian also, the brother of the one who was poisoned."
"Ah!" exclaimed Charlotte, "do you know, Réné, that your stories partake of the gruesome? You plead at a poor time. It is late, your conversation is death-like. Really, your perfumes are worth more." Charlotte again extended her hand towards the opiate box.
"Madame," said Réné, "before testing that, as you are about to do, hear what cruel results wicked men can draw from it."
"Really, Réné," said the baroness, "you are funereal this evening."
Henry frowned, but he understood that Réné wished to reach a goal which he did not yet see, and he resolved to push towards this end the conversation which awakened in him such painful memories.
"And," he continued, "you knew the details of the poisoning of the Prince de Porcian?"
"Yes," said he. "It is known that every night he left a lamp burning near his bed; the oil was poisoned and he was asphyxiated."
Henry clinched his fingers, which were damp with perspiration.
"So," he murmured, "he whom you call your friend knows not only the details of the poisoning, but the author of it?"
"Yes, and it is for this reason that he wished to ask you if you would use over the Prince of Porcian the remains of that influence and have the murderer pardoned for the death of his brother."
"Unfortunately," replied Henry, "still being half Huguenot, I have no influence over Monsieur le Prince de Porcian; your friend therefore would have done wrong in speaking to me."
"But what do you think of the intentions of Monsieur le Prince de Condé and of Monsieur de Porcian?"
"How should I know their intentions, Réné? God, whom I may know, has not given me the privilege of reading their hearts."
"Your majesty must ask yourself," said the Florentine calmly. "Is there not in the life of your majesty some event so gloomy that it can serve as a test of clemency, so painful that it is a touchstone for generosity?"
These words were uttered in a tone which made Charlotte herself tremble. It was an allusion so direct, so pointed, that the young woman turned aside to hide her blush, and to avoid meeting Henry's eyes. Henry made a supreme effort over himself; his forehead, which during the words of the Florentine wore threatening lines, unbent, and he changed the dignified, filial grief which tightened his heart into vague meditation.
"In my life," said he, "a gloomy circumstance—no, Réné, no; I remember in my youth only folly and carelessness mingled with more or less cruel necessity imposed on every one by the demands of nature and the proofs of God."
Réné in turn became constrained as he glanced from Henry to Charlotte, as though to rouse the one and hold back the other; for Charlotte had returned to her toilet to hide the anxiety caused by their conversation, and had again extended her hand towards the opiate box.
"But, sire, if you were the brother of the Prince of Porcian or the son of the Prince of Condé, and if they had poisoned your brother or assassinated your father"—Charlotte uttered a slight cry and raised the opiate to her lips. Réné saw the gesture, but this time he stopped her neither by word nor gesture; he merely exclaimed:
"In Heaven's name, sire, answer! Sire, if you were in their place what would you do?"
Henry recovered himself. With trembling hand he wiped his forehead, on which stood drops of cold perspiration, and rising to his full height, replied in the midst of the silence which until then had held Réné and Charlotte:
"If I were in their place, and if I were sure of being king, that is, sure of representing God on earth, I would act like God, I should pardon."
"Madame," cried Réné, snatching the opiate from the hands of Madame de Sauve, "madame, give me back this box; my messenger boy, I see, has made a mistake in it. To-morrow I will send you another."
The following day there was to be a hunt in the forest of Saint Germain.
Henry had ordered a small Béarnais horse to be made ready for him; that is, to be saddled and bridled at eight o'clock in the morning. He had intended giving this horse to Madame de Sauve, but he wanted to try it first. At a quarter before eight the horse was ready. On the stroke of eight Henry came down to the court-yard. The horse, proud and fiery in spite of its small size, pricked up its ears and pawed the ground. The weather was cold and a light frost covered the pavement. Henry started to cross the court-yard to the stables where the horse and the groom were waiting, when a Swiss soldier whom he passed standing sentinel at the gate presented arms and said:
"God keep his Majesty the King of Navarre."
At this wish and especially at the tone in which it was uttered the Béarnais started.
He turned and stepped back.
"De Mouy!" he murmured.
"Yes, sire, De Mouy."
"What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you."
"Why are you looking for me?"
"I must speak to your majesty."
"Unfortunately," said the king, approaching him, "do you not know you risk your head?"
"I know it."
"Well?"
"Well, I am here."
Henry turned slightly pale, for he knew that he shared the danger run by this rash young man. He looked anxiously about him, and stepped back a second time, no less quickly than he had done at first. He had seen the Duc d'Alençon at a window.
At once changing his manner Henry took the musket from the hands of De Mouy, standing, as we have said, sentinel, and while apparently measuring it:
"De Mouy," said he, "it is certainly not without some very strong motive that you have come to beard the lion in his den in this way?"
"No, sire, I have waited for you a week; only yesterday I heard that your majesty was to try a horse this morning, and I took my position at the gate of the Louvre."
"But how in this uniform?"
"The captain of the company is a Protestant and is one of my friends."
"Here is your musket; return to your duty of sentinel. We are watched. As I come back I will try to say a word to you, but if I do not speak, do not stop me. Adieu."
De Mouy resumed his measured walk, and Henry advanced towards the house.
"What is that pretty little animal?" asked the Duc d'Alençon from his window.
"A horse I am going to try this morning," replied Henry.
"But that is not a horse for a man."
"Therefore it is intended for a beautiful woman."
"Take care, Henry; you are going to be indiscreet, for we shall see this beautiful woman at the hunt; and if I do not know whose knight you are, I shall at least know whose equerry you are."
"No, my lord, you will not know," said Henry, with his feigned good-humor, "for this beautiful woman cannot go out this morning; she is indisposed."
He sprang into the saddle.
"Ah, bah!" cried d'Alençon, laughing; "poor Madame de Sauve."
"François! François! it is you who are indiscreet."
"What is the matter with the beautiful Charlotte?" went on the Duc d'Alençon.
"Why," replied Henry, spurring his horse to a gallop, and making him describe a graceful curve; "why, I have no idea,—a heaviness in the head, according to what Dariole tells me. A torpor of the whole body; in short, general debility."
"And will this prevent you from joining us?" asked the duke.
"I? Why should it?" asked Henry. "You know that I dote on a hunt, and that nothing could make me miss one."
"But you will miss this one, Henry," said the duke, after he had turned and spoken for an instant with some one unnoticed by Henry, who addressed François from the rear of the room, "for his Majesty tells me that the hunt cannot take place."
"Bah!" said Henry, in the most disappointed tone imaginable. "Why not?"
"Very important letters from Monsieur de Nevers, it seems. There is a council among the King, the queen mother, and my brother the Duc d'Anjou."
"Ah! ah!" said Henry to himself, "could any news have come from Poland?"
Then aloud:
"In that case," he continued, "it is useless for me to run any further risk on this frost. Good-by, brother!"
Pulling up his horse in front of De Mouy:
"My friend," said he, "call one of your comrades to finish your sentinel duty for you. Help the groom ungirth my horse. Put the saddle over your head and carry it to the saddler's; there is some embroidery to be done on it, which there was not time to finish for to-day. You will bring an answer to my apartments."
De Mouy hastened to obey, for the Duc d'Alençon had disappeared from his window, and it was evident that he suspected something.
In fact, scarcely had De Mouy disappeared through the gate before the Duc d'Alençon came in sight. A real Swiss was in De Mouy's place. D'Alençon looked carefully at the new sentinel; then turning to Henry:
"This is not the man you were talking with just now, is it, brother?"
"The other is a young man who belongs to my household and whom I had enter the Swiss guards. I have just given him a commission and he has gone to carry it out."
"Ah!" said the duke, as if this reply sufficed. "And how is Marguerite?"
"I am going to ask her, brother."
"Have you not seen her since yesterday?"
"No. I went to her about eleven o'clock last night, but Gillonne told me that she was tired and had gone to sleep."
"You will not find her in her room. She has gone out."
"Oh!" said Henry. "Very likely. She was to go to theConvent de l'Annonciade."
There was no way of carrying the conversation further, as Henry had seemingly made up his mind simply to answer. The two brothers-in-law therefore departed, the Duc d'Alençon to go for news, he said, the King of Navarre to return to his room.
Henry had been there scarcely five minutes when he heard a knock at the door.
"Who is it?" he asked.
"Sire," replied a voice which Henry recognized as that of De Mouy, "it is the answer from the saddler."
Henry, visibly moved, bade the young man enter and closed the door behind him.
"Is it you, De Mouy?" said he; "I hoped that you would reflect."
"Sire," replied De Mouy, "I have reflected for three months; that is long enough. Now it is time to act." Henry made a gesture of impatience.
"Fear nothing, sire, we are alone, and I will make haste, for time is precious. Your majesty can tell in a word all that the events of the year have lost to the cause of religion. Let us be clear, brief, and frank."
"I am listening, my good De Mouy," replied Henry, seeing that it was impossible for him to elude the explanation.
"Is it true that your majesty has abjured the Protestant religion?"
"It is true," said Henry.
"Yes, but is it with your lips or at heart?"
"One is always grateful to God when he saves our life," replied Henry, turning the question as he had a habit of doing in such cases, "and God has evidently saved me from this cruel danger."
"Sire," resumed De Mouy, "let us admit one thing."
"What?"
"That your abjuring is not a matter of conviction, but of calculation. You have abjured so that the King would let you live, and not because God has saved your life."
"Whatever the cause of my conversion, De Mouy," replied Henry, "I am none the less a Catholic."
"Yes, but shall you always be one? The first chance you have for resuming your freedom of life and of conscience, will you not resume it? Well! this opportunity has presented itself. La Rochelle has revolted, Roussillon and Béarn are merely waiting for one word before acting. In Guyenne every one cries for war. Merely tell me if you were forced into taking this step, and I will answer for the future."
"A gentleman of my birth is not forced, my dear De Mouy. That which I have done, I have done voluntarily."
"But, sire," said the young man, his heart oppressed with this resistance which he had not expected, "you do not remember that in acting thus you abandon and betray us."
Henry was unmoved.
"Yes," went on De Mouy, "yes, you betray us, sire, for several of us, at the risk of our lives, have come to save your honor and your liberty; we are prepared to offer you a throne, sire; do you realize this? not only liberty, but power; a throne of your own choice, for in two months you could choose between Navarre and France."
"De Mouy," said Henry, covering his eyes, which in spite of himself had emitted a flash at the above suggestion, "De Mouy, I am safe, I am a Catholic, I am the husband of Marguerite, I am the brother of King Charles, I am the son-in-law of my good mother Catharine. De Mouy, in assuming these various positions, I have calculated their opportunities and also their obligations."
"But, sire," said De Mouy, "what must one believe? I am told that your marriage is not contracted, that at heart you are free, that the hatred of Catharine"—
"Lies, lies," interrupted the Béarnais hastily. "Yes, you have been shamefully deceived, my friend; this dear Marguerite is indeed my wife, Catharine is really my mother, and King Charles IX. is the lord and master of my life and of my heart."
De Mouy shuddered, and an almost scornful smile passed over his lips.
"In that case, sire," said he dropping his arms dejectedly, and trying to fathom that soul filled with shadows, "this is the answer I am to take back to my brothers,—I shall tell them that the King of Navarre extends his hand and opens his heart to those who have cut our throats; I shall tell them that he has become the flatterer of the queen mother and the friend of Maurevel."
"My dear De Mouy," said Henry, "the King is coming out of the council chamber, and I must go and find out from him the reasons for our having had to give up so important a thing as a hunt. Adieu; imitate me, my friend, give up politics, return to the King and attend mass."
Henry led or rather pushed into the antechamber the young man, whose amazement was beginning to change into fury.
Scarcely was the door closed before, unable any longer to resist the longing to avenge himself on something in defence of some one, De Mouy twisted his hat between his hands, threw it upon the floor, and stamping on it as a bull would stamp on the cloak of the matador:
"By Heaven!" he cried, "he is a wretched prince, and I have half a mind to kill myself here in order to stain him forever with my blood."
"Hush, Monsieur de Mouy!" said a voice through a half-open door; "hush! some one besides myself might hear you."
De Mouy turned quickly and perceived the Duc d'Alençon enveloped in a cloak, advancing into the corridor with pale face, to make sure that he and De Mouy were entirely alone.
"Monsieur le Duc d'Alençon," cried De Mouy, "I am lost!"
"On the contrary," murmured the prince, "perhaps you have found what you are looking for, and the proof of this is that I do not want you to kill yourself here as you had an idea of doing just now. Believe me, your blood can in all probability be put to better use than to redden the threshold of the King of Navarre."
At these words the duke threw back the door which he had been holding half open.
"This chamber belongs to two of my gentlemen," said the duke. "No one will interrupt us here. We can, therefore, talk freely. Come in, monsieur."
"I, here, monseigneur!" cried the conspirator in amazement. He entered the room, the door of which the Duc d'Alençon closed behind him no less quickly than the King of Navarre had done.
De Mouy entered, furious, exasperated, cursing. But by degrees the cold and steady glance of the young Duc François had the same effect on the Huguenot captain as does the enchanted lake which dissipates drunkenness.
"Monseigneur," said he, "if I understand correctly, your highness wishes to speak to me."
"Yes, Monsieur de Mouy," replied François. "In spite of your disguise I thought I recognized you, and when you presented arms to my brother Henry, I recognized you perfectly. Well, De Mouy, so you are not pleased with the King of Navarre?"
"Monseigneur!"
"Come, come! tell me frankly, unless you distrust me; perhaps I am one of your friends."
"You, monseigneur?"
"Yes, I; so speak."
"I do not know what to say to your highness, monseigneur. The matter I had to discuss with the King of Navarre concerned interests which your highness would not comprehend. Moreover," added De Mouy with a manner which he strove to render indifferent, "they were mere trifles."
"Trifles?" said the duke.
"Yes, monseigneur."
"Trifles, for which you felt you would risk your life by coming back to the Louvre, where you know your head is worth its weight in gold. We are not ignorant of the fact that you, as well as the King of Navarre and the Prince de Condé, are one of the leaders of the Huguenots."
"If you think that, monseigneur, act towards me as the brother of King Charles and the son of Queen Catharine should act."
"Why should you wish me to act in that way, when I have told you that I am a friend of yours? Tell me the truth."
"Monseigneur," said De Mouy, "I swear to you"—
"Do not swear, monseigneur; the reformed church forbids the taking of oaths, and especially of false oaths."
De Mouy frowned.
"I tell you I know all," continued the duke.
De Mouy was still silent.
"You doubt it?" said the prince with affected persistence. "Well, my dear De Mouy, we shall have to be convinced. Come, now, you shall judge if I am wrong. Did you or did you not propose to my brother-in-law Henry, in his room just now," the duke pointed to the chamber of the Béarnais, "your aid and that of your followers to reinstate him in his kingdom of Navarre?"
De Mouy looked at the duke with a startled gaze.
"A proposition which he refused with terror."
De Mouy was still amazed.
"Did you then invoke your old friendship, the remembrance of a common religion? Did you even hold out to the King of Navarre a very brilliant hope, a hope so brilliant that he was dazzled by it—the hope of winning the crown of France? Come, tell me; am I well informed? Is that what you came to propose to the Béarnais?"
"Monseigneur!" cried De Mouy, "this is so true, that I now wonder if I should not tell your royal highness that you have lied! to arouse in this chamber a combat without mercy, and thus to make sure of the extinction of this terrible secret by the death of both of us."
"Gently, my brave De Mouy, gently!" said the Duc d'Alençon without changing countenance, or without taking the slightest notice of this terrible threat.
"The secret will die better with us if we both live than if one of us were to die. Listen to me, and stop pulling at the handle of your sword. For the third time I say that you are with a friend. Now tell me, did not the King of Navarre refuse everything you offered him?"
"Yes, monseigneur, and I admit it, because my avowal can compromise only myself."
"On leaving his room did you not stamp on your hat, and cry out that he was a cowardly prince, and unworthy of being your leader?"
"That is true, monseigneur, I said that."
"Ah! you did? you admit it at last?"
"Yes."
"And this is still your opinion?"
"More than ever, monseigneur."
"Well, am I, Monsieur de Mouy, I, the third son of Henry II., I, a son of France, am I a good enough gentleman to command your soldiers? Come, now; do you think me loyal enough for you to trust my word?"
"You, monseigneur! you, the leader of the Huguenots!"
"Why not? This is an epoch of conversions, you know. Henry has turned Catholic; I can turn Protestant."
"Yes, no doubt, monseigneur; so I am waiting for you to explain to me"—
"Nothing is easier; and in two words I can tell you the policy of every one. My brother Charles kills the Huguenots in order to reign more freely. My brother of Anjou lets them be killed because he is to succeed my brother Charles, and because, as you know, my brother Charles is often ill. But with me it is entirely different. I shall never reign—at least in France—as long as I have two elder brothers. The hatred of my mother and of my two brothers more than the law of nature keeps me from the throne. I have no claim to any family affection, any glory, or any kingdom. Yet I have a heart as great as my elder brother's. Well, De Mouy, I want to look about and with my sword cut a kingdom out of this France they cover with blood. Now this is what I want, De Mouy, listen: I want to be King of Navarre, not by birth but by election. And note well that you have no objection to this system. I am not a usurper, since my brother refuses your offers, and buries himself in his torpor, and pretends aloud that this kingdom of Navarre is only a myth. With Henry of Béarn you have nothing. With me, you have a sword and a name, François d'Alençon, son of France, protector of all his companions or all his accomplices, as you are pleased to call them. Well, what do you say to this offer, Monsieur de Mouy?"
"I say that it dazzles me, monseigneur."
"De Mouy, De Mouy, we shall have many obstacles to overcome. Do not, therefore, from the first be so exacting and so obstinate towards the son of a king and the brother of a king who comes to you."
"Monseigneur, the matter would be already settled if my opinion were the only one to be considered, but we have a council, and brilliant as the offer may be, perhaps even on that very account the leaders of the party will not consent to the plan unconditionally."
"That is another thing, and your answer comes from an honest heart and a prudent mind. From the way I have just acted, De Mouy, you must have recognized my honesty. Treat me, therefore, on your part as a man who is esteemed, not as a man who is flattered. De Mouy, have I any chance?"
"On my word, monseigneur, since your highness wants me to give my opinion, your highness has every chance, since the King of Navarre has refused the offer I have just made him. But I tell you again, monseigneur, I shall have to confer with our leaders."
"Do so, monsieur," replied d'Alençon. "But when shall I have an answer?"
De Mouy looked at the prince in silence. Then apparently coming to a decision:
"Monseigneur," said he, "give me your hand. I must have the hand of a son of France touch mine to make sure that I shall not be betrayed."
The duke not only extended his hand towards De Mouy, but grasped De Mouy's and pressed it.
"Now, monseigneur, I am satisfied," said the young Huguenot. "If we were betrayed I should say that you had nothing to do with it; otherwise, monseigneur, however slightly you might be concerned in the treason, you would be dishonored."
"Why do you say that to me, De Mouy, before telling me that you will bring me the answer from your leaders?"
"Because, monseigneur, asking me when you would have your answer was the same as asking me where are the leaders, and because if I said to you, 'This evening,' you would know that the chiefs were hiding in Paris." As he uttered these words, with a gesture of mistrust, De Mouy fixed his piercing glance on the false vacillating eyes of the young man.
"Well, well," said the duke, "you still have doubts, Monsieur de Mouy. But I cannot expect entire confidence from you at first. You will understand me better later. We shall be bound by common interests which will rid you of all suspicion. You say this evening, then, Monsieur de Mouy?"
"Yes, monseigneur, for time presses. Until this evening. But where shall I see you, if you please?"
"At the Louvre, here in this room; does that suit you?"
"Is this occupied?" said De Mouy, glancing at the two beds opposite each other.
"By two of my gentlemen, yes."
"Monseigneur, it seems to me imprudent to return to the Louvre."
"Why so?"
"Because if you have recognized me, others also may have as good eyes as your highness, and may recognize me. However, I will return to the Louvre if you will grant me what I am about to ask of you."
"What is that?"
"A passport."
"A passport from me found on you would ruin me and would not save you. I can do nothing for you unless in the eyes of the world we are strangers to each other; the slightest relation between us, noticed by my mother or my brother, would cost me my life. You were therefore protected by my interest for myself from the moment I compromised myself with the others, as I am now compromising myself with you. Free in my sphere of action, strong if I am unknown, so long as I myself remain impenetrable, I will guarantee you everything. Do not forget this. Make a fresh appeal to your courage, therefore. Try on my word of honor what you tried without the word of honor of my brother. Come this evening to the Louvre."
"But how do you wish me to come? I can not venture in these rooms in my present uniform—it is for the vestibules and the courts. My own is still more dangerous, since everyone knows me here, and since it in no way disguises me."
"Therefore I will look—wait—I think that—yes, here it is."
The duke had looked around him, and his eyes stopped at La Mole's clothes, thrown temporarily on the bed; that is, on the magnificent cherry-colored cloak embroidered in gold, of which we have already spoken; on a cap ornamented with a white plume surrounded by a rope of gold and silver marguerites, and finally on a pearl-gray satin and gold doublet.
"Do you see this cloak, this plume, and this doublet?" said the duke; "they belong to Monsieur de la Mole, one of my gentlemen, a fop of the highest type. The cloak was the rage at court, and when he wore it, Monsieur de la Mole was recognized a hundred feet away. I will give you the address of the tailor who made it for him. By paying him double what it is worth, you will have one exactly like it by this evening. You will remember the name of Monsieur de la Mole, will you not?"
Scarcely had the Duc d'Alençon finished making the suggestion, when a step was heard approaching in the corridor, and a key was turned in the lock.
"Who is that?" cried the duke, rushing to the door and drawing the bolt.
"By Heaven!" replied a voice from outside; "I find that a strange question. Who are you yourself? This is pleasant! I return to my own room, and am asked who I am!"
"Is it you, Monsieur de la Mole?"
"Yes, it is I, without a doubt. But who are you?"
While La Mole was expressing his surprise at finding his room occupied, and while he was trying to discover its new occupant, the Duc d'Alençon turned quickly, one hand on the lock, the other on the key.
"Do you know Monsieur de la Mole?" he asked of De Mouy.
"No, monseigneur."
"Does he know you?"
"I think not."
"In that case it will be all right. Appear to be looking out of the window."
De Mouy obeyed in silence, for La Mole was beginning to grow impatient, and was knocking on the door with all his might.
The Duc d'Alençon threw a last glance towards De Mouy, and seeing that his back was turned, he opened the door.
"Monseigneur le Duc!" cried La Mole, stepping back in surprise. "Oh, pardon, pardon, monseigneur!"
"It is nothing, monsieur; I needed your room to receive a visitor."
"Certainly, monseigneur, certainly. But allow me, I beg you, to take my cloak and hat from the bed, for I lost both to-night on the quay of the Grève, where I was attacked by robbers."
"In fact, monsieur," said the prince, smiling, himself handing to La Mole the articles asked for, "you are very poorly accommodated here. You have had an encounter with some very obstinate fellows, apparently!"
The duke handed to La Mole the cloak and the hat. The young man bowed and withdrew to the antechamber to change his clothes, paying no attention to what the duke was doing in his room; for it was an ordinary occurrence at the Louvre for the rooms of the gentlemen to be used as reception-rooms by the prince to whom the latter were attached.
De Mouy then approached the duke, and both listened for La Mole to finish and go out; but when the latter had changed his clothes, he himself saved them all further trouble by drawing near to the door.
"Pardon me, monseigneur," said he, "but did your highness meet the Count de Coconnas on your way?"
"No, count, and yet he was at service this morning."
"In that case they will assassinate me," said La Mole to himself as he went away.
The duke heard the noise of his retreating steps; then opening the door and drawing De Mouy after him:
"Watch him going away," said he, "and try to copy his inimitable walk."
"I will do my best," replied De Mouy. "Unfortunately I am not a lady's man, but a soldier."
"At all events I shall expect you in this corridor before midnight. If the chamber of my gentlemen is free, I will receive you there; if not, we will find another."
"Yes, monseigneur."
"Until this evening then, before midnight."
"Until this evening, before midnight."
"Ah! by the way, De Mouy, swing your right arm a good deal as you walk. This is a peculiar trick of Monsieur de la Mole's."