"'If this is not Mars, dread his image.'"
"'If this is not Mars, dread his image.'"
"In what does that prediction weaken the one I have told you of?" asked Catherine.
"Just wait, Madame!" said Henri: "I have somewhere the nativity which was cast for me last year. Do you remember what destiny it foretold for me?"
"Very indistinctly, Sire."
"According to that horoscope, Madame, it is written in the stars that I shall die in a duel! Surely, that would be a rare and novel experience for a king. But a duel, in my humble opinion, is not the image of Mars, but the god himself."
"What is your conclusion from that, Sire?"
"Why, this, Madame: that since all these prophecies are contradictory and inconsistent, the surest way is to have no faith in any of them. The deceitful things give one another the lie, you can see yourself."
"So your Majesty will persist in leaving the Louvre during the next few days?"
"Under any other circumstances I should be most happy, Madame, to gratify you by remaining with you; but I have promised and publicly announced that I would be present at these festivities; so I must attend them."
"At all events, Sire, you will not enter the lists, will you?"
"There, again, my pledged word requires me, to my great regret, to refuse you, Madame. But what possible danger can there be for me in these sports? I am grateful to you from the bottom of my heart for your solicitude; yet let me assure you that your fears are altogether imaginary, and that to yield to them would be to imply a false belief that danger could possibly attend this courtly, good-natured jousting, which I by no means propose to have done away with on my account."
"Sire," rejoined Catherine, "I am accustomed to give way to your will, and to-day again I resign myself, but with grief and alarm at my heart."
"You will come to the Tournelles, Madame, will you not?" said the king, kissing Catherine's hand,—"were it for no other object than to applaud my prowess with the lance and convince yourself of the absurdity of your fears."
"I will obey you to the end," replied the queen, as she withdrew.
Along with all the court, except Diane de Castro, Catherine was present at the first day's tilting, where throughout the day the king crossed lances with all comers.
"Well, Madame, the stars seem to have been mistaken," he said jokingly to the queen in the evening.
Catherine sadly shook her head.
"Alas!" said she, "the month of June is not yet at an end."
The second day, the 29th, likewise passed off equally uneventfully. Henri did not leave the lists; and his good fortune was in proportion to his daring.
"You see, Madame, that the stars proved deceptive as to this day also," he again observed to Catherine, when they returned to the Louvre.
"Ah, Sire, now I only dread the third day!" cried the queen.
The last day of the tournament, June 30, was Friday, and was intended to be the most brilliant and splendid of the three, and to bring the festivities to a fitting close.
The four challengers were—
The king, who wore a white and black favor,—the colors of Madame de Poitiers;
The Duc de Guise, who wore white and pink;
Alphonse d'Este, Duc de Ferrare, who wore yellow and red; and
Jacques de Savoie, Duc de Nemours, whose colors were black and yellow.
Says Brantôme:—
"These four princes were the most skilful knights who could be found at that time, not in France alone, but in all countries. Thus on that day they performed prodigies of valor; and it was impossible to know to whom the palm should be awarded, although the king was one of the best and most expert horsemen in his realm."
"These four princes were the most skilful knights who could be found at that time, not in France alone, but in all countries. Thus on that day they performed prodigies of valor; and it was impossible to know to whom the palm should be awarded, although the king was one of the best and most expert horsemen in his realm."
Fortune seemed to divide her favors with impartial hand among these four dexterous and renowned challengers; and as course succeeded course, and the day drew to its close, it was hard to say to which of them the honor of the tournament belonged.
Henri was throughout in an almost feverish state of excitement. He was in his element in all such sports and passages-at-arms; and he was quite as eager to be victorious on such occasions as on a real battle-field.
However, the evening came on apace, and the trumpets and clarions sounded the signal for the last course.
It was Monsieur le Duc de Guise's turn to hold the lists, and he did it in such knightly fashion as to win hearty applause from the ladies and the assembled multitude.
Then the queen, who began to breathe freely once more, rose from her seat.
It was the signal for departure.
"What! is everything over?" cried the excited and jealous king. "Wait, Mesdames, wait a moment! Is it not my turn to run a course?"
Monsieur de Vieilleville reminded the king that he had opened the lists; that the four challengers had all run the same number of courses: that they had all met with equal success, to be sure, and no one could be declared victor, but that the lists were closed and the day at an end.
"What!" retorted Henri, impatiently; "if the king is the first to enter the lists, he should be the last to leave them. I do not choose that the day should end in this way. See, there are still two unbroken lances."
"But there are no more assailants, Sire," replied Monsieur de Vieilleville.
"I beg your pardon," said the king; "do you not see that man who has kept his visor down all the time, and has not yet run? Who is it, Vieilleville?"
"Sire, I don't know,—I had not noticed him."
"Monsieur," said Henri, approaching the unknown, "you will, if you please, break this last lance with me."
The individual addressed did not reply for a moment, but at last in a deep and solemn voice, which he struggled to control, he said,—
"I beg your Majesty to allow me to decline this honor."
The tone of his voice caused Henri, without knowing why, to feel a strange uneasiness mingled with his feverish excitement.
"Allow you to decline! no, I cannot allow that, Monsieur," said he, with a gesture of nervous anger.
Then the stranger silently raised his visor.
For the third time within a fortnight, the king saw the pale and dejected countenance of Gabriel de Montgommery.
At sight of the solemn and ominous features of the young count, the king felt an involuntary tremor of surprise, perhaps of terror, which set every nerve quivering.
But he would not confess to himself, still less let others observe that first shudder, which he at once repressed. His heart reacted against his instinct; and just because he had been afraid for one second, he afterward exhibited a degree of courage which amounted to recklessness.
Gabriel said again in his slow, grave tones,—
"I implore your Majesty not to persist in your desire!"
"Nevertheless I do persist in it, Monsieur de Montgommery," the king replied.
His perception being obscured by so many contending emotions, Henri imagined that he could detect a sort of challenge in Gabriel's words, and the tone in which they were uttered. Alarmed by the sudden return of that anxious feeling which Diane de Castro had relieved temporarily, he bore up vigorously against his weakness, and determined to have done with this dastardly terror, which he deemed unworthy of himself,—Henri II., a son of France, and a king!
Therefore he said to Gabriel with a firmness that was almost overdone,—
"Make your preparations, Monsieur, to run a course against me."
Gabriel, whose whole being was in as confused and overwrought a state as that of the king, bowed without replying.
At that moment, Monsieur de Boisy, the grand equerry, approached the king and said to him that the queen had sent him to implore his Majesty to tilt no more that day for love of her.
"Say to the queen," replied Henri, "that it is just for love of her that I am going to run this one course."
Turning to Monsieur de Vieilleville, he said,—
"Come, Monsieur de Vieilleville, put on my armor at once."
In his preoccupation, he demanded from Monsieur de Vieilleville a service which was an attribute of the office of Monsieur de Boisy, the grand equerry, and Monsieur de Vieilleville in his surprise respectfully reminded him of that fact.
"To be sure!" said the king, putting his hand to his forehead. "What has become of my brains, I wonder?"
He met Gabriel's cold and statue-like glance, and continued impatiently,—
"But no, I was right. Was it not Monsieur de Boisy's place to finish his commission from the queen, by reporting my words to her? I knew perfectly well what I was doing and what I said! Give me my armor, Monsieur de Vieilleville."
"That being so, Sire," said Monsieur de Vieilleville, "and since your Majesty is absolutely determined to break one lance more, I beg to remind you that it is my turn to run against you, and I claim my right. In fact, Monsieur de Montgommery did not present himself at the opening of the lists, and only entered when he believed them closed."
"You are right, Monsieur," said Gabriel, earnestly; "and I will gladly withdraw, and give place to you."
But in the count's eagerness to shun the combat with him, the king persisted in fancying that he detected the insulting reflections of an enemy upon his courage.
"No, no!" he replied, stamping his foot on the ground. "It is against Monsieur de Montgommery and no other that I propose to run this course, and there has been enough delay! Give me my armor."
He met the count's fixed, stern gaze with a proud and haughty glance, and without more words he put his head forward that Monsieur de Vieilleville might adjust his casque.
Clearly his destiny had blinded him.
Monsieur de Savoie came to renew Catherine de Médicis's entreaties that the king would leave the field.
As Henri did not trouble himself to reply to these urgent representations, the duke added in a low tone,—
"Madame Diane de Poitiers, Sire, also asked me to warn you secretly to be on your guard against him with whom you are to dispute this bout."
At Diane's name, Henri started in spite of himself, but again he repressed his emotion.
"Shall I show myself a craven, then, before my beloved?" he asked himself.
And he maintained the dignified silence of one who is importuned to depart from an unalterable resolution.
Meanwhile, Monsieur de Vieilleville, while adjusting his armor, took occasion to say to him beneath his breath,—
"Sire, I swear by the living God that for three nights I have dreamed of nothing but that some mishap would befall you to-day, and that this last day of June would be a fatal one for you."[4]
But the king did not appear to have heard him; he was already armed, and he seized his lance.
Gabriel was handed his, and also entered the lists.
The two combatants mounted their horses and took the field.
A deep, awful silence pervaded the entire assemblage; all eyes were so intent upon the spectacle before them that breathing seemed almost to be suspended.
However, the constable and Diane de Castro being absent, every one in that vast throng, except Madame de Poitiers, was in ignorance of the fact that there were between the king and the Comte de Montgommery any causes of enmity or any wrongs to be avenged. No one clearly foreboded a bloody issue to a mock combat. The king, accustomed to these sports unattended with danger, had shown himself in the arena a hundred times within three days, under conditions which apparently differed in no respect from those existing at this moment.
And yet there was a vague sensation of something awe-inspiring and out of the common course in this adversary who had remained shrouded in mystery until the very end, in his significant reluctance to enter the lists,—likewise in the king's stubborn obstinacy; and in the face of this unknown danger, every one waited in breathless silence. Why? No one could have told. But a stranger arriving at that moment, and observing the expression on every face, would have said,—
"Some critical event is about to take place."
There was terror in the very air.
One extraordinary circumstance demonstrated clearly the sinister complexion of the thoughts of the throng.
In ordinary combats, and as long as they lasted, the clarions and trumpets never ceased their deafening flourishes. They were the very incarnation of the spirit of enjoyment that pervaded the tournament.
But when the king and Gabriel entered the lists, the trumpets suddenly, as if by common consent, were still; not a sound was to be heard from one of them, and the pervading horrified expectancy became doubly painful in that unwonted silence.
The two champions felt even more than the spectators the influence of these extraordinary tokens of disquiet which seemed to fill the air, so to speak.
Gabriel no longer thought or saw,—in fact, he hardly breathed. He went on mechanically and as if in a dream, doing by instinct what he had formerly done under similar circumstances, but guided in some measure by a secret and potent will, which surely was not his own.
The king was even more passive and lost in abstraction than he. He also seemed to have a sort of cloud before his eyes, and had the appearance of acting and moving in a mental phantasmagoria, which was neither reality nor a dream.
Every now and then a ray of light shone in upon his brain, so that he reviewed clearly and all at once the predictions which the queen had made two days before, as well as those of his horoscope, and those of Forcatel. Suddenly, by the help of some awe-inspiring gleam of intelligence, he understood the meaning and the correlation of all those ominous auguries. A cold sweat bathed him from head to foot. For an instant he felt an almost irresistible impulse to give up the combat and leave the lists; but the thousands of eyes that were gazing eagerly upon him nailed him to his place.
Moreover, Monsieur de Vieilleville was just giving the signal for the onset.
The die was cast. Forward! and God's will be done!
The two horses set off at a gallop, at that moment being more intelligent and less blinded perhaps than their riders, heavily barbed and armored.
Gabriel and the king met in the centre of the arena. Their lances came together and were shattered upon their shields, and they passed on without any other mishap.
So the presentiments of evil had been false! There was a great murmur of satisfaction uttered with one accord by all those lightened hearts. The queen cast a grateful glance toward heaven.
But their rejoicing was premature.
The horsemen were still within the lists. After having galloped each to the opposite end from that at which he had entered, they must return to their respective points of departure, and thus meet a second time.
But what danger was to be apprehended now? They would pass without coming in contact.
But whether because of his anxiety, whether it was by intention or by accident (for who besides God can tell the reason?), Gabriel, when he rode back, did not throw away, as the custom was, the broken shaft of the lance, which had been left in his hand. He carried it lowered in front of him.
As he rode along at a gallop, the shaft came in contact with Henri's head.
The visor of the casque was broken by the force of the blow, and the lance pierced the king's eye and came out at his ear.
Not more than half of the spectators, who were already rising to leave the lists, witnessed that fearful blow; but those who did gave utterance to a loud cry, which told the others.
Meanwhile Henri had let his reins drop from his hands, and clinging to his horse's neck, had reached the end of the arena, where Messieurs de Vieilleville and de Boisy were waiting to receive him.
"Ah, I am killed!" were the king's first words.
Then he muttered,—
"Let no one molest Monsieur de Montgommery! It was no more than just—I forgive him."
And with that he lost consciousness.
We will not try to depict the confusion that ensued. Catherine de Médicis was carried from the spot, half dead with grief and terror. The king was at once borne to his own apartment at the Tournelles, without regaining consciousness for an instant.
Gabriel dismounted and stood leaning against the barrier as motionless as if turned to stone, and seemingly overcome with horror at the blow he had struck.
The king's last words had been understood and repeated, and no one ventured to molest Gabriel; but every one around was whispering, and looking askance at him in awe.
Admiral de Coligny, who had been a spectator of the tournament, alone had courage to approach the young count; and as he passed by at his left side, he said to him in a low voice,—
"A terrible accident, my friend! I know well that it was all chance; our ideas and the speeches you heard, as La Renaudie has informed me, at the meeting in the Place Maubert, surely had no connection with this fatality. No matter! although you cannot be punished for what was but an accident, be on your guard. I advise you to disappear for a time, and to get away from Paris, if not from France. Rely always upon me;au revoir."
"Thanks," Gabriel replied without moving,
A mournful and feeble smile flickered about his colorless lips while the Protestant leader was speaking to him.
Coligny nodded to him, and went on.
Some moments later, the Duc de Guise, who had superintended the king's removal, also came toward Gabriel, as he was giving certain orders to the attendants.
He passed very near the young count, on the right side, and as he passed, whispered in his ear,—
"An unfortunate blow, Gabriel! But no one can blame you for it; you are only to be pitied. But just think! if any one had overheard our conversation at the Tournelles, what fearful conjectures the evil-disposed might draw from this very easily explained but very distressing accident! But it makes no difference, for I am powerful now; and I am always your friend, as you know. However, do not show yourself for a few days; but do not leave Paris,—that would be useless. If any one should dare to make a criminal accusation against you, remember what I say to you: rely upon me everywhere and always, and in any emergency."
"Thanks, Monseigneur," said Gabriel again, in the same tone, and with the same melancholy smile.
It was very clear that both the Duc de Guise and Coligny had, not an absolute conviction, but a vague suspicion, that the accident which they pretended to deplore had not been altogether unintentional. In their hearts, the religious zealot and the ambitious noble, without wishing to do violence to their respective consciences, were satisfied,—the latter that Gabriel had seized at any risk the opportunity to make himself useful to the fortune of a patron whom he adored, and the former that the fanaticism of the young Huguenot had attained sufficient strength to urge him on to deliver his oppressed brethren from their persecutor.
Therefore both felt in duty bound to say a few words to their discreet and devoted auxiliary: and that explains why they had, one after the other, approached him as we have related, and Gabriel's appreciation of their motives had made him receive their double error with that sad smile.
Meanwhile the Duc de Guise had returned to the anxious groups who were standing around. Gabriel cast a glance about him, saw the alarmed curiosity with which he was regarded, and with a deep sigh determined to leave the fatal spot.
He returned to his house in the Rue des Jardins St. Paul without molestation or question.
At the Tournelles the king's apartment was closed to everybody except the queen and their children and the surgeons who had come to the relief of the royal patient.
But Fernel and all the other doctors very soon recognized the fact that there was no hope, and that Henri II. must die.
Ambroise Paré was at Peronne, and it did not occur to the Duc de Guise to send for him.
The king lay in an unconscious state for four days.
On the fifth day he came to himself sufficiently to give some orders,—notably to command that his sister's marriage should be celebrated at once.
He saw the queen also, and made certain suggestions to her concerning his children and the affairs of the kingdom.
Then fever seized him; he became delirious, and suffered torments.
At last, on the 10th of July, 1559, on the day following that on which, in accordance with his last wish, his weeping sister Marguerite had married the Duke of Savoy, Henri II. breathed his last, after eleven long days of agony.
The same day Madame Diane de Castro took her departure, or rather her flight, for her old home,—the Benedictine convent at St. Quentin, which had been reopened after the peace of Cateau-Cambrésis.
[4]"Mémoires de Vincent Carloix," secretary to Monsieur de Vieilleville.
[4]"Mémoires de Vincent Carloix," secretary to Monsieur de Vieilleville.
For the mistress, as well as for the favorite male dependant of a king, true death comes, not with death itself, but with disgrace.
Consequently the son of the Comte de Montgommery might feel that he had taken ample vengeance for his father's horrible entombment and death upon both the constable and Diane de Poitiers, if through his instrumentality those two guilty ones should fall from power to exile, and from lofty and brilliant position to obscurity.
It was this result that Gabriel was still awaiting in the gloomy and anxious solitude of his dwelling, where he had buried himself after the fatal blow of June 30. It was not his own punishment that he dreaded, if Montmorency and his accomplice should remain in power, but he loathed the thought of their chastisement being remitted. He therefore waited.
During the eleven days that elapsed before Henri's agony was relieved by death, the Constable de Montmorency had put forth every effort to retain his share of influence in the government. He had written to all the princes of the blood, urging them to take their seats in the council of the young king. Above all, he had impressed the consequence of this proceeding upon Antoine de Bourbon, King of Navarre, the next heir to the throne after the king's brothers. He had written him to make all haste, inasmuch as the least delay would enable strangers to assume a supremacy from which they could not afterward be easily dislodged. In fact, he had sent couriers here and there in all directions, urging some and imploring others, and had omitted nothing in his vigorous attempts to form a party capable of making head against that of the Guises.
Diane de Poitiers, despite her deep affliction, had done her best to second his efforts, for her fate now was indissolubly connected with that of her old lover.
With him in power she might still reign, to good effect at all events, although not openly.
When, on the 10th of July, 1559, the eldest son of Henri II. was proclaimed king by the herald-at-arms, under the name of François II., the young prince was only sixteen; and although he had in the eyes of the law attained his majority, his youth and inexperience, as well as his feeble health, would compel him, for several years at least, to relinquish the conduct of affairs to a minister who in his name would be far more powerful than himself.
Now who should be that minister,—say rather, that tutor,—the Duc de Guise or the constable; Catherine de Médicis or Antoine de Bourbon?
That was the question of absorbing interest on the day following the death of Henri II.
On that day François II. was to receive the deputies of parliament at three o'clock. The person whose name he should present to them as that of his minister might well be saluted by them as their real sovereign.
All energies were therefore bent in that direction; and on the morning of the 12th of July Catherine de Médicis and François de Lorraine both waited upon the young king, upon the pretext that they had come to offer him their condolence, but really to whisper their advice into his ear.
The widow of Henri II., with such an important end in view, had even broken through the etiquette which required that she should remain in seclusion for forty days.
Catherine de Médicis, although slighted and cast aside by her husband, had felt for the last twelve years the first symptoms of that vast and far-reaching ambition which governed the rest of her life.
But since she could not be regent over a king who had attained his majority, her only chance was to reign by the hand of a minister who was devoted to her interests.
The Constable de Montmorency would not meet the occasion; for he had under the late reign contributed in no slight degree to the substitution of the influence of Diane de Poitiers for that which Catherine might legitimately have exercised. The queen-mother had not forgiven his actions in that regard, and thought much more seriously about chastising him for his always harsh and often cruel treatment of her.
Antoine de Bourbon would have been a more docile instrument in her hands; but he was of the Reformed religion, and his wife, Jeanne d'Albret, had her own ambition to satisfy; and then, too, his title as a prince of the blood might arouse dangerous desires in him if conjoined with the real power of a minister.
The Duc de Guise remained; but would François de Lorraine acknowledge with good grace the queen-mother's right to exercise a sort of moral authority, or would he refuse to admit anybody to a share in his power?
The last point was one on which Catherine was very anxious to be enlightened; and so she welcomed with joy the prospect of an interview in the king's presence which chance had brought about between her and the duke on the morning in question.
She determined to find or to invent opportunities to test Le Balafré, and to ascertain his disposition toward her.
But the Duc de Guise was no less expert in politics than in war, and maintained a careful watch upon himself.
This prologue to the drama took place at the Louvre, in the royal apartment where François II. had been installed the day before; and the onlydramatis personæwere the queen-mother, Le Balafré, the young king, and Mary Stuart.
François and his youthful queen contrasted with the cold and selfish ambitions of Catherine and the Duc de Guise were like two fascinating children, frankly and ingenuously in love with each other, and ready to bestow their confidence upon the first passer-by who should be adroit enough to win their hearts.
They were in sincere affliction for the death of the king their father; and Catherine found them very sad and cast down.
"My son," said she to François, "it is well for you to shed these tears to the memory of him whom you, above all others, should regret. You know that I share your bitter grief. However, you must remember that you have other duties than those of a son to fulfil. You are also a father,—the father of your people. After you have paid this fitting tribute of sorrow to the past, turn your face to the future. Remember that you are king, my son,—I should say your Majesty, to use a form of address which will remind you of your duties and your rights at the same time."
"Alas!" said François, shaking his head, "it is a very heavy burden, Madame, this sceptre of France, for the hands of sixteen years to carry; and nothing warned me to expect that my inexperienced and light-minded youth would so soon be overwhelmed with such a weighty responsibility."
"Sire," Catherine replied, "accept with resignation and gratitude the office which God lays upon you; it will be for those who surround and love you to lighten your burden to the best of their ability, and to add their efforts to your own to assist you to bear it worthily."
"Madame, I thank you," murmured the young king, much embarrassed to know what reply to make to these advances.
Mechanically he glanced toward the Duc de Guise, as if to ask the advice of his wife's uncle.
At his very first step as king, even in his mother's presence, the poor youth, with the crown on his head, seemed instinctively to appreciate the pitfalls which lay in his path.
But the Duc de Guise said, with no sign of hesitation,—
"Yes, Sire; your Majesty is right,—thank the queen, thank her with all your heart, for her kind and encouraging words. But be not content with being grateful to her; tell her boldly that among those who love you and whom you love she occupies the foremost place, and that for that reason you ought to and do rely upon her invaluable maternal co-operation in the difficult task which you have been called upon so young to undertake."
"My uncle De Guise is a faithful interpreter of my thoughts, Madame," said the delighted young king to his mother; "and even if I do not repeat his words for fear that I may weaken their force, consider them, I pray, Madame and beloved mother, as if I had myself uttered them, and vouchsafe to promise me your priceless help in my weakness."
The queen-mother had already favored the Duc de Guise with a grateful and approving glance.
"Sire," she said to her son, "the little talent that I can boast of is at your service, and I shall be proud and happy every time that you care to consult me. But I am only a woman; and you need beside your throne a defender who knows how to wield a sword. The strong arm and manly vigor that are requisite your Majesty will doubtless discover among those whose alliance and relationship make you look naturally to them for support."
Thus Catherine lost no time in paying her debt to the Duc de Guise for his fair words.
A tacit bargain was thus made between them by a single glance; but let us say at once that it was not sincerely entered into on either side, and was not destined, as we shall see, to be of long duration.
The young king understood his mother, and encouraged by a glance from Mary, held out his hand timidly to Le Balafré.
With that grasp of the hand he conferred upon him the government of France.
However, Catherine de Médicis did not choose to allow her son to bind himself prematurely, nor until the Duc de Guise had given to herself certain pledges of his goodwill.
So she anticipated the king, who would probably have gone on to confirm his confidential impulse by some formal promise, and was the first to speak.
"In any event, Sire, before you have a minister, your mother has, not a favor to ask at your hands, but a demand to make."
"Say, then, a command, Madame," replied François. "Speak, I beg you."
"Well, then, my son," Catherine continued, "I refer to a woman who has done me much harm, but has injured France even more. It is not for us to censure the failings of one who is more than ever sacred in our eyes now. But unfortunately your father is no more, Sire; his will is no longer supreme in this château; and yet this woman, whom I will not call by name, dares still to remain here, and to inflict upon me the outrage of her presence even to the end. During the king's protracted unconsciousness, it was suggested to her that it was not decent for her to remain at the Louvre. 'Is the king dead?' she asked. 'No, he still breathes.' 'Very well! none but he has the right to give orders to me.' And she had the brazen impudence to remain."
The Duc de Guise interrupted the queen-mother at this point, and hastened to say,—
"Pardon me, Madame, but I think that I know his Majesty's intentions with regard to her of whom you are speaking."
Without other preamble, he struck a bell, and a valet appeared.
"Let Madame de Poitiers be informed," said he, "that the king wishes to speak with her at once."
The valet bowed, and withdrew to carry out the order. The young monarch gave no sign whatever of surprise or dissatisfaction at seeing his authority thus taken from his hands without a word from him. The fact is that he was overjoyed at anything that tended to lessen his responsibility, and release him from the necessity of giving orders or acting as king.
However, Le Balafré thought best to give to his proceeding the sanction of royal approbation.
"I trust I do not presume too far, Sire," he continued, "in feeling confident of your Majesty's wishes touching this matter?"
"No, surely not, my dear uncle," François replied eagerly. "Go on, pray. I know beforehand that whatever you do will be well done."
"And what you say is well said, darling," whispered Mary Stuart, softly, in her husband's ear.
François blushed with pride and pleasure. For a word or a glance of approbation from his adored Mary he would, in very truth, have bartered and abandoned all the kingdoms on earth.
The queen-mother awaited with impatient curiosity the course which the Duc de Guise proposed to adopt.
She thought best, however, to add, as much to break the silence as to better signify her own purpose,—
"She whom you have sent for, Sire, may well, in my opinion, leave the Louvre in the possession of the only legitimate queen of the late king, as well as the charming queen of the present one;" here she bowed graciously to Mary Stuart. "Has not this beautiful and wealthy lady her superb royal Château d'Anet, where she can seek shelter and consolation?—a much more royal and superb establishment, certainly, than my modest dwelling of Chaumont-sur-Loire."
The Duc de Guise said nothing, but did not fail to note down that hint in his mind.
We must avow that he hated Diane de Poitiers no less bitterly than Catherine de Médicis did. For it was Madame de Valentinois who up to that time, to please the constable, had used all her influence to hinder and frustrate Le Balafré's fortune and his schemes; and she doubtless would have succeeded in relegating him forever into obscurity if Gabriel's lance had not shattered the enchantress's power when it struck down Henri II. in the prime of life.
But François de Lorraine's day of vengeance had come at last, and he knew how to hate as well as to love.
At this moment the usher announced in a loud voice,—
"Madame le Duchesse de Valentinois."
Diane de Poitiers entered, evidently in much anxiety, but with her head still erect as of yore.
Madame de Valentinois made a slight reverence to the young king, a still slighter one to Catherine de Médicis and Mary Stuart, but seemed not to see the Duc de Guise.
"Sire," said she, "your Majesty has sent me your commands to appear before you—"
She checked herself. François II., at once indignant and embarrassed by the insolent bearing of the ex-favorite, hesitated, blushed, and finally said,—
"Our uncle De Guise has consented to take it upon himself to make known our intentions with regard to you, Madame."
Diane turned slowly toward Le Balafré, and seeing the bitter, mocking smile which was playing about his lips, tried to wither him with the most imperious of her Juno-like glances.
But Le Balafré was much less easily frightened than his royal nephew.
"Madame," said he to Diane, after bestowing a profound salute upon her, "the king has noticed your sincere grief, caused by the terrible calamity which has overwhelmed us all. He is grateful to you for it. His Majesty trusts that he anticipates your dearest wish by permitting you to leave the court for a more retired spot. You are at liberty to go as soon as you find it convenient; this evening, for instance."
A tear of rage appeared in Diane's flaming eye.
"His Majesty has gratified my most earnest desire," said she. "What is there here for me to do now? I have nothing so much at heart as to withdraw to my place of exile, Monsieur, at the earliest possible moment, never fear!"
"Everything turns out for the best, then," replied the Duc de Guise, carelessly playing with the knots of his velvet cloak. "But, Madame," he added more gravely, and imparting to his words the significant accent of an order, "your Château d'Anet, which you owe to the benevolence of the late king, is something too worldly, too exposed, and too frivolous a retreat for a desolate recluse like yourself. Therefore Queen Catherine offers you in exchange for it her Château de Chaumont-sur-Loire, which is farther from Paris, and proportionately better suited to your present tastes and needs, I presume. It will be at your disposal as soon as you desire."
Madame de Poitiers very well understood that this pretended exchange was simply a mask to cover an arbitrary confiscation. But what could she do? How resist? She no longer possessed either influence or power. All her friends of the day before were her enemies of to-day. She must needs bow to fate, and she did so.
"I shall be only too happy," said she, in a hollow voice, "to offer to the queen the magnificent domain which I owe to the generosity of her royal spouse."
"I accept the reparation, Madame," said Catherine de Médicis, dryly, casting a disdainful glance at Diane, and one full of gratitude to the Duc de Guise.
In truth, it was he who presented Anet to her.
"The Château de Chaumont-sur-Loire is at your disposal, Madame," she added, "and shall be put in condition to receive its new proprietress worthily."
"And there," resumed the Duc de Guise, meeting the withering glances with which Diane was favoring him by a little harmless raillery,—"there, in peace, Madame, you may employ your leisure in resting from the weariness which has, I am informed, been caused during the last few days by your frequent correspondence and interviews with Monsieur de Montmorency."
"I did not think that I was doing a disservice to him who was then king," Diane retorted, "by conferring with the great statesman and great warrior of his reign as to whatever concerned the welfare of the kingdom."
In her eagerness to repay sharp words in kind, Madame de Poitiers did not reflect that she was thus furnishing arms against herself, and reminding Catherine de Médicis of her other enemy, the constable.
"It is true," said the relentless queen-mother: "Monsieur de Montmorency has shed the light of his glory and his good works upon two entire reigns; and it is full time, my son," she added, addressing the young king, "that you should consider how you may assure him also the honorable retirement he has so laboriously earned."
"Monsieur de Montmorency," Diane retorted bitterly, "agreed with me in anticipating such an acknowledgment and recompense of his long and arduous services. He was with me when your Majesty commanded my presence. He is probably still in my apartments, and I will seek him there, and notify him of the generous consideration that is in store for him; he should come at once to offer his gratitude to the king with his leave-taking. And he is a man, remember; he is constable, and one of the powerful noblemen of the realm! Rest assured that sooner or later he will find an opportunity to demonstrate more forcibly than by words his profound gratitude to a king so filled with pious regard for the past, and to the new advisers who show themselves such valuable assistants in the work of justice and of public interest which he has at heart."
"A threat!" said Le Balafré to himself. "The viper squirms under the heel. Oh, well, so much the better! I prefer it so!"
"The king is always ready to receive Monsieur le Connétable," observed the queen-mother, pale with rage. "And if Monsieur le Connétable has any demands to present to his Majesty's consideration, or any observations to address to him, he has but to come forward. He will be listened to, and, as you say, Madame, justice will be done!"
"I will send him hither at once," was Madame de Poitiers's defiant reply.
She again bestowed a superb bow upon the king and the two queens, and left the room, with head still erect, but wounded to her very soul,—with pride on her features, but death at her heart.
If Gabriel could have seen her, he would have felt sufficiently revenged upon her.
Even Catherine de Médicis, at the price of that humiliation, consented to forego any further reprisals against Diane!
But the queen-mother had noticed with some uneasiness that at the name of the constable the Duc de Guise had remained silent, and had paid no further attention to Madame de Poitiers's irritating insolence.
Could it be that Le Balafré feared Monsieur de Montmorency, and wished to spare him? Would he, in case of need, form an alliance with Catherine's old foe?
It was essential that the Florentine should know what to expect in that direction before she allowed the power to fall without resistance into the hands of François de Lorraine.
Therefore, in order to ascertain his views and those of the king as well, she remarked, after Diane had gone:
"Madame de Poitiers is very impudent, and seems very strong in her reliance upon her constable. Be sure, my son, that if you allow Monsieur de Montmorency to retain any authority, be it much or little, he will share it with Madame Diane."
Still the Duc de Guise said nothing.
"As for me," continued Catherine, "if I were to offer my opinion to your Majesty, it would be that you should not divide your confidence among several persons, but that you should select for your sole minister either Monsieur de Montmorency or your uncle De Guise or your uncle De Bourbon, as you choose. But let it be one or the other, and not all. Let there be only one will in the State,—that of the king, advised by the small number of persons who have no other interest than in its welfare and glory. Is not that your opinion, Monsieur de Lorraine?"
"Yes, Madame, if it is yours," replied the duke, condescendingly.
"Aha!" said Catherine to herself, "I guessed aright: he was thinking of allying himself with the constable. But he must decide between him and me, and I think he cannot hesitate long.
"It seems to me, Monsieur de Guise," she continued aloud, "that you ought to share my opinion so much the more fully, because it will be to your advantage; for the king knows my thought, and that it is neither the Constable de Montmorency nor Antoine de Navarre whom I would like to have him select for his adviser; and when I thus declare my sentiments in favor of the exclusion of a multiplicity of advisers, I do not aim my remarks against you."
"Madame," said the Duc de Guise, "accept with my heartfelt gratitude my no less entire devotion."
The subtle politician emphasized the last words, as if he had made up his mind and had definitely sacrificed the constable to Catherine.
"That is very well," said the queen-mother. "When these gentlemen of the parliament arrive, it is fitting that they should find among us this rare and affecting unanimity of views and feelings."
"I, above all others, am overjoyed at this cordial agreement," cried the young king, clapping his hands. "With my mother to advise me and my uncle for minister, I begin to feel on better terms with this royalty which terrified me so at first."
"We will reignen famille," added Mary Stuart, gayly.
Catherine de Médicis and François de Lorraine smiled pityingly at these hopes—illusions, rather—of the young king and queen. Each of them had for the moment what they most desired,—he the certainty that the queen-mother would not object to allowing the supreme power to be intrusted to him, and she the belief that the minister would share his supreme power with her.
Meanwhile Monsieur de Montmorency was announced. The constable, it must be said, was at first more dignified and calm than Madame de Valentinois. Doubtless he had been forewarned by her, and had determined at least to fall with colors flying.
He bowed respectfully before François II., and began at once to speak.
"Sire," said he, "I anticipated that the old servant of your father and grandfather would meet with little favor from you. I have no complaint to make of this sudden change of fortune which I foresaw; I will go into retirement without a murmur. If the king or France ever have need of me, I shall be found at Chantilly, Sire; and my property, my children, and my own life,—all that I possess will always be at your Majesty's service."
This moderation seemed to move the young king, who, more embarrassed than ever, turned in his distress to his mother.
But the Duc de Guise, feeling that no intervention could so surely turn the old constable's reserve to anger as his own, interposed with the most courteous formality of manner,—
"Since Monsieur de Montmorency is about to quit the court, he would do well, I think, before his departure, to hand to his Majesty the royal seal, which the late king intrusted to him, and which we need from this time."
Le Balafré was not mistaken. These apparently simple words excited the jealous constable's wrath to the highest pitch.
"Here is the seal," he said bitterly, as he produced it from beneath his doublet. "I intended to hand it to his Majesty without requiring him to ask it of me; but I see that his Majesty is surrounded by persons disposed to advise him to heap insults upon those who deserve nothing but gratitude."
"To whom does Monsieur de Montmorency mean to refer?" asked Catherine, haughtily.
"What? I spoke of those by whom his Majesty is surrounded, Madame," snarled the constable, giving the rein to his natural testiness and brutality.
But he had chosen his time ill; and Catherine was only awaiting an opportunity to burst out.
She rose, and casting all decorum to the winds, began to reproach the constable for the harsh and disdainful manner he had always adopted toward her, his hostility for everything Florentine, the preference which he had openly shown to the mistress over the lawful wife. She was not ignorant of the fact that it was to him that all the humiliation suffered by her countrymen who had followed her to France was to be attributed. She knew, too, that during the early years of her married life Montmorency had had the hardihood to suggest to Henri that he should cast her off as being barren, and that since then he had basely slandered her.
To this the constable, who was little accustomed to reproof, replied with a sneer, which was in itself a fresh affront.
Meanwhile the Duc de Guise had had time to take François II.'s orders, or rather to dictate those orders to him in a low tone; and now, calmly raising his voice, he proceeded to crush his rival, to the unbounded delight of Catherine de Médicis.
"Monsieur le Connétable," said he, with his jeering courtesy, "your friends and creatures who sit with you at the council-board—Bochetel, L'Aubespine, and the rest, notably his Eminence the Keeper of the Seals, Jean Bertrandi—may probably prefer to imitate you in your longing for retirement. The king desires you to express his gratitude to them. To-morrow they will be quite at liberty, and their places will have been filled."
"'T is well," muttered Monsieur de Montmorency between his clinched teeth.
"As for your nephew, Monsieur de Coligny, who is at once governor of Picardy and of the Île de France," continued Le Balafré, "the king considers that the double task is altogether too heavy for one man, and desires to relieve him of one of his governments at his choice. You will have the kindness to notify Monsieur l'Amiral to that effect, will you not?"
"To be sure," rejoined the constable, with a bitter sneer.
"As for yourself, Monsieur le Connétable—" the duke continued quietly.
"Am I to be deprived of my constable's bâton?" interrupted Monsieur de Montmorency, sharply.
"Oh," replied François de Lorraine, "you know that it is impossible, and that the office of constable is not like that of lieutenant-general of the kingdom, but that the former is conferred for life. However, is it not incompatible with that of grand master, which you also hold? It seems to be so to his Majesty, who asks for your resignation of the last-named charge, Monsieur, and deigns to confer it upon me, since I have no other."
"It is for the best," retorted Montmorency, grinding his teeth. "Is that all, Monsieur?"
"Why, yes; I think so," said the Duc de Guise, resuming his seat.
The constable felt that it would be difficult for him to restrain his rage any longer,—that he should perhaps make a scene, and by failing in respect for the king become a rebellious subject instead of a disgraced one. He did not wish to afford his triumphant foe that satisfaction; so he saluted the king abruptly, and made ready to take his leave.
However, before departing, and as if thinking better of his determination,—
"Sire," said he, "allow me one word more, to fulfil my last duty to the memory of your glorious father. He who struck the fatal blow, the author of all our grief, was not perhaps simply careless, Sire,—at least I have reason to think so. In this melancholy catastrophe there may have been—in my opinion, there was—an element of criminal intent. The man whom I accuse did, I know, consider himself wronged by the late king. Your Majesty will without doubt order a strict inquiry into this matter."
The Duc de Guise was alarmed at this formal and dangerous charge against Gabriel; but Catherine de Médicis took it upon herself to reply.
"Be assured, Monsieur," said she to the constable, "that your intervention was not needed to remind us of such a deed as that; for the necessity of dealing promptly with the offender is not forgotten by those to whom the kingly existence so cruelly terminated was quite as precious as to you. I, the widow of Henri II., cannot yield to any other person in the world the initiative in such a matter. Therefore be quite easy, Monsieur; your solicitude is premature. You may withdraw with your mind at rest on that point."
"I have nothing further to say, then," said the constable.
He was not even to be allowed to gratify in person his implacable resentment to the Comte de Montgommery, and to pose as the denouncer of the culprit and the avenger of his master.
Suffocated with shame and anger, he went from the royal presence in despair.
He departed the same evening for his estate at Chantilly.
That day Madame de Valentinois also quitted the Louvre, where she had been more of a queen than the queen herself, for her gloomy and distant exile at Chaumont-sur-Loire, whence she never returned while she lived.
Thus Gabriel's vengeance upon Madame de Poitiers was complete.
It is true that the ex-favorite had in store a terrible vengeance for him who had thus hurled her from her lofty position.
As for the constable, Gabriel had not done with him, but would be on the watch for the day when he should regain his influence.
However, we will not anticipate events, but return in haste to the Louvre, where the deputies of parliament are just being announced to François II.
In accordance with Catherine de Médicis's wish, the deputies found the most perfect unanimity of sentiment prevailing at the Louvre. François II., his wife at his right hand, and his mother at his left, presented the Duc de Guise to them as lieutenant-general of the kingdom, the Cardinal of Lorraine as superintendent of the finances, and François Olivier as keeper of the seals. Le Balafré was triumphant, the queen-mother smiled upon his triumph, and everything went off as smoothly as possible; and no suspicion of a misunderstanding appeared to cast a shadow upon the fortunate auspices which inaugurated this reign, which bade fair to be as long as its opening was happy.
One of the councillors of the parliament apparently thought that a suggestion of clemency would not be ill-timed amid so much happiness, and as he passed before the king with a group of others he cried,—
"Mercy for Anne Dubourg!"
But the good councillor forgot how zealous a Catholic the new minister was. Le Balafré, as his habit was, pretended to have misunderstood; and without going through the formality of consulting the king or the queen-mother, so sure was he of their approbation, he replied in a loud, firm voice,—
"Yes, Messieurs, yes; the prosecution of Anne Dubourg and those accused with him will be at once taken up and carried to its close, never fear!"
With this assurance, the members of parliament left the Louvre, sad or joyous according to their respective opinions, but all convinced that never were the governing powers more united in sentiment and better pleased with one another than those to whom they had just paid their respects.
After their departure, the Duc de Guise still noticed upon Catherine's lips the smile which every time that she glanced at him seemed to be stereotyped there.
François II. rose from his seat, tired out with the formalities he had gone through.
"At last we are done for to-day, I trust, with business and ceremony," said he. "Mother, uncle, may we not one of these days leave Paris for a while, and pass the balance of our period of mourning at Blois, for instance, on the banks of the Loire, that Mary loves so dearly? Oh, can we not, tell me?"
"Oh, do try to make it possible!" said Mary Stuart. "In these lovely summer days Paris is so wearisome and the country so charming!"
"Monsieur de Guise will attend to that," said Catherine. "But your labors are not yet quite at an end for to-day, my son; before I leave you to yourself I must ask for half an hour more of your time, for you have a sacred duty yet to perform."
"What is it, Mother?" asked François.
"A duty which devolves upon you as the guardian of public justice, Sire," said Catherine,—"the same one in which Monsieur le Connétable flattered himself that he would anticipate me; but a wife's justice is keener than a friend's."
"What does she mean?" the Duc de Guise asked himself, in alarm.
"Sire, your august father died a violent death. The man who dealt the blow either is simply an unfortunate wretch or a culprit. For my own part, I incline to the latter supposition; but in any event the question is worth the trouble of solving. If we treat such an attack with indifference, without even taking pains to ascertain whether it was involuntary or not, what risks do not all kings run,—you, above all, Sire? Therefore an inquiry into what is called the 'accident' of the 30th of June is essential."
"But in that case," said Le Balafré, "it would be necessary to order Monsieur de Montgommery's arrest at once, Madame, as a regicide."
"Monsieur de Montgommery has been under arrest since morning," said Catherine.
"Under arrest! And upon whose order, pray!" cried the Duc de Guise.
"Upon mine," replied the queen-mother. "There was no regularly constituted authority at that time, and I took it upon myself to issue that order. Monsieur de Montgommery might take flight at any moment, and it was of the utmost importance to prevent it. He has been brought to the Louvre without disturbance or excitement. I ask you, my son, to question him."
Without waiting for permission, she touched a bell, as the Duc de Guise had done two hours earlier. But this time Le Balafré scowled heavily; a storm was brewing.
"Order the prisoner to be brought hither," said Catherine to the usher who appeared.
There was an embarrassing silence when the usher had left the room. The king seemed undecided, Mary Stuart anxious, and the Duc de Guise very much displeased. The queen-mother alone affected an air of dignity and assurance.
The Duc de Guise alone broke the silence with these words,—
"It seems to me that if Monsieur de Montgommery had desired to make his escape, nothing would have been easier during the last fortnight."
Catherine had no time to reply, for Gabriel was led in at that moment.
He was pale but composed. That morning very early four armed domestics had come to seek him at his house, to the great dismay of Aloyse. He had accompanied them without any attempt at resistance, and since then had awaited events without apparent anxiety.
When Gabriel entered the apartment with a firm step and tranquil bearing, the young king changed color, whether from emotion at sight of him who had stricken his father to death, or from alarm at having for the first time to perform the functions of dispenser of justice of which his mother had spoken,—in very truth the most awe-inspiring duty which the Lord has imposed upon the kings of the earth.
Consequently, it was with a scarcely audible voice that he said to Catherine, turning toward her,—
"Speak, Madame; it is for you to speak."
Catherine de Médicis made haste to avail herself of this permission. She now believed herself to be certain of her omnipotence with François and his minister. She addressed Gabriel in a haughty, magisterial tone.
"Monsieur," said she, "we have thought fit, before any other steps were taken, to cause you to appear before his Majesty in person, and to question you with our own lips, so that there may be no necessity of offering you any reparation if we find you innocent, and that justice may be the more prompt and effective if we find you guilty. Extraordinary crimes demand extraordinary tribunals. Are you ready to reply to our questions, Monsieur?"
"I am ready to listen to you, Madame," was Gabriel's reply.
Catherine was rather irritated than convinced by the calm demeanor of the man whom she had bitterly hated even before he had made her a widow,—whom she hated the more for all the love which for one moment she had felt for him. She continued with an offensive bitterness in her tone,—
"Several curious circumstances conspire to throw suspicion on you, Monsieur, and to accuse you,—your long absences from Paris, your voluntary exile from court for nearly two years, your presence and your mysterious demeanor at the fatal tournament, your very refusal to enter the lists against the king. How did it happen that you, who are accustomed to these sports and passages-at-arms, omitted the ordinary and necessary precaution of throwing away the shaft of your lance as you were riding back? How do you explain such strange forgetfulness? Answer! What have you to say to all this?"
"Nothing, Madame," said Gabriel.
"Nothing?" said the queen-mother, completely taken aback.
"Absolutely nothing."
"What!" rejoined Catherine; "you confess, then? You avow that—"
"I neither avow nor confess anything, Madame."
"Oho! then you deny?"
"Nor do I deny anything. I simply say nothing."
Mary Stuart could not restrain a movement of approbation. François II. listened and looked on with eager curiosity; and the Duc de Guise remained mute and motionless.
Catherine began again in a tone which became momentarily more and more biting,—
"Monsieur, be careful! You would do better, perhaps, to try to defend or justify your action. Understand one thing: Monsieur de Montmorency, who can, in case of need, be heard as a witness, declares that to his certain knowledge you might well have certain grievances against the king, some grounds for personal enmity."
"What were they, Madame? Did Monsieur de Montmorency say what they were?"
"Not yet, but doubtless he will tell."
"Very well! let him tell them, if he dares!" retorted Gabriel, with a proud but quiet smile.
"So you refuse altogether to speak, do you?" Catherine persisted.
"I refuse."
"Do you know that the torture may bring your disdainful silence to terms?"
"I do not think it, Madame."
"By proceeding in this way, you risk your life, I warn you."
"I will not defend it, Madame. It is no longer worth the trouble."
"You are fully determined, then, Monsieur? Not a word?"
"Not one single word, Madame," said Gabriel, shaking his head.
"And quite right, too!" cried Mary Stuart, as if carried away by an irresistible impulse. "Noble and grand this silence is! It is the course of a gentleman who does not even choose to repel suspicion for fear that suspicion may fall upon him. I say, for my part, that this very refusal to speak is the most eloquent and convincing of justifications!"
During this outburst the old queen was gazing at the younger one with a stern and angry expression.
"Yes, I may be wrong to speak thus," continued Mary; "but I care not! I speak as I feel and as I think. My heart will never allow my lips to remain closed. My impressions and my emotions must find vent. My instinct is the only policy that I recognize, and it cries out to me now that Monsieur d'Exmès never conceived and executed such a crime in cold blood, but that he was only the blind instrument of fate, and believes himself to be above any other supposition, and therefore scorns to justify himself. My instinct tells me this, and I give it voice. Why not?"
The young king gazed joyfully and affectionately at hismignonne, as he called her, while she expressed herself with an eloquence and animation which made her twenty times more fascinating than usual.
Gabriel cried in a touched and penetrating voice,—
"Oh, thanks, Madame! I thank you! And you have done well; not on my account, but your own, you have done well to act thus."
"Indeed, I know it," replied Mary, with the most gracious accent that one could dream of.
"Well, have we reached the end of this sentimental childishness!" cried Catherine, indignantly.
"No, Madame," said Mary Stuart, wounded in her self-respect as a young wife and a young queen, "no; if you have made an end of your childishness, we, who are young, thank God! are only just beginning. Am I not right, my gentle Sire?" she added, turning prettily toward her youthful spouse.
The king did not reply in words, but touched with his lips the ends of the lovely fingers Mary held out to him.
Catherine's wrath, which she had restrained up to that time, now burst forth; she had not yet succeeded in accustoming to treat as king a son who was still almost a child; moreover, she believed herself to be secure in the support of the Duc de Guise, who had not declared himself thus far, and whom she did not know to be the devoted patron, and, we might almost say, a tacit accomplice of the Comte de Montgommery. Thus she dared to give free vent to her ire.
"Ah, this is the way matters stand!" she said in reply to Mary Stuart's last words, which were slightly contemptuous. "I claim a right, and I am laughed at. I ask, in all moderation, that the murderer of Henri II. may at least be interrogated: and when he declines to justify his act, his silence is approved,—nay, more, it is even applauded. Very well! since things have come to such a pass, away with cowardly reserve and half-measures! I proclaim myself aloud as the accuser of the Comte de Montgommery. Will the king refuse justice to his mother because she is his mother? We will examine the constable, and Madame de Poitiers, too, if necessary! The truth shall be brought to light; and if secrets of State are involved in this affair, we will have the judgment and sentence kept secret. But the death of a king treacherously murdered before the eyes of all his subjects shall, at any price, be avenged."
During this harangue of the queen-mother, a sad and resigned smile played about Gabriel's lips.
He recalled, in his own mind, the last two lines of Nostradamus's prediction,—