The queen inhabited the other wing of the castle. The famous avenue began at her very window, and her eyes rested only on grass and flowers. A native poet (Marguerite, in the provinces as in Paris, was always the star of the poets) had composed a sonnet about her.
"She wishes," said he, "by all these agreeable sights to chase away painful souvenirs."
Daughter, sister, and wife of a king as she was, she had indeed suffered much. Her philosophy, although more boasted of than that of the king, was less solid; for it was due only to study, while his was natural. Therefore, stoical as she tried to be, time and grief had already begun to leave their marks on her countenance. Still she was remarkably beautiful. With her joyous yet sweet smile, her brilliant and yet soft eyes, Marguerite was still an adorable creature. She was idolized at Nerac, where she brought elegance, joy, and life. She, a Parisian princess, supported patiently a provincial life, and this alone was a virtue in the eyes of the inhabitants. Every one loved her, both as queen and as woman.
Full of hatred for her enemies, but patient that she might avenge herself better—feeling instinctively that under the mask of carelessness and long-suffering worn by Henri of Navarre he had a bad feeling toward her—she had accustomed herself to replace by poetry, and by the semblance of love, relations, husband, and friends.
No one, excepting Catherine de Medicis, Chicot, or some melancholy ghosts returned from the realms of death, could have told why Marguerite's cheeks were often so pale, why her eyes often filled with tears, or why her heart often betrayed its melancholy void. Marguerite had no more confidantes; she had been betrayed too often.
However, the bad feeling which she believed Henri to have for her was only an instinct, and came rather from the consciousness of her own faults than from his behavior. He treated her like a daughter of France, always spoke to her with respectful politeness, or grateful kindness, and was always the husband and friend.
When Chicot arrived at the place indicated to him by Henri, he found no one; Marguerite, they said, was at the end of the famous avenue. When he had gone about two-thirds down it, he saw at the end, in an arbor covered with jasmine, clematis, and broom, a group covered with ribbons, feathers, velvets, and swords. Perhaps all this finery was slightly old-fashioned, but for Nerac it was brilliant, and even Chicot, coming straight from Paris, was satisfied with the coup d'oeil. A page preceded Chicot.
"What do you want, D' Aubiac?" asked the queen, when she saw him.
"Madame, a gentleman from Paris, an envoy from the Louvre to the king of Navarre, and sent by his majesty to you, desires to speak to your majesty."
A sudden flush passed over Marguerite's face, and she turned quickly. Chicot was standing near; Marguerite quitted the circle, and waving an adieu to the company, advanced toward the Gascon.
"M. Chicot!" cried she in astonishment.
"Here I am at your majesty's feet," said he, "and find you ever good and beautiful, and queen here, as at the Louvre."
"It is a miracle to see you here, monsieur; they said you were dead."
"I pretended to be so."
"And what do you want with us, M. Chicot? Am I happy enough to be still remembered in France?"
"Oh, madame," said Chicot, smiling, "we do not forget queens of your age and your beauty. The king of France even writes on this subject to the king of Navarre."
Marguerite colored. "He writes?"
"Yes, madame."
"And you have brought the letter?"
"I have not brought it, madame, for reasons that the king of Navarre will explain to you, but learned it by heart and repeated it."
"I understand. This letter was important, and you feared to lose it, or have it stolen."
"That is the truth, madame; but the letter was written in Latin."
"Oh, very well; you know I know Latin."
"And the king of Navarre, does he know it?"
"Dear M. Chicot, it is very difficult to find out what he does or does not know. If one can believe appearances, he knows very little of it, for he never seems to understand when I speak to any one in that language. Then you told him the purport of the letter?"
"It was to him it was addressed."
"And did he seem to understand?"
"Only two words."
"What were they?"
"Turennius et Margota."
"Turennius et Margota?"
"Yes; those two words were in the letter."
"Then what did he do?"
"He sent me to you, madame."
"To me?"
"Yes, saying that the letter contained things of too much importance to be confided to a stranger, and that it was better to take it to you, who were the most beautiful of learned ladies, and the most learned of beautiful ones."
"I will listen to you, M. Chicot, since such are the king's orders."
"Thank you, madame; where would you please it to be?"
"Come to my room."
Marguerite looked earnestly at Chicot, who, through pity for her, had let her have a glimpse of the truth. Perhaps she felt the need of a support, for she turned toward a gentleman in the group, and said: "M. de Turenne, your arm to the castle. Precede us, M. Chicot."
Marguerite's room was fashionably furnished; and tapestries, enamels, china, books and manuscripts in Greek, Latin and French covered all the tables; while birds in their cages, dogs on the carpet, formed a living world round Marguerite.
The queen was a woman to understand Epicurus, not in Greek only, but she occupied her life so well that from a thousand griefs she drew forth a pleasure.
Chicot was invited to sit down in a beautiful armchair of tapestry, representing a Cupid scattering a cloud of flowers; and a page, handsome and richly dressed, offered to him refreshment. He did not accept it, but as soon as the Vicomte de Turenne had left them, began to recite his letter. We already know this letter, having read it in French with Chicot, and therefore think it useless to follow the Latin translation. Chicot spoke with the worst accent possible, but Marguerite understood it perfectly, and could not hide her rage and indignation. She knew her brother's dislike to her, and her mind was divided between anger and fear. But as he concluded, she decided on her part.
"By the Holy Communion," said she, when Chicot had finished, "my brother writes well in Latin! What vehemence! what style! I should never have believed him capable of it. But do you not understand it, M. Chicot? I thought you were a good Latin scholar."
"Madame, I have forgotten it; all that I remember is that Latin has no article, that it has a vocative, and that the head belongs to the neuter gender."
"Really!" said some one, entering noiselessly and merrily. It was the king of Navarre. "The head is of the neuter gender, M. Chicot? Why is it not masculine?"
"Ah, sire, I do not know; it astonishes me as much as it does your majesty."
"It must be because it is sometimes the man, sometimes the woman that rules, according to their temperaments."
"That is an excellent reason, sire."
"I am glad to be a more profound philosopher than I thought—but to return to the letter. Madame, I burn to hear news from the court of France, and M. Chicot brings them to me in an unknown tongue."
"Do you not fear, sire, that the Latin is a bad prognostic?" said Chicot.
"M. Chicot is right, sire," said the queen.
"What!" said Henri, "does the letter contain anything disagreeable, and from your brother, who is so clever and polite?"
"Even when he had me insulted in my litter, as happened near Sens, when I left Paris to rejoin you, sire."
"When one has a brother whose own conduct is irreproachable," said Henri, in an indefinable tone between jest and earnest, "a brother a king, and very punctilious—"
"He ought to care for the true honor of his sister and of his house. I do not suppose, sire, that if your sister, Catherine d'Albret, occasioned some scandal, you would have it published by a captain of the guards."
"Oh! I am like a good-natured bourgeois, and not a king; but the letter, the letter; since it was addressed to me, I wish to know what it contains."
"It is a perfidious letter, sire."
"Bah!"
"Oh! yes, and which contains more calumnies than are necessary to embroil a husband with his wife, and a friend with his friends."
"Oh! oh! embroil a husband with his wife; you and me then?"
"Yes, sire."
Chicot was on thorns; he would have given much, hungry as he was, to be in bed without supper.
"The storm is about to burst," thought he.
"Sire," said Marguerite, "I much regret that your majesty has forgotten your Latin."
"Madame, of all the Latin I learned, I remember but one phrase—'Deus et virtus oeterna'—a singular assemblage of masculine, feminine, and neuter."
"Because, sire, if you did understand, you would see in the letter many compliments to me."
"But how could compliments embroil us, madame? For as long as your brother pays you compliments, I shall agree with him; if he speaks ill of you, I shall understand his policy."
"Ah! if he spoke ill of me, you would understand it?"
"Yes; he has reasons for embroiling us, which I know well."
"Well, then, sire, these compliments are only an insinuating prelude to calumnious accusations against your friends and mine."
"Come, ma mie, you have understood badly; let me hear if all this be in the letter."
Marguerite looked defiant.
"Do you want your followers or not, sire?" said she.
"Do I want them? what a question! What should I do without them, and reduced to my own resources?"
"Well, sire, the king wishes to detach your best servants from you."
"I defy him."
"Bravo, sire!" said Chicot.
"Yes," said Henri, with that apparent candor, with which to the end of his life he deceived people, "for my followers are attached to me through love, and not through interest; I have nothing to give them."
"You give them all your heart and your faith, sire; it is the best return a king can make his friends."
"Yes, ma mie, I shall not fail to do so till I find that they do not merit it."
"Well, sire, they wish to make you believe that they do not."
"Ah! but how?"
"I cannot tell you, sire, without compromising—" and she glanced at Chicot.
"Dear M. Chicot," said Henri, "pray wait for me in my room, the queen has something particular to say to me."
To get rid of a witness whom Marguerite believed to know more of Latin than he allowed was already a triumph, or at least a pledge of security for her; for alone with her husband she could give whatever translation of the Latin that she pleased.
Henri and his wife were then left tete-à-tete. He had on his face no appearance of disquietude or menace; decidedly he could not understand Latin.
"Monsieur," said Marguerite, "I wait for you to interrogate me."
"This letter preoccupies you much, ma mie; do not alarm yourself thus."
"Sire, because a king does not send a special messenger to another without some reason that he believes important."
"Well ma mie, let us leave it for the present; have you not something like a ball this evening?"
"Yes, sire," said Marguerite, astonished, "but that is not extraordinary; you know we dance nearly every evening."
"I have a great chase for to-morrow."
"Each our pleasure, sire; you love the chase, I the dance."
"Yes, ma mie, and there is no harm in that," said Henri, sighing.
"Certainly not; but your majesty sighed as you said it."
"Listen to me, madame; I am uneasy."
"About what, sire?"
"About a current report."
"A report; your majesty uneasy about a report?"
"What more simple; when this report may annoy you."
"Me?"—"Yes, you."
"Sire, I do not understand you."
"Have you heard nothing?"
Marguerite began to tremble. "I am the least curious woman in the world," said she, "I hear nothing but what is cried in my very ears. Besides, I think so little of reports, that I should not listen to them if I heard them."
"It is then your opinion, madame, that one should despise reports?"
"Absolutely, sire; particularly kings and queens."
"Why so, madame?"
"Because, as every one talks of us, we should have enough to do to listen to them all."
"Well, I believe you are right, ma mie, and I am about to furnish you with an excellent opportunity of exercising your philosophy."
Marguerite believed that the decisive moment had come, and rallied all her courage.
"So be it, sire," said she.
Henri began in the tone of a penitent who has some great sin to acknowledge.
"You know the great interest I take in Fosseuse?"
"Ah!" cried Marguerite, triumphantly, seeing he was not about to accuse her; "yes, yes; the little Fosseuse, your friend."
"Yes, madame."
"My lady in waiting."—"Yes."
"Your passion—your love."
"Ah! you speak now just like one of the reports you were abusing just now."
"It is true, sire, and I ask your pardon," said Marguerite, smiling.
"Ma mie, you are right, public report often lies, and we sovereigns have great reason to establish this theory;" and he laughed ironically.
"Well; and Fosseuse?" said Marguerite.
"She is ill, ma mie, and the doctors do not understand her malady."
"That is strange, sire. Fosseuse, who you say is a pearl of purity, ought to allow the doctors to penetrate into the secret of her illness."
"Alas! it is not so."
"What!" cried the queen; "is she not a pearl of purity?"
"I mean that she persists in hiding the cause of her illness from the doctors."
"But to you, sire, her confidant, her father."
"I know nothing, or at least wish to know nothing."
"Then, sire," said Marguerite, who now believed that she had to confer instead of asking a pardon; "then, sire, I do not know what you want; and wait for you to explain."
"Well, then, ma mie, I will tell you. I wish you—but it is asking a great deal."
"Speak on, sire."
"To have the goodness to go to Fosseuse."
"I go to visit this girl whom every one says has the honor of being your mistress; a thing which you do not deny."
"Gently, gently, ma mie. On my word you will make a scandal with your exclamations; and really I believe that will rejoice the court of France, for in the letter from my brother-in-law that Chicot repeated to me, there was these words, 'Quotidie scandalurn,' which must mean 'daily scandal.' It is not necessary to know Latin to understand that: it is almost French."
"But, sire, to whom did these words apply?"
"Ah! that is what I want to know, but you, who know Latin, can help me to find out."
Marguerite colored up to her ears.
"Well, monsieur," said she, "you wish me to take a humiliating step for the sake of peace, and therefore I will comply."
"Thanks, ma mie, thanks."
"But what is the object of this visit?"
"It is very simple, madame."
"Still, you must tell me, for I am not clever enough to guess it."
"Well! you will find Fosseuse among the ladies of honor, sleeping in their room; and they, you know, are so curious and indiscreet that one cannot tell to what extremity Fosseuse may be reduced."
"But then she fears something," cried Marguerite, with a burst of anger and hatred; "she wishes to hide herself."
"I do not know; all I do know is, that she wishes to quit the room of the maids of honor."
"If she wishes to hide, let her not count on me. I may shut my eyes to certain things, but I will never be an accomplice," said Marguerite.
Henri seemed not to have heard, but he stood for a minute in a thoughtful attitude, and then said, "Margota cum Turennio. Ah! those were the names, madame—'Margota cum Turennio.'"
Marguerite grew crimson.
"Calumnies, sire!" cried she.
"What calumnies?" replied he, with the most natural air possible. "Do you find any calumny in it? It is a passage from my brother's letter—'Margota cum Turennio conveniunt in castello nomine Loignac!'—Decidedly I must get this letter translated."
"Leave this comedy, sire," said Marguerite, tremblingly, "and tell me at once what you want from me."
"Well, I wish, ma mie, that you should separate Fosseuse from the other girls, and send her a discreet doctor; your own, for example."
"Ah! I see what it is," cried the queen, "Fosseuse, the paragon, is near her accouchement."
"I do not say so, ma mie; it is you who affirm it."
"It is so, monsieur; your insinuating tone, your false humility, prove it to me. But there are sacrifices that no man should ask of his wife. Take care of Fosseuse yourself, sire; it is your business, and let the trouble fall on the guilty, not on the innocent."
"The guilty! Ah! that makes me think of the letter again."
"How so?"
"Guilty is 'nocens,' is it not?"
"Yes."
"Well, there was that word in the letter—'Margota cum Turennio, ambo nocentes, conveniunt in castello nomine Loignac.' Mon Dieu! how I regret that my knowledge is not as great as my memory is good."
"Ambo nocentes," repeated Marguerite, in a low voice, and turning very pale, "he understood it all."
"Margota cum Turennio, ambo nocentes," repeated Henri. "What the devil could my brother mean by 'ambo!' Ventre St. Gris, ma mie, it is astonishing that you who know Latin so well have not yet explained it to me. Ah! pardieu! there is 'Turennius' walking under your windows, and looking up as if he expected you. I will call to him to come up; he is very learned, and he will explain it to me."
"Sire, sire, be superior to all the calumniators of France."
"Oh! ma mie, it seems to me that people are not more indulgent in Navarre than in France; you, yourself, were very severe about poor Fosseuse just now."
"I severe?"
"Yes; and yet we ought to be indulgent here, we lead such a happy life, you with your balls, and I with my chase."
"Yes, yes, sire; you are right; let us be indulgent."
"Oh! I was sure of your heart, ma mie."
"You know me well, sire."
"Yes. Then you will go and see Fosseuse?"
"Yes, sire."
"And separate her from the others?"
"Yes, sire."
"And send her your doctor?"
"Yes, sire."
"And if, unluckily, what you say were true, and she had been weak, for women are frail—"
"Well, sire, I am a woman, and know the indulgence due to my sex."
"All! you know all things, ma mie; you are in truth a model of perfection, and I kiss your hands."
"But believe, sire, that it is for the love of you alone that I make this sacrifice."
"Oh! yes, ma mie, I know you well, madame, and my brother of France also, he who speaks so well of you in this letter, and adds, 'Fiat sanum exemplum statim, atque res certior eveniet.' Doubtless, ma mie, it is you who give this good example."
And Henri kissed the cold hand of Marguerite. Then, turning on the threshold of the door, he said:
"Say everything kind from me to Fosseuse, and do for her as you have promised me. I set off for the chase; perhaps I shall not see you till my return, perhaps never—these wolves are wicked beasts. Come, and let me embrace you, ma mie."
Then he embraced Marguerite, almost affectionately, and went out, leaving her stupefied with all she had heard.
The king rejoined Chicot, who was still agitated with fears as to the explanation.
"Well, Chicot," said Henri, "do you know what the queen says?"
"No."
"She pretends that your cursed Latin will disturb our peace."
"Oh! sire, forget it, and all will be at an end. It is not with a piece of spoken Latin as though it were written; the wind carries away the one, fire cannot sometimes destroy the other."
"I! I think of it no more."
"That is right."
"I have something else to do."
"Your majesty prefers amusing yourself."
"Oh! mon cher, here we do everything openly; love, war, and politics."
"The first more than the two last; do you not, sire?"
"Ma foi! yes; I confess it, my dear friend. This country is so fine, and its women so beautiful."
"Oh! sire, you forget the queen; can the Navarrese women be more pleasing and beautiful than she is? If they are, I compliment them."
"Ventre St. Gris, you are right, Chicot; and I, who forgot that you are an ambassador, and represent King Henri III., and that he is the brother of Marguerite, and that consequently, before you, I ought to place her before every one—but you must excuse my imprudence, I am not accustomed to ambassadors."
At this moment the door of the room opened, and D'Aubiac announced, "The ambassador from Spain."
Chicot gave a start which made the king smile.
"Ma foi!" said Henri, "that is a contradiction that I did not expect. And what the devil can he want here?"
"Yes," said Chicot, "what the devil does he want here?"
"We shall soon know; perhaps our Spanish neighbor has some frontier dispute to settle with us."
"I will retire," said Chicot. "This is doubtless a real ambassador from his majesty Philippe II., while I—"
"Open that library door, Chicot, and go in there."
"But from there I shall hear all, in spite of myself."
"Oh! Never mind; I have nothing to hide. Apropos; have you nothing more to say to me from your king?"
"Nothing at all, sire."
"Very well, then, you have nothing to do but to see and hear, like all other ambassadors, and the library will do excellently for that purpose. Look with all your eyes, and listen with all your ears, my dear Chicot. D'Aubiac, let the ambassador enter."
Chicot hastened to his place of concealment, and drew the tapestry close.
When the first preliminaries of etiquette were over, the ambassador said:
"Can I speak freely to your majesty?"
"You may, monsieur."
"Sire, I bring the answer from his Catholic majesty."
"An answer," thought Chicot; "then there was a question."
"An answer to what?" said Henri.
"To your proposals of last month."
"Ma foi! I am very forgetful! please to recall to me what they were."
"About the invasions of the Lorraine princes."
"Yes, I remember, particularly those of M. de Guise; go on, monsieur."
"Sire, the king, my master, although much begged to sign a treaty of alliance with Lorraine, prefers one with Navarre. I know my master's intentions with regard to you."
"May I also know them?"
"Sire, my master will refuse nothing to Navarre."
Chicot bit his fingers to convince himself that he was not dreaming.
"What can I ask then?" said Henri.
"Whatever your majesty pleases."
"Diable!"
"If your majesty will speak openly and frankly?"
"Ventre St. Gris, it is embarrassing."
"Shall I tell you his majesty the king of Spain's proposal?"
"I listen."
"The king of France treats the queen of Navarre as an enemy, he repudiates her as a sister, and covers her with opprobrium. All this, but I beg your majesty's pardon for touching on so delicate a subject—"
"Go on."
"All this, then, is public."
"Well! monsieur, and what of all this?"
"It is consequently easy for your majesty to repudiate as a wife her whom her brother disclaims as a sister. This once done, the alliance between the king of Navarre and the king of Spain is concluded, and the king of Spain will give the infanta, his daughter, to your majesty, and he himself will marry Madame Catherine de Navarre, your majesty's sister."
A movement of pride shook Henri, while Chicot shuddered with terror. The one saw his star rising, radiant like the morning sun; the other saw the scepter of the Valois ready to decline and fall.
For an instant there was profound silence, and then Henri said:
"The proposal, monsieur, is magnificent, and crowns me with honor."
"His majesty," said the negotiator, who already calculated on an enthusiastic acceptance, "proposes only one condition."
"Ah! a condition! that is but just; let me hear it."
"In aiding your majesty against the Lorraine princes, that is to say, in opening to your majesty a way to the throne, my master desires to facilitate by your alliance the safety of Flanders, which the Duc d'Anjou is already attacking; your majesty will understand that it is pure preference on my master's part for you over the Lorraine princes, since MM. de Guise, his natural allies, as Catholic princes, make of themselves a party against the Duc d'Anjou in Flanders. Now, this is the only condition, which you must think reasonable. His majesty the king of Spain, allied to you by a double marriage, will help you to—" the ambassador seemed to seek for the right word, "to succeed to the king of France, and you will guarantee Flanders to him. I may then, now, knowing your majesty's wisdom, regard the negotiation as happily terminated."
Henri took two or three turns up and down the room.
"This, then," said he at last, "is the answer you were charged to bring me?"
"Yes, sire."
"Nothing else?"
"Nothing else, sire."
"Well! I refuse the offer of the king of Spain."
"You refuse the hand of the infanta!" cried the Spaniard, with a start, as though he had received a sudden wound.
"It would be a great honor, but I cannot think it a greater one than that of having married a daughter of France."
"No; but that alliance brought you nearly to the tomb, and this will bring you to the throne."
"An incomparable piece of good fortune, monsieur, I know; but I will never buy it with the blood and honor of my future subjects. What! monsieur. I draw the sword against the king of France, my brother-in-law, for the Spaniards; I arrest the standard of France in its career of glory; I kill brothers by brothers' hands; I bring the stranger into my country! No, monsieur; I asked the king of Spain for aid against the Guises, who wish to rob me of my inheritance, but not against the Duc d'Anjou, my brother-in-law; not against Henri III., my friend; not against my wife, sister of my king. You will aid the Guises, you will say, and lend them your support. Do so, and I will let loose on you and on them all the Protestants of Germany and France. The king of Spain wishes to reconquer Flanders, which is slipping from him; let him do what his father, Charles V., did, and ask a free passage to go and claim his title of first bourgeois of Ghent, and Henri III., I am certain, will grant it to him, as Francois I. did. I wish for the throne of France, says his Catholic majesty; it is possible, but I do not need him to aid me in getting it; I will do that for myself, once it is vacant, in spite of all the kings in the world. Adieu, then, monsieur. Tell my brother Philippe that I am grateful for his offers, but cannot believe for a moment that he thought me capable of accepting them. Adieu, monsieur."
"Take care, sire," said the ambassador; "the good understanding between two neighbors may be destroyed by a hasty word."
"Monsieur, my crown is so light that I should scarcely feel the difference if it slipped off; besides, I believe I can guard it. Therefore, once more adieu, monsieur, and tell the king your master that I have greater ambitions than he dreams of." And the Béarnais, becoming once more, not himself, but what he generally seemed to be, conducted the ambassador, with a courteous smile, to the door.
Chicot remained plunged in profound surprise. Henri lifted the tapestry, and, striking him on the shoulder, said:
"Well, M. Chicot, how do you think I managed?"
"Wonderfully, sire; and really, for a king who is not accustomed to ambassadors—"
"It is my brother Henri who sends me such ambassadors."
"How so, sire?"
"If he did not incessantly persecute his poor sister, others would not dream of it. Do you believe that if the king of Spain had not heard of the public insult offered to the queen, when a captain of the guards searched her litter, that he would have proposed to me to repudiate her?"
"I see with pleasure, sire," replied Chicot, "that all attempts will be useless, and that nothing can interrupt the harmony that exists between the queen and yourself."
"Oh, my friend, the interest they have in making us quarrel is too clear."
"I confess to you, sire, that I am not so penetrating as you are."
"Doubtless Henri would be delighted if I repudiated his sister."
"How so? Pray explain to me."
"You know they forgot to pay me my wife's dowry."
"I guessed as much, sire."
"This dowry was to consist of 300,000 golden crowns and some towns; among others, Cahors."
"A pretty town, mordieu!"
"I have claimed, not the money, but Cahors."
"Ventre de biche! sire, in your place, I should have done the same."
"And that is why—do you understand now?"
"No, indeed, sire."
"Why they wish me to quarrel with my wife and repudiate her. No wife, no dowry, no more 300,000 crowns, no Cahors. It is one way of eluding a promise, and Henri is clever in laying snares."
"You would much like to hold Cahors, sire?"
"Doubtless; for after all, what is my principality of Béarn? A poor little place, clipped by the avarice of my mother-in-law and brother-in-law."
"While Cahors—"
"Cahors would be my rampart, the safeguard of my religion."
"Well, sire, go into mourning for Cahors; for, whether you break with Madame Marguerite or not, the king of France will never give it to you, and unless you take it—"
"Oh, I would soon take it, if it was not so strong, and, above all, if I did not hate war."
"Cahors is impregnable, sire."
"Oh! impregnable! But if I had an army, which I have not—"
"Listen, sire. We are not here to flatter each other. To take Cahors, which is held by M. de Vesin, one must be a Hannibal or a Cæsar; and your majesty—"
"Well?" said Henri, with a smile.
"Has just said, you do not like war."
Henri sighed, and his eyes flashed for a minute; then he said:
"It is true I have never drawn the sword, and perhaps never shall. I am a king of straw, a man of peace; but, by a singular contrast, I love to think of warlike things—that is in my blood. St. Louis, my ancestor, pious by education and gentle by nature, became on occasion a brave soldier and a skillful swordsman. Let us talk, if you please, of M. Vesin, who is a Cæsar and a Hannibal."
"Sire, pardon me if I have wounded or annoyed you. I spoke only of M. de Vesin to extinguish all hope in your heart. Cahors, you see, is so well guarded because it is the key of the south."
"Alas! I know it well. I wished so much to possess Cahors, that I told my poor mother to make it a sine quâ non of our marriage. See, I am speaking Latin now. Cahors, then, was my wife's dowry; they owe it to me—"
"Sire, to owe and pay—"
"Are two different things, I know. So your opinion is, that they will never pay me?"
"I fear not."
"Diable!"
"And frankly—"
"Well?"
"They will be right, sire."
"Why so?"
"Because you did not know your part of king; you should have got it at once."
"Do you not, then, remember the tocsin of St. Germain l'Auxerrois?" said Henri, bitterly. "It seems to me that a husband whom they try to murder on the night of his marriage might think less of his dowry than of his life."
"Yes; but since then, sire, we have had peace; and excuse me, sire, you should have profited by it, and, instead of making love, have negotiated. It is less amusing, I know, but more profitable. I speak, sire, as much for my king as for you. If Henri of France had a strong ally in Henri of Navarre, he would be stronger than any one; and if the Protestants and Catholics of France and Navarre would unite in a common political interest, they would make the rest of the world tremble."
"Oh, I do not pretend to make others tremble, so long as I do not tremble myself. But if I cannot get Cahors, then, and you think I cannot—"
"I think so, sire, for three reasons."
"Tell them to me, Chicot."
"Willingly. The first is that Cahors is a town of good produce, which Henri III. will like to keep for himself."
"That is not very honest."
"It is very royal, sire."
"Ah! it is royal to take what you like."
"Yes; that is called taking the lion's share, and the lion is the king of animals."
"I shall remember your lesson, Chicot. Now, your second reason."
"Madame Catherine—"
"Oh! does my good mother still mix in politics?"
"Always; and she would rather see her daughter at Paris than at Nerac—near her than near you."
"You think so? Yet she does not love her daughter to distraction."
"No; but Madame Marguerite serves you as a hostage, sire."
"You are cunning, Chicot. Devil take me, if I thought of that! But you may be right; a daughter of France would be a hostage in case of need. Well, the third?"
"Between the Duc d'Anjou, who seeks to make a throne for himself in Flanders, between MM. de Guise, who wish for a crown, and shake that of France, and his majesty the king of Spain, who wishes for universal monarchy, you hold the balance and maintain a certain equilibrium."
"I, without weight?"
"Just so. If you became powerful, that is to say, heavy, you would turn the scale, and would be no longer a counterpoise, but a weight."
"Ah! I like that reason, and it is admirably argued. This is the explanation of my situation?"
"Complete."
"And I, who did not see all this, and went on hoping."
"Well, sire, I counsel you to cease to hope."
"Then I must do for this debt what I do for those of my farmers who cannot pay their rent; I put a P against their names."
"Which means paid."
"Just so."
"Put two P's, sire, and give a sigh."
"So be it, Chicot; you see I can live in Béarn, even without Cahors."
"I see that, and also that you are a wise and philosophical king. But what is that noise?"
"Noise, where?"
"In the courtyard, I think."
"Look out of the window."
"Sire, there are below a dozen of poorly-clothed people."
"Ah! they are my poor," said the king, rising.
"Your majesty has poor?"
"Doubtless; does not God recommend charity? If I am not a Catholic, Chicot, I am a Christian."
"Bravo, sire!"
"Come, Chicot, we will give alms together, and then go to supper."
"Sire, I follow you."
"Take that purse lying on the table, near my sword—do you see?"
They went down, but Henri seemed thoughtful and preoccupied. Chicot looked at him, and thought, "What the devil made me talk politics to this brave prince, and make him sad? Fool that I was!"
Once in the court, Henri approached the group of mendicants. There were a dozen men in different costumes. Henri took the purse from the hands of Chicot and made a sign, and then each man came forward and saluted Henri with an air of humility, which did not preclude a glance full of intelligence at the king. Henri replied by a motion of the head; then, putting his fingers into the purse, which Chicot held open, he took out a piece.
"Do you know that it is gold, sire?" said Chicot.
"Yes, my friend, I know."
"Peste! you are rich."
"Do you not see that each of these pieces serves for two? On the contrary, I am so poor that I am forced to cut my gold in two."
"It is true," said Chicot, with surprise: "they are half-pieces, with fantastic designs."
"Oh, I am like my brother Henri, who amuses himself in cutting out images: I amuse myself with clipping my ducats."
"Nevertheless, sire, it is an odd method of giving charity," said Chicot, who divined some hidden mystery.
"What would you do?"
"Instead of cutting the gold, I would give one piece between two."
"They would fight, and I should do harm instead of good."'
Henry then took one of the pieces, and, placing himself before the first beggar, looked at him inquiringly.
"Agen," said the man.
"How many?" asked Henri.
"Five hundred."
"Cahors;" and he gave him the piece and took a second.
The man bowed and withdrew.
The next advanced and said, "Auch."
"How many?"
"Three hundred and fifty."
"Cahors;" and he gave him his piece.
"Narbonne," said the third.
"How many?"
"Eight hundred."
"Cahors;" and he gave him his piece.
"Montauban," said the fourth.
"How many?"
"Six hundred."—"Cahors."
Each one in this way pronounced a name and a number, and received a piece of gold, and to each Henri replied, "Cahors."
This over, there were no pieces left in the purse.
"That is all, sire," said Chicot.
"Yes; I have finished."
"Sire, am I permitted to be curious?"
"Why not? Curiosity is natural."
"What did these beggars say, and what did you reply?"
Henri smiled.
"Indeed," continued Chicot, "all is mysterious here."
"Do you think so?"
"Yes; I have never seen alms given in that way."
"It is the custom at Nerac."
"A singular one, sire."
"No, nothing is more simple; each of those men came from a different city."
"Well, sire?"
"Well, that I may not always give to the same, they each tell me the name of their town, so that I can distribute my benefits equally among all the unfortunates in my kingdom."
"Yes, sire; but why did you answer 'Cahors'?"
"Ah!" cried Henri, with a most natural air of surprise, "did I say 'Cahors'?"
"Yes, sire."
"You think so?"
"I am sure of it."
"It must have been because we had been talking so much about it. I wish for it so much that I must have spoken of it without meaning to do so."
"Hum!" said Chicot, suspiciously, "and then there was something else."
"What! something else?"
"A number that each one pronounced, and which, added together, made more than eight thousand."
"Ah! as to that, Chicot, I did not understand it myself; unless, as the beggars are divided into corporations, they each named the number of members, which seems to me probable."
"Sire, sire!"
"Come and sup, my friend, nothing enlightens the mind like eating and drinking. Let us go to table, and you shall see that if my pistoles are cut, my bottles are full."
Then, passing his arm familiarly through Chicot's, the king went back to his room, where supper was served. Passing by the queen's room, he glanced at it, and saw no light.
"Page," said he, "is not her majesty at home?"
"Her majesty is gone to see Mademoiselle de Montmorency, who is ill."
"Ah! poor Fosseuse!" said Henri: "it is true, the queen has such a good heart. Come to supper, Chicot."