"Ah, scoundrel!" cried De Mouy, in a dull voice, "so you have come to
murder me as you murdered my father!"

The two guards who had entered the room with Maurevel alone heard these
terrible words. As they were uttered a pistol was placed to Maurevel's
forehead. The latter sank to his knees just as De Mouy put his hand on
the trigger; the shot was fired and one of the guards who stood behind
him and whom he had unmasked by this movement dropped to the floor,
struck to the heart. At the same instant Maurevel fired back, but the
ball glanced off De Mouy's cuirass.

Then, measuring the distance, De Mouy sprang forward and with the edge
of his broadsword split open the head of the second guard, and turning
towards Maurevel crossed swords with him.

The struggle was brief but terrible. At the fourth pass Maurevel felt
the cold steel in his throat. He uttered a stifled cry and fell
backwards, upsetting the lamp, which went out in the fall.

At once De Mouy, strong and agile as one of Homer's heroes, took
advantage of the darkness and sprang, with head lowered, into the
antechamber, knocked down one guard, pushed aside the other, and shot
like an arrow between those at the outer door. He escaped two
pistol-shots, the balls of which grazed the wall of the corridor, and
from that moment was safe, for one loaded pistol still was left him,
besides the sword which had dealt such terrible blows.

For an instant he hesitated, undecided whether to go to Monsieur
d'Alençon's, the door of whose room he thought had just opened, or to
try and escape from the Louvre. He determined on the latter course,
continued on his way, slow at first, jumped ten steps at a time, and
reaching the gate uttered the two passwords and rushed on, shouting out:

"Go upstairs; there is murder going on by order of the King."

Taking advantage of the amazement produced on the sentinel by his words
and the sound of the pistol-shots, he ran on and disappeared in the Rue
du Coq without having received a scratch.

It was at this moment that Catharine stopped the captain of the guards,
saying:

"Stay here; I myself will go and see what is the matter."

"But, madame," replied the captain, "the danger your majesty runs
compels me to follow you."

"Stay here, monsieur," said Catharine, in a still more imperious tone,
"stay here. There is a more powerful protection around kings than the
human sword."

The captain remained where he was.

Taking a lamp, Catharine slipped her bare feet into a pair of velvet
slippers, left her room, and reaching the corridor, still full of smoke,
advanced as impassible and as cold as a shadow towards the apartments of
the King of Navarre.

Silence reigned supreme.

Catharine reached the door, crossed the threshold, and first saw Orthon,
who had fainted in the antechamber.

"Ah! ah!" said she, "here is the servant; further on we shall probably
find the master." She entered the second door.

Then her foot ran against a corpse; she lowered her lamp; it was the
guard who had had his head split open. He was quite dead.

A few feet further on the lieutenant, who had been struck by a bullet,
was drawing his last breath.

Finally, before the bed lay a man whose face was as pale as death and
who was bleeding from a double wound in his throat. He was clinching his
hands convulsively in his efforts to rise.

It was Maurevel.

Catharine shuddered. She saw the empty bed, she looked around the room
seeking in vain for the body she hoped to find among the three corpses.

Maurevel recognized Catharine. His eyes were horribly dilated and he
made a despairing gesture towards her.

"Well," said she in a whisper, "where is he? what has happened?
Unfortunate man! have you let him escape?"

Maurevel strove to speak, but an unintelligible sound came from his
throat, a bloody foam covered his lips, and he shook his head in sign of
inability and pain.

"Speak!" cried Catharine, "speak! if only one word!"

Maurevel pointed to his wound, again made several inarticulate gasps,
which ended in a hoarse rattle, and fainted.

Catharine looked around her. She was surrounded by the bodies of dead
and dying; blood flowed in every direction, and the silence of death
hovered over everything.

Once again she spoke to Maurevel, but failed to rouse him; he was not
only silent but motionless; a paper was in his doublet. It was the order
of arrest signed by the King. Catharine seized it and hid it in her
breast. Just then she heard a light step behind her, and turning, she
saw the Duc d'Alençon at the door. In spite of himself he had been drawn
thither by the noise, and the sight before him fascinated him.

"You here?" said she.

"Yes, madame. For God's sake what has happened?"

"Go back to your room, François; you will know soon enough."

D'Alençon was not as ignorant of the affair as Catharine supposed.

At the sound of the first steps in the corridor he had listened. Seeing
some men enter the apartments of the King of Navarre, and by connecting
this with some words Catharine had uttered, he had guessed what was
about to take place, and was rejoiced at having so dangerous an enemy
destroyed by a hand stronger than his own. Before long the noises of
pistol-shots and the rapid steps of a man running had attracted his
attention, and he had seen disappearing in the light space caused by the
opening of the door leading to the stairway the red cloak too well known
not to be recognized.

"De Mouy!" he cried, "De Mouy in the apartments of the King of Navarre!
Why, that is impossible! Can it be Monsieur de la Mole?"

He grew alarmed. Remembering that the young man had been recommended to
him by Marguerite herself, and wishing to make sure that it was he whom
he had just seen, he ascended hurriedly to the chamber of the two young
men. It was vacant. But in a corner he found the famous red cloak
hanging against the wall. His suspicions were confirmed. It was not La
Mole, but De Mouy. Pale and trembling lest the Huguenot should be
discovered, and would betray the secrets of the conspiracy, he rushed to
the gate of the Louvre. There he was told that the red cloak had escaped
safe and sound, shouting out as he passed that some one was being
murdered in the Louvre by order of the King.

"He is mistaken," murmured D'Alençon; "it is by order of the queen
mother."

Returning to the scene of combat, he found Catharine wandering like a
hyena among the dead.

At the order from his mother the young man returned to his rooms,
affecting calmness and obedience, in spite of the tumultuous thoughts
which were passing through his mind.

In despair at the failure of this new attempt, Catharine called the
captain of the guards, had the bodies removed, gave orders that
Maurevel, who was only wounded, be carried to his home, and told them
not to waken the King.

"Oh!" she murmured, as she returned to her rooms, her head sunk on her
bosom, "he has again escaped. The hand of God is over this man. He will
reign! he will reign!"

Entering her room, she passed her hand across her brow, and assumed an
ordinary smile.

"What was the matter, madame?" asked every one except Madame de Sauve,
who was too frightened to ask any questions.

"Nothing," replied Catharine; "a noise, that was all."

"Oh!" cried Madame de Sauve, suddenly pointing to the floor, "your
majesty says there is nothing the matter, and every one of your
majesty's steps leaves a trace of blood on the carpet!"

CHAPTER XXXV.

A NIGHT OF KINGS.

Charles IX. walked along with Henry leaning on his arm, followed by his
four gentlemen and preceded by two torch-bearers.

"When I leave the Louvre," said the poor King, "I feel a pleasure
similar to that which comes to me when I enter a beautiful forest. I
breathe, I live, I am free."

Henry smiled.

"In that case," said he, "your Majesty would be in your element among
the mountains of the Béarn."

"Yes, and I understand that you want to go back to them; but if you are
very anxious to do so, Henriot," added Charles, laughing, "my advice is
to be careful, for my mother Catharine loves you so dearly that it is
absolutely impossible for her to get along without you."

"What does your Majesty plan to do this evening?" asked Henry, changing
this dangerous conversation.

"I want to have you meet some one, Henriot, and you shall give me your
opinion."

"I am at your Majesty's orders."

"To the right! to the right! We will take the Rue des Barres."

The two kings, followed by their escort, had passed the Rue de la
Savonnerie, when in front of the Hôtel de Condé they saw two men,
wrapped in large cloaks, coming out of a secret door which one of them
noiselessly closed behind him.

"Oh! oh!" said the King to Henry, who as usual had seen everything, but
had not spoken, "this deserves attention."

"Why do you say that, sire?" asked the King of Navarre.

"It is not on your account, Henriot. You are sure of your wife," added
Charles with a smile; "but your cousin De Condé is not sure of his, or
if so, he is making a mistake, the devil!"

"But how do you know, sire, that it is Madame de Condé whom these
gentlemen have been visiting?"

"Instinct tells me. The fact that the men stood in the doorway without
moving until they saw us; then the cut of the shorter one's cloak--by
Heaven! that would be strange!"

"What?"

"Nothing. An idea I had, that is all; let us go on."

He walked up to the two men, who, seeing him, started to walk away.

"Hello, gentlemen!" cried the King; "stop!"

"Are you speaking to us?" asked a voice which made Charles and his
companion tremble.

"Well, Henriot," said Charles, "do you recognize the voice now?"

"Sire," said Henry, "if your brother the Duc d'Anjou was not at La
Rochelle, I would swear it was he speaking."

"Well," said Charles, "he is not at La Rochelle, that is all."

"But who is with him?"

"Do you not recognize his companion?"

"No, sire."

"Yet his figure is unmistakable. Wait, you shall see who he is--hello,
there! I tell you," cried the King, "do you not hear, by Heaven?"

"Are you the watch, that you order us to stop?" said the taller of the
two men, freeing his arm from the folds of his cloak.

"Pretend that we are the watch," said the King, "and stop when we tell
you to do so."

Leaning over to Henry's ear, he added:

"Now you will see the volcano send forth its fire."

"There are eight of you," said the taller of the two men, this time
showing not only his arm but his face, "but were you a hundred, pass
on!"

"Ah! ah! the Duc de Guise!" said Henry.

"Ah! our cousin from Lorraine," said the King; "at last you will meet!
How fortunate!"

"The King!" cried the duke.

At these words the other man covered himself with his cloak and stood
motionless, having first uncovered out of respect.

"Sire," said the Duc de Guise, "I have just been paying a visit to my
sister-in-law, Madame de Condé."

"Yes--and you brought one of your gentlemen with you? Which one?"

"Sire," replied the duke, "your Majesty does not know him."

"We will meet him, however," said the King.

Walking up to the other figure, he signed to one of the lackeys to bring
a torch.

"Pardon me, brother!" said the Duc d'Anjou, opening his cloak and bowing
with poorly disguised anger.

"Ah! ah! Henry, is it you? But no, it is not possible, I am mistaken--my
brother of Anjou would not have gone to see any one else before first
calling on me. He knows that for royal princes, returning to the
capital, Paris has but one entrance, the gate of the Louvre."

"Pardon me, sire," said the Duc d'Anjou; "I beg your Majesty to excuse
my thoughtlessness."

"Ah, yes!" replied the King, mockingly; "and what were you doing,
brother, at the Hôtel de Condé?"

"Why," said the King of Navarre in his sly way, "what your Majesty
intimated just now."

And leaning over to the King he ended his sentence in a burst of
laughter.

"What is it?" asked the Duc de Guise, haughtily; for like every one else
at court, he had a way of treating the poor King of Navarre very rudely,
"why should I not go and see my sister-in-law. Does not Monsieur le Duc
d'Alençon visit his?"

Henry flushed slightly.

"What sister-in-law?" asked Charles. "I know none except Queen
Elizabeth."

"Pardon, sire! it was your sister I should have said--Madame Marguerite,
whom we saw pass in her litter as we came by here half an hour ago. She
was accompanied by two courtiers who rode on either side of her."

"Indeed!" said Charles. "What do you say to that, Henry?"

"That the Queen of Navarre is perfectly free to go where she pleases,
but I doubt if she has left the Louvre."

"Well, I am sure she did," said the Duc de Guise.

"And I too," said the Duc d'Anjou, "from the fact that the litter
stopped in the Rue Cloche Percée."

"Your sister-in-law, not this one," said Henry, pointing to the Hôtel de
Condé, "but that one," turning in the direction of the Hôtel de Guise,
"must also be of the party, for we left them together, and, as you know,
they are inseparable."

"I do not know what your majesty means," replied the Duc de Guise.

"On the contrary," said the king, "nothing is simpler. That is why a
courtier was riding at either side of the litter."

"Well!" said the duke, "if there is any scandal concerning my
sisters-in-law, let us beg the King to withhold justice."

"Well, by Heaven," said Henry, "let us leave Madame de Condé and Madame
de Nevers; the King is not anxious about his sister--and I have
confidence in my wife."

"No, no," said Charles, "I want to make sure of it; but let us attend to
the matter ourselves. The litter stopped in the Rue Cloche Percée, you
say, cousin?"

"Yes, sire."

"Do you know the house?"

"Yes, sire."

"Well, let us go to it. And if in order to find out who is in it, it is
necessary to burn it down, we will burn it."

It was with this end in view, which was rather discouraging for the
tranquillity of those concerned, that the four chief lords of the
Christian world set out to the Rue Saint Antoine.

They reached the Rue Cloche Percée. Charles, who wished to work
privately, dismissed the gentlemen of his suite, saying that they might
have the rest of the night to themselves, but for them to be at the
Bastille with two horses at six o'clock in the morning.

There were only three houses in the Rue Cloche Percée. The search was
much less difficult as two of the buildings were perfectly willing to
open their doors. One of the houses faced the Rue Saint Antoine and the
other the Rue du Roi de Sicile.

As to the third house, that was a different matter. It was the one which
was guarded by the German janitor, and this janitor was not easily
managed. That night Paris seemed destined to offer memorable examples of
conjugal fidelity. In vain did Monsieur de Guise threaten in his purest
Saxon; in vain did Henry of Anjou offer a purse filled with gold; in
vain Charles went so far as to say that he was lieutenant of the watch;
the brave German paid attention neither to the statement, the offer, nor
the threats. Seeing that they insisted, and in a way that was becoming
importunate, he slipped the nose of a gun under the iron bars, a move
which brought forth bursts of laughter from three of the four visitors.
Henry of Navarre stood apart, as if the affair had no interest for him.
But as the weapon could not be turned between the bars, it was scarcely
dangerous for any except a blind man, who might stand directly in front
of it.

Seeing that the porter was neither to be intimidated, bribed, nor
persuaded, the Duc de Guise pretended to leave with his companions; but
the retreat did not last long. At the corner of the Rue Saint Antoine
the duke found what he sought. This was a rock similar in size to those
which three thousand years before had been moved by Ajax, son of
Telamon, and Diomed. The duke raised it to his shoulder and came back,
signing to his companions to follow. Just then the janitor, who had seen
those he took for malefactors depart, closed the door. But he had not
time to draw the bolts before the Duc de Guise took advantage of the
moment, and hurled his veritable living catapult against the door. The
lock broke, carrying away a portion of the wall to which it had been
fastened. The door sprang open, knocking down the German, who, in
falling, gave a terrible cry. This cry awakened the garrison, which
otherwise would have run great risk of being surprised.

At that moment La Mole and Marguerite were translating an idyl of
Theocritus, and Coconnas, pretending that he too was a Greek, was
drinking some strong wine from Syracuse with Henriette. The scientific
and bacchanalian conversation was violently interrupted.

La Mole and Coconnas at once extinguished the candles, and opening the
windows, sprang out on the balcony. Then perceiving four men in the
darkness, they set to work to hurl at them everything they had at hand,
in the meantime making a frightful noise with blows from the flat of
their swords, which, however, struck nothing but the wall. Charles, the
most infuriated of the besiegers, received a sharp blow on the shoulder,
the Duc d'Anjou a bowl full of orange and lemon marmalade, and the Duc
de Guise a leg of venison. Henry received nothing. He was downstairs
questioning the porter, whom Monsieur de Guise had strapped to the door,
and who continued to answer by his eternal "_Ich verstehe nicht._" The
women encouraged the besieged by handing them projectiles, which
succeeded one another like hailstones.

"The devil!" exclaimed Charles IX., as a table struck his head, driving
his hat over his eyes, "if they don't open the door pretty soon I will
have them all hanged."

"My brother!" whispered Marguerite to La Mole.

"The King!" cried the latter to Henriette.

"The King! the King!" repeated Henriette to Coconnas, who was dragging a
chest to the window, and who was trying to exterminate the Duc de Guise.
Without knowing who the latter was he was having a private struggle with
him.

"The King, I tell you," repeated Henriette.

Coconnas let go of the chest and looked up in amazement.

"The King?" said he.

"Yes, the King."

"Then let us hide."

"Yes. La Mole and Marguerite have already fled. Come!"

"Where?"

"Come, I tell you."

And seizing him by the hand, Henriette pushed Coconnas through the
secret door which connected with the adjoining house, and all four,
having locked this door behind them, escaped into the Rue Tizon.

"Oh! oh!" said Charles, "I think that the garrison has surrendered."

They waited a few minutes. No sound reached the besiegers.

"They are preparing some ruse," said the Duc de Guise.

"It is more likely that they have recognized my brother's voice and have
fled," said the Duc d'Anjou.

"They would have to pass by here," said Charles.

"Yes," said the Duc d'Anjou, "unless the house has two exits."

"Cousin," said the King, "take up your stone again and hurl it against
the other door as you did at this."

The duke thought it unnecessary to resort to such means, and as he had
noticed that the second door was not as solid as the first he broke it
down by a simple kick.

"The torches! the torches!" cried the King.

The lackeys approached. The torches were out, but the men had everything
necessary for relighting them. This was done. Charles IX. took one and
handed the other to the Duc d'Anjou.

The Duc de Guise entered first, sword in hand.

Henry brought up the rear.

They reached the first floor.

In the dining-room the table was set or rather upset, for it was the
supper which had furnished the projectiles. The candlesticks were
overturned, the furniture topsy-turvy, and everything which was not
silver plate lay in fragments.

They entered the reception-room, but found no more clue there than in
the other room as to the identity of the revellers. Some Greek and Latin
books and several musical instruments were all they saw.

The sleeping-room was more silent still. A night lamp burned in an
alabaster globe suspended from the ceiling; but it was evident that the
room had not been occupied.

"There is a second door," said the King.

"Very likely," said the Duc d'Anjou.

"But where is it?" asked the Duc de Guise.

They looked everywhere, but could not find it.

"Where is the janitor?" asked the King.

"I bound him to the gate," said the Duc de Guise.

"Ask him, cousin."

"He will not answer."

"Bah! we will have a dry fire built around his legs," said the King,
laughing, "then he will speak."

Henry glanced hurriedly out of the window.

"He is not there," said he.

"Who untied him?" asked the Duc de Guise, quickly.

"The devil!" exclaimed the King, "and we know nothing as yet."

"Well!" said Henry, "you see very clearly, sire, that there is nothing
to prove that my wife and Monsieur de Guise's sister-in-law have been
in this house."

"That is so," said Charles. "The Scriptures tell us that there are three
things which leave no trace--the bird in the air, the fish in the sea,
and the woman--no, I am wrong, the man, in"--

"So," interrupted Henry, "what we had better do is"--

"Yes," said Charles, "what we had better do is for me to look after my
bruise, for you, D'Anjou, to wipe off your orange marmalade, and for
you, De Guise, to get rid of the grease." Thereupon they left without
even troubling to close the door. Reaching the Rue Saint Antoine:

"Where are you bound for, gentlemen?" asked the King of the Duc d'Anjou
and the Duc de Guise.

"Sire, we are going to the house of Nantouillet, who is expecting my
Lorraine cousin and myself to supper. Will your Majesty come with us?"

"No, thanks, we are going in a different direction. Will you take one of
my torch-bearers?"

"Thank you, no, sire," said the Duc d'Anjou, hastily.

"Good; he is afraid I will spy on him," whispered Charles to the King of
Navarre.

Then taking the latter by the arm:

"Come, Henriot," said he, "I will take you to supper to-night."

"Are we not going back to the Louvre?" asked Henry.

"No, I tell you, you stupid! Come with me, since I tell you to come.
Come!"

And he dragged Henry down the Rue Geoffroy Lasnier.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE ANAGRAM.

The Rue Garnier sur l'Eau runs into the Rue Geoffroy Lasnier, and the
Rue des Barres lies at right angles to the former.

On the right, a short distance down the Rue de la Mortellerie, stands a
small house in the centre of a garden surrounded by a high wall, which
has but one entrance. Charles drew a key from his pocket and inserted
it into the lock. The gate was unbolted and immediately opened. Telling
Henry and the lackey bearing the torch to enter, the King closed and
locked the gate behind him.

Light came from one small window which Charles smilingly pointed out to
Henry.

"Sire, I do not understand," said the latter.

"But you will, Henriot."

The King of Navarre looked at Charles in amazement. His voice and his
face had assumed an expression of gentleness so different from usual
that Henry scarcely recognized him.

"Henriot," said the King, "I told you that when I left the Louvre I came
out of hell. When I enter here I am in paradise."

"Sire," said Henry, "I am happy that your Majesty has thought me worthy
of taking this trip to Heaven with you."

"The road thither is a narrow one," said the King, turning to a small
stairway, "but nothing can be compared to it."

"Who is the angel who guards the entrance to your Eden, sire?"

"You shall see," replied Charles IX.

Signing to Henry to follow him noiselessly, he opened first one door,
then another, and finally paused on a threshold.

"Look!" said he.

Henry approached and gazed on one of the most beautiful pictures he had
ever seen.

A young woman of eighteen or nineteen lay sleeping, her head resting on
the foot of a little bed in which a child was asleep. The woman held its
little feet close to her lips, while her long hair fell over her
shoulders like a flood of gold. It was like one of Albane's pictures of
the Virgin and the Child Jesus.

"Oh, sire," said the King of Navarre, "who is this lovely creature?"

"The angel of my paradise, Henriot, the only one who loves me."

Henry smiled.

"Yes," said Charles, "for she loved me before she knew I was King."

"And since she has known it?"

"Well, since she has known it," said Charles, with a smile which showed
that royalty sometimes weighed heavily on him, "since she has known it
she loves me still; so you may judge."

The King approached the woman softly and pressed a kiss as light as that
which a bee gives to a lily on her rosy cheek.

Yet, light as it was, she awakened at once.

"Charles!" she murmured, opening her eyes.

"You see," said the King, "she calls me Charles. The queen says 'sire'!"

"Oh!" cried the young woman, "you are not alone, my King."

"No, my sweet Marie, I wanted to bring you another king, happier than
myself because he has no crown; more unhappy than I because he has no
Marie Touchet. God makes compensation for everything."

"Sire, is it the King of Navarre?" asked Marie.

"Yes, my child; come here, Henriot." The King of Navarre drew near;
Charles took him by the hand.

"See this hand, Marie," said he, "it is the hand of a good brother and a
loyal friend. Were it not for this hand"--

"Well, sire?"

"Well, had it not been for this hand to-day, Marie, our child would have
no father."

Marie uttered a cry, fell on her knees, and seizing Henry's hand covered
it with kisses.

"Very good, Marie, very good," said Charles.

"What have you done to thank him, sire?"

"I have done for him what he did for me."

Henry looked at Charles in astonishment.

"Some day you will know what I mean, Henriot; meanwhile come here and
see." He approached the bed, on which the child still slept.

"Ah!" said he, "if this little fellow were in the Louvre instead of here
in this little house in the Rue des Barres, many things would be changed
for the present as well as for the future perhaps."[13]

"Sire," said Marie, "if your Majesty is willing, I prefer him to stay
here; he sleeps better."

"Let us not disturb his slumber, then," said the King; "it is so sweet
to sleep when one does not dream!"

"Well, sire," said Marie, pointing to a door opening out of the room.

"Yes, you are right, Marie," said Charles IX., "let us have supper."

"My well-beloved Charles," said Marie, "you will ask the king your
brother to excuse me, will you not?"

"Why?"

"For having dismissed our servants, sire," continued Marie, turning to
the King of Navarre; "you must know that Charles wants to be served by
me alone."

"_Ventre saint gris!_" said Henry, "I should think so!"

Both men entered the dining-room. The mother, anxious and careful, laid
a warm blanket over the little Charles, who, thanks to the sound sleep
of childhood, so envied by his father, had not wakened.

Marie rejoined them.

"There are only two covers!" said the King.

"Permit me," said Marie, "to serve your majesties."

"Now," said Charles, "this is where you cause me trouble, Henriot."

"How so, sire?"

"Did you not hear?"

"Forgive me, Charles, forgive me."

"Yes, I will forgive you. But sit here, near me, between us."

"I will obey," said Marie.

She brought a plate, sat down between the two kings, and served them.

"Is it not good, Henriot," said Charles, "to have one place in the world
in which one can eat and drink without needing any one to taste the
meats and wines beforehand?"

"Sire," said Henry, smiling, and by the smile replying to the constant
fear in his own mind, "believe me, I appreciate your happiness more than
any one."

"And tell her, Henriot, that in order for us to live happily, she must
not mingle in politics. Above all, she must not become acquainted with
my mother."

"Queen Catharine loves your Majesty so passionately that she would be
jealous of any other love," replied Henry, finding by a subterfuge the
means of avoiding the dangerous confidence of the King.

"Marie," said the latter, "I have brought you one of the finest and the
wittiest men I know. At court, you see, and this is saying a great deal,
he puts every one in the shade. I alone have clearly understood, not his
heart, perhaps, but his mind."

"Sire," said Henry, "I am sorry that in exaggerating the one as you do,
you mistrust the other."

"I exaggerate nothing, Henriot," said the King; "besides, you will be
known some day."

Then turning to the young woman:

"He makes delightful anagrams. Ask him to make one of your name. I will
answer that he will do it."

"Oh, what could you expect to find in the name of a poor girl like me?
What gentle thought could there be in the letters with which chance
spelled Marie Touchet?"

"Oh! the anagram from this name, sire," said Henry, "is so easy that
there is no great merit in finding it."

"Ah! ah! it is already found," said Charles. "You see--Marie."

Henry drew his tablets from the pocket of his doublet, tore out a paper,
and below the name _Marie Touchet_ wrote _Je charme tout_. Then he
handed the paper to the young woman.

"Truly," she cried, "it is impossible!"

"What has he found?" asked Charles.

"Sire, I dare not repeat it."

"Sire," said Henry, "in the name Marie Touchet there is, letter for
letter, by changing the 'i' into a 'j,' as is often done, _Je charme
tout_." (I charm all.)

"Yes," exclaimed Charles, "letter for letter. I want this to be your
motto, Marie, do you hear? Never was one better deserved. Thanks,
Henriot. Marie, I will give it to you written in diamonds."

The supper over, two o'clock struck from Notre-Dame.

"Now," said Charles, "in return for this compliment, Marie, you will
give the king an armchair, in which he can sleep until daybreak; but let
it be some distance from us, because he snores frightfully. Then if you
waken before I do, you will rouse me, for at six o'clock we have to be
at the Bastille. Good-night, Henriot. Make yourself as comfortable as
possible. But," he added, approaching the King of Navarre and laying his
hand on his shoulder, "for your life, Henry,--do you hear? for your
life,--do not leave here without me, especially to return to the
Louvre."

Henry had suspected too many things in what still remained unexplained
to him to disobey such advice. Charles IX. entered his room, and Henry,
the sturdy mountaineer, settled himself in an armchair, in which he soon
justified the precaution taken by his brother-in-law in keeping at a
distance.

At dawn he was awakened by Charles. As he had not undressed, it did not
take him long to finish his toilet. The King was more happy and smiling
than he ever was at the Louvre. The hours spent by him in that little
house in the Rue des Barres were his hours of sunshine.

Both men went out through the sleeping-room. The young woman was still
in bed. The child was asleep in its cradle. Both were smiling.

Charles looked at them for a moment with infinite tenderness.

Then turning to the King of Navarre:

"Henriot," said he, "if you ever hear what I did for you last night, or
if misfortune come to me, remember this child asleep in its cradle."

Then kissing both mother and child on the forehead, without giving Henry
time to question him:

"Good-by, my angels," said he, and went out.

Henry followed, deep in thought. The horses were waiting for them at the
Bastille, held by the gentlemen to whom Charles IX. had given the order.

Charles signed to Henry to mount, sprang into his own saddle, and riding
through the garden of the Arbalite, followed the outside highways.

"Where are we going?" asked Henry.

"We are going to see if the Duc d'Anjou returned for Madame de Condé
alone," replied Charles, "and if there is as much ambition as love in
his heart, which I greatly doubt."

Henry did not understand the answer, but followed Charles in silence.

They reached the Marais, and as from the shadow of the palisades they
could see all which at that time was called the Faubourg Saint Laurent,
Charles pointed out to Henry through the grayish mist of the morning
some men wrapped in great cloaks and wearing fur caps. They were on
horseback, and rode ahead of a wagon which was heavily laden. As they
drew near they became outlined more clearly, and one could see another
man in a long brown cloak, his face hidden by a French hat, riding and
talking with them.

"Ah! ah!" said Charles, smiling, "I thought so."

"Well, sire," said Henry, "if I am not mistaken, that rider in the brown
cloak is the Duc d'Anjou."

"Yes," said Charles IX. "Turn out a little, Henriot, I do not want him
to see us."

"But," asked Henry, "who are the men in gray cloaks with fur caps?"

"Those men," said Charles, "are Polish ambassadors, and in that wagon is
a crown. And now," said he, urging his horse to a gallop, and turning
into the road of the Porte du Temple, "come, Henriot, I have seen all
that I wanted to see."

CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE RETURN TO THE LOUVRE.

When Catharine thought that everything was over in the King of Navarre's
rooms, when the dead guards had been removed, when Maurevel had been
carried to her apartments, and the carpet had been cleaned, she
dismissed her women, for it was almost midnight, and strove to sleep.
But the shock had been too violent, and the disappointment too keen.

That detested Henry, constantly escaping her snares, which were usually
fatal, seemed protected by some invincible power which Catharine
persisted in calling chance, although in her heart of hearts a voice
told her that its true name was destiny. The thought that the report of
the new attempt in spreading throughout the Louvre and beyond the Louvre
would give a greater confidence than ever in the future to Henry and the
Huguenots exasperated her, and at that moment had chance, against which
she was so unfortunately struggling, delivered her enemy into her hands,
surely with the little Florentine dagger she wore at her belt she could
have thwarted that destiny so favorable to the King of Navarre.

The hours of the night, hours so long for one waiting and watching
struck one after another without Catharine's being able to close her
eyes. A whole world of new plans unrolled in her visionary mind during
those nocturnal hours. Finally at daybreak she rose, dressed herself,
and went to the apartments of Charles IX.

The guards, who were accustomed to see her go to the King at all hours
of the day and night, let her pass. She crossed the antechamber,
therefore, and reached the armory. But there she found the nurse of
Charles, who was awake.

"My son?" said the queen.

"Madame, he gave orders that no one was to be admitted to his room
before eight o'clock."

"This order was not for me, nurse."

"It was for every one, madame."

Catharine smiled.

"Yes, I know very well," said the nurse, "that no one has any right to
oppose your majesty; I therefore beg you to listen to the prayer of a
poor woman and to refrain from entering."

"Nurse, I must speak to my son."

"Madame, I will not open the door except on a formal order from your
majesty."

"Open, nurse," said Catharine, "I order you to open!"

At this voice, more respected and much more feared in the Louvre than
that of Charles himself, the nurse handed the key to Catharine, but the
queen had no need of it. She drew from her pocket her own key of the
room, and under its heavy pressure the door yielded.

The room was vacant, Charles's bed was untouched, and his greyhound
Actéon, asleep on the bear-skin that covered the step of the bed, rose
and came forward to lick the ivory hands of Catharine.

"Ah!" said the queen, frowning, "he is out! I will wait for him."

She seated herself, pensive and gloomy, at the window which overlooked
the court of the Louvre, and from which the chief entrance was visible.

For two hours she sat there, as motionless and pale as a marble statue,
when at length she perceived a troop of horsemen returning to the
Louvre, at whose head she recognized Charles and Henry of Navarre.

Then she understood all. Instead of arguing with her in regard to the
arrest of his brother-in-law, Charles had taken him away and so had
saved him.

"Blind, blind, blind!" she murmured. Then she waited. An instant later
footsteps were heard in the adjoining room, which was the armory.

"But, sire," Henry was saying, "now that we have returned to the Louvre,
tell me why you took me away and what is the service you have rendered
me."

"No, no, Henriot," replied Charles, laughing, "some day, perhaps, you
will find out; but for the present it must remain a mystery. Know only
that for the time being you have in all probability brought about a
fierce quarrel between my mother and me."

As he uttered these words, Charles raised the curtain and found himself
face to face with Catharine.

Behind him and above his shoulder rose the pale, anxious countenance of
the Béarnais.

"Ah! you here, madame?" said Charles IX., frowning.

"Yes, my son," said Catharine, "I want to speak to you."

"To me?"

"To you alone."

"Well, well," said Charles, turning to his brother-in-law, "since there
is no escape, the sooner the better."

"I will leave you, sire," said Henry.

"Yes, yes, leave us," replied Charles; "and as you are a Catholic,
Henriot, go and hear a mass for me while I stay for the sermon."

Henry bowed and withdrew.

Charles IX. went directly to the point.

"Well, madame," said he, trying to make a joke of the affair. "By
Heaven! you are waiting to scold me, are you not? I wickedly upset your
little plan. Well, the devil! I could not let the man who had just saved
my life be arrested and taken to the Bastille. Nor did I want to quarrel
with my mother. I am a good son. Moreover," he added in a low tone, "the
Lord punishes children who quarrel with their mothers. Witness my
brother François II. Forgive me, therefore, frankly, and confess that
the joke was a good one."

"Sire," said Catharine, "your Majesty is mistaken; it is not a joke."

"Yes, yes! and you will end by looking at it in that way, or the devil
take me!"

"Sire, by your blunder you have baffled a project which would have led
to an important discovery."

"Bah! a project. Are you embarrassed because of a baffled project,
mother? You can make twenty others, and in those,--well, I promise I
will second you."

"Now that you will second me it is too late, for he is warned and will
be on his guard."

"Well," said the King, "let us come to the point. What have you against
Henriot?"

"The fact that he conspires."

"Yes, I know that this is your constant accusation; but does not every
one conspire more or less in this charming royal household called the
Louvre?"

"But he conspires more than any one, and he is much more dangerous than
one imagines."

"A regular Lorenzino!" said Charles.

"Listen," said Catharine, becoming gloomy at mention of this name, which
reminded her of one of the bloodiest catastrophes in the history of
Florence. "Listen; there is a way of proving to me that I am wrong."

"What way, mother?"

"Ask Henry who was in his room last night."

"In his room last night?"

"Yes; and if he tells you"--

"Well?"

"Well, I shall be ready to admit that I have been mistaken."

"But in case it was a woman, we cannot ask."

"A woman?"

"Yes."

"A woman who killed two of your guards and perhaps mortally wounded
Monsieur de Maurevel!"

"Oh! oh!" said the King, "this is serious. Was there any bloodshed?"

"Three men were stretched on the floor."

"And the one who reduced them to this state?"

"Escaped safe and sound."

"By Gog and Magog!" exclaimed Charles, "he was a brave fellow, and you
are right, mother, I must know him."

"Well, I tell you in advance that you will not know him, at least not
through Henry."

"But through you, mother? The man did not escape without leaving some
trace, without your noticing some part of his clothing."

"Nothing was noticed except the very elegant red cloak which he wore."

"Ah! ah! a red cloak!" cried Charles. "I know only one at court
remarkable enough to attract attention."

"Exactly," said Catharine.

"Well?" demanded Charles.

"Well," said Catharine, "wait for me in your rooms, my son, and I will
go and see if my orders have been carried out."

Catharine left, and Charles, alone, began walking up and down
distractedly, whistling a hunting-song, one hand in his doublet, the
other hanging down, which his dog licked every time he paused.

As to Henry he had left his brother-in-law greatly disturbed, and
instead of going along the main corridor he had taken the small private
stairway, to which we have already referred more than once, and which
led to the second story. Scarcely had he ascended four steps before he
perceived a figure at the first landing. He stopped, raising his hand to
his dagger. But he soon saw it was a woman, who took hold of his hand
and said in a charming voice which he well knew:

"Thank God, sire, you are safe and sound. I was so afraid for you, but
no doubt God heard my prayer."

"What has happened?" said Henry.

"You will know when you reach your rooms. You need not worry over
Orthon. I have seen to him."

The young woman descended the stairs hastily, making Henry believe that
she had met him by chance.

"That is strange," said Henry to himself. "What is the matter? What has
happened to Orthon?"

Unfortunately, the question was not heard by Madame de Sauve, for the
latter had already disappeared.

Suddenly at the top of the stairs Henry perceived another figure, but
this time it was that of a man.

"Hush!" said the man.

"Ah! is it you, François?"

"Do not call me by my name."

"What has happened?"

"Return to your rooms and you will see, then slip into the corridor,
look carefully around to make sure that no one is spying on you, and
come to my apartments. The door will be ajar."

He, too, disappeared down the stairs, like the phantoms in a theatre who
glide through a trap door.

"_Ventre saint gris!_" murmured the Béarnais, "the puzzle continues; but
since the answer is in my rooms, let us go thither and find it."

However, it was not without emotion that Henry went on his way. He had
the sensitiveness and the superstition of youth. Everything was clearly
reflected on his mind, the surface of which was as smooth as a mirror,
and what he had just heard foretold trouble.

He reached the door of his rooms and listened. Not a sound. Besides,
since Charlotte had said to return to his apartments, it was evident
that there was nothing for him to fear by doing so. He glanced hurriedly
around the first room--it was vacant. Nothing showed that anything had
occurred.

"Orthon is not here," said he.

He passed on to the next room. There everything was explained.

In spite of the water which had been thrown on in bucketsful, great red
spots covered the floor. A piece of furniture was broken, the bed
curtains had been slashed by the sword, a Venetian mirror had been
shattered by a bullet; and a bloody hand which had left its terrible
imprint on the wall showed that this silent chamber had been the scene
of a frightful struggle. Henry embraced all these details at a glance,
and passing his hand across his forehead, now damp with perspiration,
murmured:

"Ah, I know now the service the King has rendered me. They came here to
assassinate me--and--ah! De Mouy! what have they done to De Mouy? The
wretches! They may have killed him!"

And as anxious to learn the news as the Duc d'Alençon was to tell it,
Henry threw a last mournful glance on the surrounding objects, hurried
from the room, reached the corridor, made sure that it was vacant, and
pushing open the half-closed door, which he carefully shut behind him,
he hurried to the Duc d'Alençon's.

The duke was waiting for him in the first room. Laying his finger on his
lips, he hastily took Henry's hand and drew him into a small round tower
which was completely isolated, and which consequently was out of range
of spies.

"Ah, brother," said he, "what a horrible night!"

"What happened?" asked Henry.

"They tried to arrest you."

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

"For what reason?"

"I do not know. Where were you?"

"The King took me into the city with him last night."

"Then he knew about it," said D'Alençon. "But since you were not in your
rooms, who was?"

"Was some one there?" asked Henry as if he were ignorant of the fact.

"Yes, a man. When I had heard the noise, I ran to help you; but it was
too late."

"Was the man arrested?" asked Henry, anxiously.

"No, he escaped, after he had wounded Maurevel dangerously and killed
two guards."

"Ah! brave De Mouy!" cried Henry.

"It was De Mouy, then?" said D'Alençon, quickly.

Henry saw that he had made a mistake.

"I presume so," said he, "for I had an appointment with him to discuss
your escape, and to tell him that I had yielded all my rights to the
throne of Navarre to you."

"If that is known," said D'Alençon, growing pale, "we are lost."

"Yes, for Maurevel will speak."

"Maurevel received a sword-thrust in his throat, and I found out from
the surgeon who dressed the wound that it would be a week before he
would utter a single word."

"A week! That is more than enough for De Mouy to escape."

"For that matter," said D'Alençon, "it might have been some one besides
Monsieur de Mouy."

"You think so?" said Henry.

"Yes, the man disappeared very quickly, and nothing but his red cloak
was seen."

"And a red cloak," said Henry, "is more apt to be worn by a courtier
than by a soldier. I should never suspect De Mouy in a red cloak."

"No, if any one were suspected," said D'Alençon, "it would be more apt
to be"--

He stopped.

"It would be more likely to be Monsieur de la Mole," said Henry.

"Certainly, since I myself, who saw the man running away, thought so for
an instant."

"You thought so? Why, it must have been Monsieur de la Mole, then."

"Does he know anything?" asked D'Alençon.

"Absolutely nothing; at least, nothing of importance."

"Brother," said the duke; "I really think now that it was he."

"The devil!" said Henry; "if it was, that will trouble the queen
greatly, for she is interested in him."

"Interested, you say?" said D'Alençon in amazement.

"Yes. Do you not remember, François, that it was your sister who
recommended him to you?"

"Yes," said the duke, in a dull voice; "so I tried to be agreeable to
him. The proof of this is that, fearing his red cloak might compromise
him, I went up to his rooms and took the cloak away."

"Oh! oh!" exclaimed Henry, "that was doubly prudent. And now I would not
bet, but I would swear, that it was he."

"Even in court?" asked François.

"Faith, yes," replied Henry. "He probably came to bring me some message
from Marguerite."

"If I were sure of being upheld by your testimony," said D'Alençon, "I
would almost accuse him."

"If you were to accuse him," replied Henry, "you understand, brother,
that I would not contradict you."

"But the queen?" said D'Alençon.

"Ah, yes, the queen."

"We must know what she would do."

"I will undertake to find out."

"Plague it, brother! she will do wrong to lie to us, for this affair
will make a glorious reputation of bravery for the young man, and which,
cannot have cost him dear either, for he probably bought it on credit.
Furthermore, it is true that he is well able to pay back both interest
and capital."

"Well, what can you expect?" said Henry; "in this base world one has
nothing for nothing!"

And bowing and smiling to D'Alençon, he cautiously thrust his head into
the corridor, and making sure that no one had been listening, he hurried
rapidly away, and disappeared down the private stairway which led to the
apartments of Marguerite.

As far as she was concerned, the Queen of Navarre was no less anxious
than her husband. The night's expedition sent against her and the
Duchesse de Nevers by the King, the Duc d'Anjou, the Duc de Guise, and
Henry, whom she had recognized, troubled her greatly. In all probability
there was nothing which could compromise her. The janitor unfastened
from the gate by La Mole and Coconnas had promised to be silent. But
four lords like those with whom two simple gentlemen, such as La Mole
and Coconnas, had coped, would not have gone out of their way by chance,
or without having had some reason for thus inconveniencing themselves.
Marguerite had returned at daybreak, having passed the rest of the
night with the Duchesse de Nevers. She had retired at once, but had been
unable to sleep, and had started at the slightest sound.

In the midst of this anxiety she heard some one knocking at the secret
door, and being informed that the visitor was Gillonne, she gave orders
to have her admitted.

Henry waited at the outer door. Nothing in his appearance showed the
wounded husband. His usual smile lay on his delicate lips, and not a
muscle of his face betrayed the terrible anxiety through which he had
just passed. He seemed to glance inquiringly at Marguerite to discover
if she would allow him to talk with her alone. Marguerite understood her
husband's look, and signed to Gillonne to withdraw.

"Madame," said Henry, "I know how deeply you are attached to your
friends, and I fear I bring you bad news."

"What is it, monsieur?" asked Marguerite.

"One of your dearest servants is at present greatly compromised."

"Which one?"

"The dear Count de la Mole."

"Monsieur le Comte de la Mole compromised! And why?"

"Because of the affair of last night."

In spite of her self-control Marguerite could not keep from blushing.

But she made an effort over herself.

"What affair?" she asked.

"What," said Henry, "did you not hear all the noise which was made in
the Louvre?"

"No, monsieur."

"I congratulate you, madame," said Henry, with charming simplicity.
"This proves that you are a sound sleeper."

"But what happened?"

"It seems that our good mother gave an order to Monsieur de Maurevel and
six of his men to arrest me."

"You, monsieur, you?"

"Yes, me."

"For what reason?"

"Ah, who can tell the reasons of a mind as subtle as that of your
mother? I suspect the reasons, but I do not know them positively."

"And you were not in your rooms?"

"No; I happened not to be. You have guessed rightly, madame, I was not.
Last evening the King asked me to go out with him. But, although I was
not in my rooms, some one else was."

"Who?"

"It seems that it was the Count de la Mole."

"The Count de la Mole!" exclaimed Marguerite, astonished.

"By Heavens! what a lively little fellow this man from the provinces
is!" continued Henry. "Do you know that he wounded Maurevel and killed
two guards?"

"Wounded Monsieur de Maurevel and killed two guards!--impossible!"

"What! You doubt his courage, madame?"

"No, but I say that Monsieur de la Mole could not have been in your
rooms."

"Why not?"

"Why, because--because"--said Marguerite, embarrassed, "because he was
elsewhere."

"Ah! If he can prove an alibi," said Henry, "that is different; he will
tell where he was, and the matter will be settled."

"Where was he?" said Marguerite, quickly.

"In all probability the day will not pass without his being arrested and
questioned. But unfortunately as there are proofs"--

"Proofs! what proofs?"

"The man who made this desperate defence wore a red cloak."

"But Monsieur de la Mole is not the only one who has a red cloak--I know
another man who has one."

"No doubt, and I too know one. But this is what will happen: if it was
not Monsieur de la Mole who was in my rooms, it must have been the other
man who wears a red cloak, like La Mole. Now, do you know who this other
man is?"

"Heavens!"

"There lies the danger. You, as well as myself, madame, have seen it.
Your emotion proves this. Let us now talk like two people who are
discussing the most desirable thing in the world--a throne; a most
precious gift--life. De Mouy arrested, we are ruined."

"Yes, I understand that."

"While Monsieur de la Mole compromises no one; at least you would not
suppose him capable of inventing a story such as, for instance, that he
was with some ladies--whom I know?"

"Monsieur," said Marguerite, "if you fear only that, you may be easy. He
will not say it."

"What!" said Henry, "would he remain silent if death were to be the
price of his silence?"

"He would remain silent, monsieur."

"You are sure of this?"

"I am sure."

"Then everything is for the best," said Henry, rising.

"You are going, monsieur?" asked Marguerite, quickly.

"Oh, my God, yes. This is all I had to say to you."

"And you are going"--

"To try and get out of the trouble we have been put to by this devil of
a man in the red cloak."

"Oh, my God! my God! the poor young man!" cried Marguerite, pitifully,
wringing her hands.

"Really," said Henry, as he went out, "this dear Monsieur de la Mole is
a faithful servant."

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE GIRDLE OF THE QUEEN MOTHER.

Charles entered his room, smiling and joking. But after a conversation
of ten minutes with his mother, one would have said that the latter had
given him her pallor and anger in exchange for the light-heartedness of
her son.

"Monsieur de la Mole," said Charles, "Monsieur de la Mole! Henry and the
Duc d'Alençon must be sent for. Henry, because this young man was a
Huguenot; the Duc d'Alençon, because he is in his service."

"Send for them if you wish, my son, but you will learn nothing. Henry
and François, I fear, are much more closely bound together than one
would suppose from appearances. To question them is to suspect them. I
think it would be better to wait for the slow but sure proof of time. If
you give the guilty ones time to breathe again, my son, if you let them
think they have escaped your vigilance, they will become bold and
triumphant, and will give you a better opportunity to punish them. Then
we shall know everything."

Charles walked up and down, undecided, gnawing his anger, as a horse
gnaws his bit, and pressing his clinched hand to his heart, which was
consumed by his one idea.

"No, no," said he, at length; "I will not wait. You do not know what it
is to wait, beset with suspicions as I am. Besides, every day these
courtiers become more insolent. Even last night did not two of them dare
to cope with us? If Monsieur de la Mole is innocent, very good; but I
should not be sorry to know where Monsieur de la Mole was last night,
while they were attacking my guards in the Louvre, and me in the Rue
Cloche Percée. So let the Duc d'Alençon be sent for, and afterwards
Henry. I will question them separately. You may remain, mother."

Catharine sat down. For a determined spirit such as hers was, every
incident turned by her powerful hand would lead her to her goal,
although it might seem to be leading away from it. From every blow there
would result noise and a spark. The noise would guide, the spark give
light.

The Duc d'Alençon entered. His previous conversation with Henry had
prepared him for this interview; therefore he was quite calm.

His replies were very exact. Warned by his mother to remain in his own
rooms, he was completely ignorant of the events of the night. But as his
apartments opened upon the same corridor as did those of the King of
Navarre, he had at first thought he heard a sound like that of a door
being broken in, then curses, then pistol-shots. Thereupon he had
ventured to push his door partly open, and had seen a man in a red cloak
running away.

Charles and his mother exchanged glances.

"In a red cloak?" said the King.

"In a red cloak," replied D'Alençon.

"And did you have any suspicions regarding this red cloak?"

D'Alençon rallied all his strength that he might lie as naturally as
possible.

"At first sight," said he, "I must confess to your Majesty that I
thought I recognized the red cloak of one of my gentlemen."

"What is the name of this gentleman?"

"Monsieur de la Mole."

"Why was not Monsieur de la Mole with you as his duty required him to
be?"

"I had given him leave of absence," said the duke.

"That is well; now you may go," said Charles.

The Duc d'Alençon started towards the door by which he had entered.

"Not that way," said Charles; "this way."

And he indicated the door opening into his nurse's room. Charles did not
want François and Henry to meet.

He did not know that they had already seen each other for an instant,
and that this instant had sufficed for the two brothers-in-law to agree
on their plans.

At a sign from Charles, Henry entered.

He did not wait for Charles to question him, however.

"Sire," said he, "your Majesty has done well to send for me, for I was
just coming to demand justice of you."

Charles frowned.

"Yes, justice," said Henry. "I will begin by thanking your Majesty for
having taken me with you last night; for, by doing this, I now know that
you saved my life. But what had I done that an attempt should be made to
assassinate me?"

"Not to assassinate," said Catharine, quickly, "but to arrest you."

"Well," said Henry, "even so. What crime have I committed to merit
arrest? If I am guilty I am as much so this morning as I was last
evening. Tell me my offence, sire."

Embarrassed as to what reply to make, Charles looked at his mother.

"My son," said Catharine, "you receive suspicious characters."

"Very good," said Henry, "and these suspicious characters compromise me;
is that it, madame?"

"Yes, Henry."

"Give me their names! Give me their names! Who are they? Let me see
them!"

"Really," said Charles, "Henriot has the right to demand an
explanation."

"And I do demand it!" said Henry, realizing the superiority of his
position and anxious to make the most of it. "I ask it from my good
brother Charles, and from my good mother Catharine. Since my marriage
with Marguerite have I not been a kind husband? ask Marguerite. A good
Catholic? ask my confessor. A good relative? ask those who were at the
hunt yesterday."

"Yes, that is true, Henriot," said the King; "but what can you do? They
claim that you conspire."

"Against whom?"

"Against me."

"Sire, if I had been conspiring against you, I had merely to let events
take their course, when your horse broke his knee and could not rise, or
when the furious boar turned on your Majesty."

"Well, the devil! mother, do you know that he is right?"

"But who was in your rooms last night?"

"Madame," said Henry, "in times when so few dare to answer for
themselves, I should never attempt to answer for others. I left my rooms
at seven o'clock in the evening, at ten o'clock my brother Charles took
me away, and I spent the night with him. I could not be with your
Majesty and know what was going on in my rooms at the same time."

"But," said Catharine, "it is none the less true that one of your men
killed two of his Majesty's guards and wounded Monsieur de Maurevel."

"One of my men?" said Henry. "What man, madame? Name him."

"Every one accuses Monsieur de la Mole."

"Monsieur de la Mole is not in my suite, madame; Monsieur de la Mole
belongs to Monsieur d'Alençon, to whom he was recommended by your
daughter."

"But," said Charles, "was it Monsieur de la Mole who was in your rooms,
Henriot?"

"How can you expect me to know, sire? I can say neither yes nor no.
Monsieur de la Mole is an exceptional servant, thoroughly devoted to the
Queen of Navarre. He often brings me messages, either from Marguerite,
to whom he is grateful for having recommended him to Monsieur le Duc
d'Alençon, or from Monsieur le Duc himself. I cannot say that it was not
Monsieur de la Mole"--

"It was he," said Catharine. "His red cloak was recognized."

"Has Monsieur de la Mole a red cloak, then?"

"Yes."

"And the man who so cleverly disposed of two of my guards and Monsieur
de Maurevel"--

"Had a red cloak?" asked Henry.

"Exactly," said Charles.

"I have nothing to say," said the Béarnais. "But in any case it seems to
me that instead of summoning me here, since I was not in my rooms, it is
Monsieur de la Mole, who, having been there, as you say, should be
questioned. But," said Henry, "I must observe one thing to your
Majesty."

"What is that?"

"This, that if I had seen an order signed by my King and had defended
myself instead of obeying this order, I should be guilty and should
deserve all sorts of punishment; but it was not I but some stranger whom
this order in no way concerned. There was an attempt made to arrest him
unjustly, he defended himself too well, perhaps, but he was in the
right."

"And yet"--murmured Catharine.

"Madame," said Henry, "was the order to arrest me?"

"Yes," said Catharine, "and his Majesty himself signed it."

"Was it an order to arrest any one found in my place in case I was not
there?"

"No," said Catharine.

"Well!" said Henry, "unless you prove that I was conspiring and that the
man who was in my rooms was conspiring with me, this man is innocent."

Then turning to Charles IX.:

"Sire," continued Henry, "I shall not leave the Louvre. At a simple word
from your Majesty I shall even be ready to enter any state prison you
may be pleased to suggest. But while waiting for the proof to the
contrary I have the right to call myself and I do call myself the very
faithful servant, subject, and brother of your Majesty."

And with a dignity hitherto unknown in him, Henry bowed to Charles and
withdrew.

"Bravo, Henriot!" said Charles, when the King of Navarre had left.

"Bravo! because he has defeated us?" said Catharine.

"Why should I not applaud? When we fence together and he touches me do I
not say 'bravo'? Mother, you are wrong to hate this boy as you do."

"My son," said Catharine, pressing the hand of Charles IX., "I do not
hate him, I fear him."

"Well, you are wrong, mother. Henriot is my friend, and as he said, had
he been conspiring against me he had only to let the wild boar alone."

"Yes," said Catharine, "so that Monsieur le Duc d'Anjou, his personal
enemy, might be King of France."

"Mother, whatever Henriot's motive in saving my life, the fact is that
he saved it, and, the devil! I do not want any harm to come to him. As
to Monsieur de la Mole, well, I will talk about him with my brother
D'Alençon, to whom he belongs."

This was Charles IX.'s way of dismissing his mother, who withdrew
endeavoring to fix her suspicions. On account of his unimportance,
Monsieur de la Mole did not answer to her needs.

Returning to her rooms, Catharine found Marguerite waiting for her.

"Ah! ah!" said she, "is it you, my daughter? I sent for you last
evening."

"I know it, madame, but I had gone out."

"And this morning?"

"This morning, madame, I have come to tell your majesty that you are
about to do a great wrong."

"What is that?"

"You are going to have Monsieur le Comte de la Mole arrested."

"You are mistaken, my daughter, I am going to have no one arrested. It
is the King, not I, who gives orders for arrests."

"Let us not quibble over the words, madame, when the circumstances are
serious. Monsieur de la Mole is going to be arrested, is he not?"

"Very likely."

"Accused of having been found in the chamber of the King of Navarre last
night, and of having killed two guards and wounded Monsieur de
Maurevel?"

"Such indeed is the crime they impute to him."

"They impute it to him wrongly, madame," said Marguerite; "Monsieur de
la Mole is not guilty."

"Monsieur de la Mole not guilty!" said Catharine, giving a start of joy,
and thinking that what Marguerite was about to tell her would throw
light on the subject.

"No," went on Marguerite, "he is not guilty, he cannot be so, for he was
not in the king's room."

"Where was he, then?"

"In my room, madame."

"In your room?"

"Yes, in my room."

At this avowal from a daughter of France, Catharine felt like hurling a
withering glance at Marguerite, but she merely crossed her arms on her
lap.

"And," said she after a moment's silence, "if Monsieur de la Mole is
arrested and questioned"--

"He will say where he was and with whom he was, mother," replied
Marguerite, although she felt sure of the contrary.

"Since this is so, you are right, my daughter; Monsieur de la Mole must
not be arrested."

Marguerite shivered. It seemed to her that there was something strange
and terrible in the way her mother uttered these words; but she had
nothing to say, for what she had come to ask for had been granted her.

"But," said Catharine, "if it was not Monsieur de la Mole who was in the
king's room, it was some one else!"

Marguerite was silent.

"Do you know who it was, my daughter?" said Catharine.

"No, mother," said Marguerite, in an unsteady voice.

"Come, do not be half confidential."

"I repeat, madame, that I do not know," replied Marguerite again,
growing pale in spite of herself.

"Well, well," said Catharine, carelessly, "we shall find out. Go now, my
daughter. You may rest assured that your mother will watch over your
honor."

Marguerite went out.

"Ah!" murmured Catharine, "they are in league. Henry and Marguerite are
working together. While the wife is silent, the husband is blind. Ah,
you are very clever, my children, and you think yourselves very strong.
But your strength is in your union and I will break you, one after the
other. Besides, the day will come when Maurevel can speak or write,
utter a name, or spell six letters, and then we shall know everything.
Yes, but in the meantime the guilty shall be in safe-keeping. The best
thing to do would be to separate them at once."

Thereupon Catharine set out for the apartments of her son, whom she
found holding a conference with D'Alençon.

"Ah! ah!" exclaimed Charles IX., frowning, "is it you, mother?"

"Why did you not say '_again_'? The word was in your mind, Charles."

"What is in my mind belongs to me, madame," said the King, in the rough
tone he sometimes used even when speaking to Catharine. "What do you
want of me? Tell me quickly."

"Well, you were right, my son," said Catharine to Charles, "and you,
D'Alençon, were wrong."

"In what respect, madame?" asked both princes.

"It was not Monsieur de la Mole who was in the apartments of the King of
Navarre."

"Ah! ah!" cried François, growing pale.

"Who was it, then?" asked Charles.

"We do not know yet, but we shall know when Maurevel is able to speak.
So let us drop the subject, which will soon be explained, and return to
Monsieur de la Mole."

"Well, what do you want of Monsieur de la Mole, mother, since he was not
in the rooms of the King of Navarre?"

"No," said Catharine, "he was not there, but he was with--the queen."

"With the queen!" cried Charles, bursting into a nervous laugh.

"With the queen," murmured D'Alençon, turning as pale as death.

"No, no," said Charles, "De Guise told me he had met Marguerite's
litter."

"Yes," said Catharine, "she has a house in town."

"In the Rue Cloche Percée!" cried the King.

"Oh! oh! this is too much," said D'Alençon, driving his nails into his
breast. "And to have had him recommended to me!"

"Ah! now that I think of it!" said the King, stopping suddenly, "it was
he who defended himself against us last night, and who hurled the silver
bowl at my head, the wretch!"

"Oh, yes!" repeated François, "the wretch!"

"You are right, my children," said Catharine, without appearing to
understand the feelings which incited both of her sons to speak. "You
are right, for a single indiscreet act of this gentleman might cause a
horrible scandal, and ruin a daughter of France. One moment of madness
would be enough for that."

"Or of vanity," said François.

"No doubt, no doubt," said Charles. "And yet we cannot bring the case
into court unless Henriot consents to appear as plaintiff."

"My son," said Catharine, placing her hand on Charles's shoulder in such
a way as to call the King's attention to what she was about to propose,
"listen to what I say. A crime has been committed, and there may be
scandal. But this sort of offence to royalty is not punished by judges
and hangmen. If you were simple gentlemen, I should have nothing to say
to you, for you are both brave, but you are princes, you cannot cross
swords with mere country squires. Think how you can avenge yourselves as
princes."

"The devil!" cried Charles, "you are right, mother, and I will consider
it."

"I will help you, brother," cried François.

"And I," said Catharine, unfastening the black silk girdle which was
wound three times about her waist, and the two tassels of which fell to
her knees. "I will retire, but I leave you this to represent me."

And she threw the girdle at the feet of the two princes.

"Ah! ah!" said Charles, "I understand."

"This girdle"--said D'Alençon, picking it up.

"Is punishment and silence," said Catharine, victorious; "but," she
added, "there would be no harm in mentioning this to Henry."

She withdrew.

"By Heaven!" said D'Alençon; "a good idea, and when Henry knows that his
wife has betrayed him--So," he added, turning to the King, "you will
adopt our mother's suggestion?"

"In every detail," said Charles, not doubting but that he would drive a
thousand daggers into D'Alençon's heart. "This will annoy Marguerite,
but it will delight Henriot."

Then, calling one of his guards, he ordered Henry summoned, but thinking
better of it:

"No, no," said he, "I will go for him myself. Do you, D'Alençon, inform
D'Anjou and De Guise."

Leaving his apartments, he ascended the private stairway to the second
floor, which led to Henry's chamber.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

PROJECTS OF REVENGE.

Henry took advantage of the respite afforded him by his well-sustained
examination to go to Madame de Sauve's. He found Orthon completely
recovered from his fainting-fit. But Orthon could tell him nothing,
except that some men had broken into the king's rooms, that the leader
had struck him with the handle of his sword, and that the blow had
stunned him. No one had troubled about Orthon. Catharine had seen that
he had fainted and had believed him to be dead.

As he had come to himself between the departure of the queen mother and
the arrival of the captain of the guards charged with clearing up the
room, he had taken refuge in Madame de Sauve's apartments.

Henry begged Charlotte to keep the young man until news came from De
Mouy, who would not fail to write him from his hiding-place. Then he
would send Orthon to carry his answer to De Mouy, and instead of one
devoted man he could count on two. This decided on, he returned to his
rooms and began further to consider matters, walking up and down the
while. Suddenly the door opened and the King appeared.

"Your Majesty!" cried Henry, rising to meet him.

"In person. Really, Henriot, you are a good fellow, and I love you more
and more."

"Sire," said Henry, "your Majesty overwhelms me."

"You have but one fault, Henriot."

"What is that? The one for which your Majesty has already reproached me
several times?" said Henry. "My preferring to hunt animals rather than
birds?"

"No, no, I am not referring to that, Henriot, I mean something else."

"If your Majesty will explain," said Henry, who saw from the smile on
Charles's lips that the King was in a good humor, "I will try and
correct it."

"It is this, that having such good eyes, you see no better than you do."

"Bah!" said Henry, "can I be short-sighted, then, sire, without knowing
it?"

"Worse than that, Henry, worse than that, you are blind."

"Ah, indeed," said the Béarnais, "but is it not when I shut my eyes that
this happens?"

"Well, yes!" said Charles, "you are perfectly capable of that. At all
events, I am going to open your eyes."

"God said, 'Let there be light,' and there was light. Your Majesty is
the representative of God on earth. Therefore you can do here what God
does in heaven. Proceed; I am all attention."

"When De Guise said last night that your wife had just passed escorted
by a gallant you would not believe it."

"Sire," said Henry, "how could I believe that the sister of your Majesty
could commit an act of such imprudence?"

"When he told you that your wife had gone to the Rue Cloche Percée, you
would not believe that either!"

"How was I to suppose, sire, that a daughter of France would thus
publicly risk her reputation?"

"When we besieged the house in the Rue Cloche Percée, and when I had a
silver bowl hurled at my shoulder, D'Anjou some orange marmalade on his
head, and De Guise a haunch of venison in the face, you saw two women
and two men, did you not?"

"I saw nothing, sire. Does not your Majesty remember that I was
questioning the janitor?"

"Yes, but, by Heaven, I saw"--

"Ah, if your Majesty saw anything, that is a different thing."

"I saw two men and two women. Well, I know now beyond a doubt that one
of the women was Margot, and that one of the men was Monsieur de la
Mole."

"Well," said Henry, "if Monsieur de la Mole was in the Rue Cloche
Percée, he was not here."

"No," said Charles, "he was not here. But never mind who was here; we
shall know this as soon as that imbecile of a Maurevel is able to speak
or write. The point is that Margot is deceiving you."

"Bah!" said Henry; "do not believe such nonsense."

"When I tell you that you are more than near-sighted, that you are
blind, the devil! will you believe me just once, stupid? I tell you that
Margot is deceiving you, and that this evening we are going to strangle
her lover."

Henry gave a start of surprise, and looked at his brother-in-law in
amazement.

"Confess, Henry, that at heart you are not sorry. Margot will cry out
like a thousand Niobes; but, faith! so much the worse. I do not want you
to be made a fool of. If Condé is deceived by the Duc d'Anjou, I will
wink; Condé is my enemy. But you are my brother; more than this, you are
my friend."

"But, sire"--

"And I do not want you to be annoyed, and made a fool of. You have been
a quintain long enough for all these popinjays who come from the
provinces to gather our crumbs, and court our women. Let them come, or
rather let them come again. By Heaven! you have been deceived,
Henriot,--that might happen to any one,--but I swear, you shall have
shining satisfaction, and to-morrow they shall say: In the name of a
thousand devils! it seems that King Charles loves his brother Henriot,
for last night he had Monsieur de la Mole's tongue pulled out in a most
amusing manner."

"Is this really decided on, sire?" asked Henry.

"Decided on, determined on, arranged. The coxcomb will have no time to
plead his cause. The expedition will consist of myself, D'Anjou,
D'Alençon, and De Guise--a king, two sons of France, and a sovereign
prince, without counting you."

"How without counting me?"

"Why, you are to be one of us."

"I!"

"Yes, you! you shall stab the fellow in a royal manner, while the rest
of us strangle him."

"Sire," said Henry, "your kindness overpowers me; but how do you know"--

"Why, the devil! it seems that the fellow boasts of it. He goes
sometimes to your wife's apartments in the Louvre, sometimes to the Rue
Cloche Percée. They compose verses together. I should like to see the
stanzas that fop writes. Pastorales they are. They discuss Bion and
Moschus, and read first Daphne and then Corydon. Ah! take a good dagger
with you!"

"Sire," said Henry, "upon reflection"--

"What?"

"Your Majesty will see that I cannot join such an expedition. It seems
to me it would be inconvenient to be there in person. I am too much
interested in the affair to take any calm part in it. Your Majesty will
avenge the honor of your sister on a coxcomb who boasts of having
calumniated my wife; nothing is simpler, and Marguerite, whom I hold to
be innocent, sire, is in no way dishonored. But were I of the party, it
would be a different thing. My co-operation would convert an act of
justice into an act of revenge. It would no longer be an execution, but
an assassination. My wife would no longer be calumniated, but guilty."

"By Heaven, Henry, as I said just now to my mother, you speak words of
wisdom. You have a devilishly quick mind."

And Charles gazed complacently at his brother-in-law, who bowed in
return for the compliment.

"Nevertheless," added Charles, "you are willing to be rid of this
coxcomb, are you not?"

"Everything your Majesty does is well done," replied the King of
Navarre.

"Well, well, let me do your work for you. You may be sure it shall not
be the worse for it."

"I leave it to you, sire," said Henry.

"At what time does he usually go to your wife's room?"

"About nine o'clock."

"And he leaves?"

"Before I reach there, for I never see him."

"About"--

"About eleven."

"Very well. Come this evening at midnight. The deed will be done."

Charles pressed Henry's hand cordially, and renewing his vows of
friendship, left the apartment, whistling his favorite hunting-song.

"_Ventre saint gris!_" said the Béarnais, watching Charles, "either I am
greatly mistaken, or the queen mother is responsible for all this
deviltry. Truly, she does nothing but invent plots to make trouble
between my wife and myself. Such a pleasant household!"

And Henry began to laugh as he was in the habit of laughing when no one
could see or hear him.

About seven o'clock that evening a handsome young man, who had just
taken a bath, was finishing his toilet as he calmly moved about his
room, humming a little air, before a mirror in one of the rooms of the
Louvre. Near him another young man was sleeping, or rather lying on a
bed.

The one was our friend La Mole who, unconsciously, had been the object
of so much discussion all day; the other was his companion Coconnas.

The great storm had passed over him without his having heard the rumble
of the thunder or seen the lightning. He had returned at three o'clock
in the morning, had stayed in bed until three in the afternoon, half
asleep, half awake, building castles on that uncertain sand called the
future. Then he had risen, had spent an hour at a fashionable bath, had
dined at Maître La Hurière's, and returning to the Louvre had set
himself to finish his toilet before making his usual call on the queen.

"And you say you have dined?" asked Coconnas, yawning.

"Faith, yes, and I was hungry too."

"Why did you not take me with you, selfish man?"

"Faith, you were sleeping so soundly that I did not like to waken you.
But you shall sup with me instead. Be sure not to forget to ask Maître
La Hurière for some of that light wine from Anjou, which arrived a few
days ago."

"Is it good?"

"I merely tell you to ask for it."

"Where are you going?"

"Where am I going?" said La Mole, surprised that his friend should ask
him such a question; "I am going to pay my respects to the queen."

"Well," said Coconnas, "if I were going to dine in our little house in
the Rue Cloche Percée, I should have what was left over from yesterday.
There is a certain wine of Alicante which is most refreshing."

"It would be imprudent to go there, Annibal, my friend, after what
occurred last night. Besides, did we not promise that we would not go
back there alone? Hand me my cloak."

"That is so," said Coconnas, "I had forgotten. But where the devil is
your cloak? Ah! here it is."

"No, you have given me the black one, and it is the red one I want. The
queen likes me better in that."

"Ah, faith," said Coconnas, searching everywhere, "look for yourself, I
cannot find it."

"What!" said La Mole, "you cannot find it? Why, where can it be?"

"You probably sold it."

"Why, I have six crowns left."

"Well, take mine."

"Ah, yes,--a yellow cloak with a green doublet! I should look like a
popinjay!"

"Faith, you are over-particular, so wear what you please."

Having tossed everything topsy-turvy in his search, La Mole was
beginning to abuse the thieves who managed to enter even the Louvre,
when a page from the Duc d'Alençon appeared bringing the precious cloak
in question.

"Ah!" cried La Mole, "here it is at last!"

"Is this your cloak, monsieur?" said the page. "Yes; monseigneur sent
for it to decide a wager he made regarding its color."

"Oh!" said La Mole, "I asked for it only because I was going out, but
if his highness desires to keep it longer"--

"No, Monsieur le Comte, he is through with it."

The page left. La Mole fastened his cloak.

"Well," he went on, "what have you decided to do?"

"I do not know."

"Shall I find you here this evening?"

"How can I tell?"

"Do you not know what you are going to do for two hours?"

"I know well enough what I shall do, but I do not know what I may be
ordered to do."

"By the Duchesse de Nevers?"

"No, by the Duc d'Alençon."

"As a matter of fact," said La Mole, "I have noticed for some time that
he has been friendly to you."

"Yes," said Coconnas.

"Then your fortune is made," said La Mole, laughing.

"Poof!" said Coconnas. "He is only a younger brother!"

"Oh!" said La Mole, "he is so anxious to become the elder one that
perhaps Heaven will work some miracle in his favor."

"So you do not know where you will be this evening?"

"No."

"Go to the devil, then,--I mean good-by!"

"That La Mole is a terrible fellow," thought Coconnas, "always wanting
me to tell him where I am going to be! as if I knew. Besides, I believe
I am sleepy." And he threw himself on the bed again.

La Mole betook himself to the apartments of the queen. In the corridor
he met the Duc d'Alençon.

"Ah! you here, Monsieur la Mole?" said the prince.

"Yes, my lord," replied La Mole, bowing respectfully.

"Are you going away from the Louvre?"

"No, your highness. I am on my way to pay my respects to her Majesty the
Queen of Navarre."

"About what time shall you leave, Monsieur de la Mole?"

"Has monseigneur any orders for me?"

"No, not at present, but I shall want to speak to you this evening."

"About what time?"

"Between nine and ten."

"I shall do myself the honor of waiting on your highness at that time."

"Very good. I shall depend on you."

La Mole bowed and went on.

"There are times," said he, "when the duke is as pale as death. It is
very strange."

He knocked at the door of the queen's apartments. Gillonne, who
apparently was expecting him, led him to Marguerite.

The latter was occupied with some work which seemed to be wearying her
greatly. A paper covered with notes and a volume of Isocrates lay before
her. She signed to La Mole to let her finish a paragraph. Then, in a few
moments, she threw down her pen and invited the young man to sit beside
her. La Mole was radiant. Never had he been so handsome or so
light-hearted.

"Greek!" said he, glancing at the book. "A speech of Isocrates! What are
you doing with that? Ah! and Latin on this sheet of paper! _Ad Sarmatiæ
legatos reginæ Margaritæ concio!_ So you are going to harangue these
barbarians in Latin?"

"I must," said Marguerite, "since they do not speak French."

"But how can you write the answer before you have the speech?"

"A greater coquette than I would make you believe that this was
impromptu; but I cannot deceive you, my Hyacinthe: I was told the speech
in advance, and I am answering it."

"Are these ambassadors about to arrive?"

"Better still, they arrived this morning."

"Does any one know it?"

"They came incognito. Their formal arrival is planned for to-morrow
afternoon, I believe, and you will see," said Marguerite, with a little
satisfied air not wholly free from pedantry, "that what I have done this
evening is quite Ciceronian. But let us drop these important matters and
speak of what has happened to you."

"To me?"

"Yes."

"What has happened to me?"

"Ah! it is in vain you pretend to be brave, you look pale."

"Then it is from having slept too much. I am humbly sorry for it."

"Come, come, let us not play the braggart; I know everything."

"Have the kindness to inform me, then, my pearl, for I know nothing."

"Well, answer me frankly. What did the queen mother ask you?"

"Had she something to say to me?"

"What! Have you not seen her?"

"No."

"Nor King Charles?"

"No."

"Nor the King of Navarre?"

"No."

"But you have seen the Duc d'Alençon?"

"Yes, I met him just now in the corridor."

"What did he say to you?"

"That he had some orders to give me between nine and ten o'clock this
evening."

"Nothing else?"

"Nothing else."

"That is strange."

"But what is strange? Tell me."

"That nothing has been said to you."

"What has happened?"

"All day, unfortunately, you have been hanging over an abyss."

"I?"

"Yes, you."

"Why?"

"Well, listen. It seems that last night De Mouy was surprised in the
apartments of the King of Navarre, who was to have been arrested. De
Mouy killed three men, and escaped without anything about him having
been recognized except the famous red cloak."

"Well?"

"Well, this red cloak, which once deceived me, has thrown others besides
myself off the track. You have been suspected and even accused of this
triple murder. This morning they wanted to arrest, judge, and perhaps
convict you. Who knows? For in order to save yourself you would not have
told where you were, would you?"

"Tell where I was?" cried La Mole; "compromise you, my beautiful queen?
Oh! you are right. I should have died singing, to spare your sweet eyes
one tear."

"Alas!" said Marguerite, "my sweet eyes would have been filled with
many, many tears."

"But what caused the great storm to subside?"

"Guess."

"How can I tell?"

"There was only one way to prove that you were not in the king's room."

"And that was"--

"To tell where you were."

"Well?"

"Well, I told."

"Whom did you tell?"

"My mother."

"And Queen Catharine"--

"Queen Catharine knows that I love you."

"Oh, madame! after having done so much for me, you can demand anything
from your servant. Ah, Marguerite, truly, what you did was noble and
beautiful. My life is yours, Marguerite."

"I hope so, for I have snatched it from those who wanted to take it from
me. But now you are saved."

"And by you!" cried the young man; "by my adored queen!"

At that instant a sharp noise made them start. La Mole sprang back,
filled with a vague terror. Marguerite uttered a cry, and stood with her
eyes riveted on the broken glass of one of the window-panes.

Through this window a stone the size of an egg had entered and lay on
the floor.

La Mole saw the broken pane, and realized the cause of the noise.

"Who dared to do this?" he cried, springing to the window.

"One moment," said Marguerite. "It seems to me that something is tied
around the stone."

"Yes," said La Mole, "it looks like a piece of paper."

Marguerite went to the strange projectile and removed the thin sheet
which, folded like a narrow band, encircled the middle of the stone.

The paper was attached to a cord, which came through the broken window.

Marguerite unfolded the letter and read.

"Unfortunate man!" she cried, holding out the paper to La Mole, who
stood as pale and motionless as a statue of Terror.

With a heart filled with gloomy forebodings he read these words:

"_They are waiting for Monsieur de la Mole, with long swords, in the
corridor leading to the apartments of Monsieur d'Alençon. Perhaps he
would prefer to escape by this window and join Monsieur de Mouy at
Mantes_"--

"Well!" asked La Mole, after reading it, "are these swords longer than
mine?"

"No, but there may be ten against one."

"Who is the friend who has sent us this note?" asked La Mole.

Marguerite took it from the young man's hand and looked at it
attentively.

"The King of Navarre's handwriting!" she cried. "If he warns us, the
danger is great. Flee, La Mole, flee, I beg you."

"How?" asked La Mole.

"By this window. Does not the note refer to it?"

"Command, my queen, and I will leap from the window to obey you, if I
broke my head twenty times by the fall."

"Wait, wait," said Marguerite. "It seems to me that there is a weight
attached to this cord."

"Let us see," said La Mole.

Both drew up the cord, and with indescribable joy saw a ladder of hair
and silk at the end of it.

"Ah! you are saved," cried Marguerite.

"It is a miracle of heaven!"

"No, it is a gift from the King of Navarre."

"But suppose it were a snare?" said La Mole. "If this ladder were to
break under me? Madame, did you not acknowledge your love for me
to-day?"

Marguerite, whose joy had dissipated her grief, became ashy pale.

"You are right," said she, "that is possible."

She started to the door.

"What are you going to do?" cried La Mole.

"To find out if they are really waiting for you in the corridor."

"Never! never! For their anger to fall on you?"

"What can they do to a daughter of France? As a woman and a royal
princess I am doubly inviolable."

The queen uttered these words with so much dignity that La Mole
understood she ran no risk, and that he must let her do as she wished.

Marguerite put La Mole under the protection of Gillonne, leaving to him
to decide, according to circumstances, whether to run or await her
return, and started down the corridor. A side hall led to the library as
well as to several reception-rooms, and at the end led to the apartments
of the King, the queen mother, and to the small private stairway by
which one reached the apartments of the Duc d'Alençon and Henry.
Although it was scarcely nine o'clock, all the lights were extinguished,
and the corridor, except for the dim glimmer which came from the side
hall, was quite dark. The Queen of Navarre advanced boldly. When she had
gone about a third of the distance she heard whispering which sounded
mysterious and startling from an evident effort made to suppress it. It
ceased almost instantly, as if by order from some superior, and silence
was restored. The light, dim as it was, seemed to grow less. Marguerite
walked on directly into the face of the danger if danger there was. To
all appearances she was calm, although her clinched hands indicated a
violent nervous tension. As she approached, the intense silence
increased, while a shadow like that of a hand obscured the wavering and
uncertain light.

At the point where the transverse hall crossed the main corridor a man
sprang in front of the queen, uncovered a red candlestick, and cried
out:

"Here he is!"

Marguerite stood face to face with her brother Charles. Behind him, a
silken cord in hand, was the Duc d'Alençon. At the rear, in the
darkness, stood two figures side by side, reflecting no light other than
that of the drawn swords which they held in their hands. Marguerite saw
everything at a glance. Making a supreme effort, she said smilingly to
Charles:

"You mean, here _she_ is, sire!"

Charles recoiled. The others stood motionless.

"You, Margot!" said he. "Where are you going at this hour?"

"At this hour!" said Marguerite. "Is it so late?"

"I ask where you are going?"

"To find a book of Cicero's speeches, which I think I left at our
mother's."

"Without a light?"

"I supposed the corridor was lighted."

"Do you come from your own apartments?"

"Yes."

"What are you doing this evening?"

"Preparing my address for the Polish ambassadors. Is there not a council
to-morrow? and does not each one have to submit his address to your
Majesty?"

"Have you not some one helping you with this work?"

Marguerite summoned all her strength.

"Yes, brother," said she, "Monsieur de la Mole. He is very learned."

"So much so," said the Duc d'Alençon, "that I asked him when he had
finished with you, sister, to come and help me, for I am not as clever
as you are."

"And were you waiting for him?" asked Marguerite as naturally as
possible.

"Yes," said D'Alençon, impatiently.

"Then," said Marguerite, "I will send him to you, brother, for we have
finished my work."

"But your book?" said Charles.

"I will have Gillonne get it."

The two brothers exchanged a sign.

"Go," said Charles, "and we will continue our round."

"Your round!" said Marguerite; "whom are you looking for?"

"The little red man," said Charles. "Do you not know that there is a
little red man who is said to haunt the old Louvre? My brother D'Alençon
claims to have seen him, and we are looking for him."

"Good luck to you," said Marguerite, and she turned round. Glancing
behind her, she saw the four figures gather close to the wall as if in
conference. In an instant she had reached her own door.

"Open, Gillonne," said she, "open."

Gillonne obeyed.

Marguerite sprang into the room and found La Mole waiting for her, calm
and quiet, but with drawn sword.

"Flee," said she, "flee. Do not lose a second. They are waiting for you
in the corridor to kill you."

"You command me to do this?" said La Mole.

"I command it. We must part in order to see each other again."

While Marguerite had been away La Mole had made sure of the ladder at
the window. He now stepped out, but before placing his foot on the first
round he tenderly kissed the queen's hand.

"If the ladder is a trap and I should perish, Marguerite, remember your
promise."

"It was not a promise, La Mole, but an oath. Fear nothing. Adieu!"

And La Mole, thus encouraged, let himself slip down the ladder. At the
same instant there was a knock at the door.

Marguerite watched La Mole's perilous descent and did not turn away from
the window until she was sure he had reached the ground in safety.

"Madame," said Gillonne, "madame!"

"Well?" asked Marguerite.

"The King is knocking at the door."

"Open it."

Gillonne did so.

The four princes, impatient at waiting, no doubt, stood on the
threshold.

Charles entered.

Marguerite came forward, a smile on her lips.

The King cast a rapid glance around.

"Whom are you looking for, brother?" asked Marguerite.

"Why," said Charles, "I am looking--I am looking--why, the devil! I am
looking for Monsieur de la Mole."

"Monsieur de la Mole!"

"Yes; where is he?"

Marguerite took her brother by the hand and led him to the window.

Just then two horsemen were seen galloping away, around the wooden
tower. One of them unfastened his white satin scarf and waved it in the
darkness, as a sign of adieu. The two men were La Mole and Orthon.

Marguerite pointed them out to Charles.

"Well!" said the King, "what does this mean?"

"It means," replied Marguerite, "that Monsieur le Duc d'Alençon may put
his cord back into his pocket, and that Messieurs d'Anjou and de Guise
may sheathe their swords, for Monsieur de la Mole will not pass through
the corridor again to-night."

CHAPTER XL.

THE ATRIDES.

Since his return to Paris, Henry of Anjou had not seen his mother
Catharine alone, and, as every one knows, he was her favorite son.

This visit was not merely for the sake of etiquette, nor the carrying
out of a painful ceremony, but the accomplishment of a very sweet duty
for this son who, if he did not love his mother, was at least sure of
being tenderly loved by her.

Catharine loved this son best either because of his bravery, his
beauty,--for besides the mother, there was the woman in Catharine,--or
because, according to some scandalous chronicles, Henry of Anjou
reminded the Florentine of a certain happy epoch of secret love.

Catharine alone knew of the return of the Duc d'Anjou to Paris. Charles
IX. would have been ignorant of it had not chance led him to the Hôtel
de Condé just as his brother was leaving it. Charles had not expected
him until the following day, and Henry of Anjou had hoped to conceal
from him the two motives which had hastened his arrival by a day,
namely, his visit to the beautiful Marie of Clèves, princess of Condé,
and his conference with the Polish ambassadors.

It was this last reason, of the object of which Charles was uncertain,
which the Duc d'Anjou had to explain to his mother. And the reader,
ignorant on this point as was Henry of Navarre, will profit by the
explanation.

When the Duc d'Anjou, so long expected, entered his mother's rooms,
Catharine, usually so cold and formal, and who since the departure of
her favorite son had embraced with effusion no one but Coligny, who was
to be assassinated the following day, opened her arms to the child of
her love, and pressed him to her heart with a burst of maternal
affection most surprising in a heart already long grown cold.

Then pushing him from her she gazed at him and again drew him into her
arms.

"Ah, madame," said he, "since Heaven grants me the privilege of
embracing my mother in private, console me, for I am the most wretched
man alive."

"Oh, my God! my beloved child," cried Catharine, "what has happened to
you?"

"Nothing which you do not know, mother. I am in love. I am loved; but it
is this very love which is the cause of my unhappiness."

"Tell me about it, my son," said Catharine.

"Well, mother,--these ambassadors,--this departure"--

"Yes," said Catharine, "the ambassadors have arrived; the departure is
near at hand."

"It need not be near at hand, mother, but my brother hastens it. He
detests me. I am in his way, and he wants to rid himself of me."

Catharine smiled.

"By giving you a throne, poor, unhappy crowned head!"

"Oh, no, mother," said Henry in agony, "I do not wish to go away. I, a
son of France, brought up in the refinement of polite society, near the
best of mothers, loved by one of the dearest women in the world, must I
go among snows, to the ends of the earth, to die by inches among those
rough people who are intoxicated from morning until night, and who gauge
the capacity of their king by that of a cask, according to what he can
hold? No, mother, I do not want to go; I should die!"

"Come, Henry," said Catharine, pressing her son's hands, "come, is that
the real reason?"

Henry's eyes fell, as though even to his mother he did not dare to
confess what was in his heart.

"Is there no other reason?" asked Catharine; "less romantic, but more
rational, more political?"

"Mother, it is not my fault if this thought comes to me, and takes
stronger hold of me, perhaps, than it should; but did not you yourself
tell me that the horoscope of my brother Charles prophesied that he
would die young?"

"Yes," said Catharine, "but a horoscope may lie, my son. Indeed, I
myself hope that all horoscopes are not true."

"But his horoscope said this, did it not?"

"His horoscope spoke of a quarter of a century; but it did not say
whether it referred to his life or his reign."

"Well, mother, bring it about so that I can stay. My brother is almost
twenty-four. In one year the question will be settled."

Catharine pondered deeply.

"Yes," said she; "it would certainly be better if it could be so
arranged."

"Oh, imagine my despair, mother," cried Henry, "if I were to exchange
the crown of France for that of Poland! My being tormented there with
the idea that I might be reigning in the Louvre in the midst of this
elegant and lettered court, near the best mother in the world, whose
advice would spare me half my work and fatigue, who, accustomed to
bearing, with my father, a portion of the burden of the State, would
like to bear it with me too! Ah, mother, I should have been a great
king!"

"There! there! dear child," said Catharine, to whom this outlook had
always been a very sweet hope, "there! do not despair. Have you thought
of any way of arranging the matter?"

"Oh, yes, certainly, and that is why I came back two or three days
before I was expected, letting my brother Charles suppose that it was on
account of Madame de Condé. Then I have been with De Lasco, the chief
ambassador. I became acquainted with him, and did all I could in that
first interview to make him hate me. I hope I have succeeded."

"Ah, my dear child," said Catharine, "that is wrong. You must place the
interest of France above your petty dislikes."

"Mother, in case any accident happened to my brother, would it be to the
interest of France for the Duc d'Alençon or the King of Navarre to
reign?"

"Oh! the King of Navarre, never, never!" murmured Catharine, letting
anxiety cover her face with that veil of care which spread over it every
time this question arose.

"Faith," continued Henry, "my brother D'Alençon is not worth much more,
and is no fonder of you."

"Well," said Catharine, "what did Lasco say?"

"Even Lasco hesitated when I urged him to seek an audience. Oh, if he
could write to Poland and annul this election!"

"Folly, my son, madness! What a Diet has consecrated is sacred."

"But, mother, could not these Poles be prevailed on to accept my brother
in my stead?"

"It would be difficult, if not impossible," said Catharine.

"Never mind, try, make the attempt, speak to the King, mother. Ascribe
everything to my love for Madame de Condé; say that I am mad over her,
that I am losing my mind. He saw me coming out of the prince's hôtel
with De Guise, who did everything for me a friend could do."

"Yes, in order to help the League. You do not see this, but I do."

"Yes, mother, yes; but meanwhile I am making use of him. Should we not
be glad when a man serves us while serving himself?"

"And what did the King say when he met you?"

"He apparently believed what I told him, that love alone had brought me
back to Paris."

"But did he ask you what you did the rest of the night?"

"Yes, mother; but I had supper at Nantouillet's, where I made a
frightful riot, so that the report of it might get abroad and deceive
the King as to where I was."

"Then he is ignorant of your visit to Lasco?"

"Absolutely."

"Good, so much the better. I will try to influence him in your favor,
dear child. But you know no influence makes any impression on his coarse
nature."

"Oh, mother, mother, what happiness if I could stay! I would love you
even more than I do now if that were possible!"

"If you stay you will be sent to war."

"Oh, never mind! if only I do not have to leave France."

"You will be killed."

"Mother, one does not die from blows; one dies from grief, from
meanness. But Charles will not let me remain; he hates me."

"He is jealous of you, my beautiful conqueror, that is well known. Why
are you so brave and so fortunate? Why, at scarcely twenty years of age,
have you won battles like Alexander or Cæsar? But, in the meantime, do
not let your wishes be known to any one; pretend to be resigned, pay
your court to the King. To-day there is a private council to read and
discuss the speeches which are to be made at the ceremony. Act like the
King of Poland, and leave the rest to me. By the way, how about your
expedition of last night?"

"It failed, mother. The gallant was warned and escaped by the window."

"Well," said Catharine, "some day I shall know who this evil genius is
who upsets all my plans in this way. Meanwhile I suspect and--let him
beware!"

"So, mother"--said the Duc d'Anjou.

"Let me manage this affair."

She kissed Henry tenderly on his eyes and pushed him from the room.

Before long the princes of her household arrived at the rooms of the
queen. Charles was in a good humor, for the cleverness of his sister
Margot had pleased rather than vexed him. Moreover, he had nothing
against La Mole, and he had waited for him somewhat eagerly in the
corridor merely because it was a kind of hunt.

D'Alençon, on the contrary, was greatly preoccupied. The repulsion he
had always felt for La Mole had turned into hate the instant he knew
that La Mole was loved by his sister.

Marguerite possessed both a dreamy mind and a quick eye. She had to
remember as well as to watch.

The Polish deputies had sent a copy of the speeches which they were to
make.

Marguerite, to whom no more mention had been made of the affair of the
previous evening than as if it had never occurred, read the speeches,
and, except Charles, every one discussed what he would answer. Charles
let Marguerite reply as she pleased. As far as D'Alençon was concerned
he was very particular as to the choice of terms; but as to the
discourse of Henry of Anjou he seemed determined to attack it, and made
numerous corrections.

This council, without being in any way decisive, had greatly embittered
the feelings of those present.

Henry of Anjou, who had to rewrite nearly all his discourse, withdrew to
begin the task.

Marguerite, who had not heard of the King of Navarre since the injury he
had given to her window-pane, returned to her rooms, hoping to find him
there.

D'Alençon, who had read hesitation in the eyes of his brother of Anjou,
and who had surprised a meaning glance between him and his mother,
retired to ponder on what he regarded as a fresh plot. Charles was about
to go to his workshop to finish a boar-spear he was making for himself
when Catharine stopped him.

The King, who suspected that he was to meet some opposition to his will,
paused and looked at his mother closely.

"Well," he said, "what now?"

"A final word, sire, which we forgot, and yet it is of much importance:
what day shall we decide on for the public reception?"

"Ah, that is true," said the King, seating himself again. "Well, what
day would suit you?"

"I thought," replied Catharine, "from your Majesty's silence and
apparent forgetfulness, that there was some deep-laid plan."

"No," said Charles; "why so, mother?"

"Because," added Catharine, very gently, "it seems to me, my son, that
these Poles should not see us so eager after their crown."

"On the contrary, mother," said Charles, "it is they who are in haste.
They have come from Varsovia by forced marches. Honor for honor,
courtesy for courtesy."

"Your Majesty may be right in one sense; I am not curious. So your idea
is that the public reception should be held soon?"

"Faith, yes, mother; is this not your idea too?"

"You know that my ideas are only such as can further your glory. I will
tell you, therefore, that by this haste I fear you will be accused of
profiting very quickly by this opportunity to relieve the house of
France of the burdens your brother imposes on it, but which he certainly
returns in glory and devotion."

"Mother," said Charles, "on his departure from France I will endow my
brother so richly that no one will ever dare to think what you fear may
be said."

"Well," said Catharine, "I surrender, since you have such a ready reply
to each of my objections. But to receive this warlike people, who judge
of the power of the states by exterior signs, you must have a
considerable array of troops, and I do not think there are enough yet
assembled in the Isle de France."

"Pardon me, mother. I have foreseen this event, and am prepared for it.
I have recalled two battalions from Normandy and one from Guyenne; my
company of archers arrived yesterday from Brittany; the light horse,
scattered throughout Lorraine, will be in Paris in the course of the
day; and while it is supposed that I have scarcely four regiments at my
disposition, I have twenty thousand men ready to appear."

"Ah, ah!" said Catharine, surprised. "In that case only one thing is
lacking, but that can be procured."

"What is that?"

"Money. I believe that you are not furnished with an over-supply."

"On the contrary, madame, on the contrary," said Charles IX., "I have
fourteen hundred thousand crowns in the Bastille; my private estates
have yielded me during the last few days eight hundred thousand crowns,
which I have put in my cellar in the Louvre, and in case of need
Nantouillet holds three hundred thousand crowns at my disposal."

Catharine shivered. Until then she had known Charles to be violent and
passionate, but never provident.

"Well," said she, "your Majesty thinks of everything. That is fine; and
provided the tailors, the embroiderers, and the jewellers make haste,
your Majesty will be in a position to hold this audience within six
weeks."

"Six weeks!" exclaimed Charles. "Mother, the tailors, the embroiderers,
and the jewellers have been at work ever since we heard of my brother's
nomination. As a matter of fact, everything could be ready to-day, but,
at the latest, it will take only three or four days."

"Oh!" murmured Catharine; "you are in greater haste than I supposed, my
son."

"Honor for honor, I told you."

"Well, is it this honor done to the house of France which flatters you?"

"Certainly."

"And is your chief desire to see a son of France on the throne of
Poland?"

"Exactly."

"Then it is the event, the fact, and not the man, which is of interest
to you, and whoever reigns there"--

"No, no, mother, by Heaven! Let us keep to the point! The Poles have
made a good choice. They are a skilful and strong people! A military
people, a nation of soldiers, they choose a captain for their ruler.
That is logical, plague it! D'Anjou is just the man for them. The hero
of Jarnac and Montcontour fits them like a glove. Whom would you have me
send them? D'Alençon? a coward! He would give them a fine idea of the
Valois!--D'Alençon! He would run at the first bullet that whistled by
his ears, while Henry of Anjou is a fighter. Yes! his sword always in
his hand, he is ever pushing forward, on foot or horseback!--forward!
thrust! overpower! kill! Ah! my brother of Anjou is a man, a valiant
soldier, who will lead them to battle from morning until night, from one
year's end to the next. He is not a hard drinker, it is true; but he
will kill in cold blood. That is all. This dear Henry will be in his
element; there! quick! quick! to battle! Sound the trumpet and the drum!
Long live the king! Long live the conqueror! Long live the general! He
will be proclaimed _imperator_ three times a year. That will be fine for
the house of France, and for the honor of the Valois; he may be killed,
but, by Heaven, it will be a glorious death!"

Catharine shuddered. Her eyes flashed fire.

"Say that you wish to send Henry of Anjou away from you," she cried,
"say that you do not love your brother!"

"Ah! ah! ah!" cried Charles, bursting into a nervous laugh, "you have
guessed, have you, that I want to send him away? You have guessed that I
do not love him? And when did you reach this conclusion? Come! Love my
brother! Why should I love him? Ah! ah! ah! Do you want to make me
laugh?"

As he spoke, his pale cheeks grew flushed with a feverish glow.

"Does he love me? Do you love me? Has any one, except my dogs, and Marie
Touchet, and my nurse, ever loved me? No! I do not love my brother, I
love only myself. Do you hear? And I shall not prevent my brother from
doing as I do."

"Sire," said Catharine, growing excited on her part, "since you have
opened your heart to me I must open mine to you. You are acting like a
weak king, like an ill-advised monarch; you are sending away your second
brother, the natural support of the throne, who is in every way worthy
to succeed you if any accident happened, in which case your crown would
be left in jeopardy. As you said, D'Alençon is young, incapable, weak,
more than weak, cowardly! And the Béarnais rises up in the background,
you understand?"

"Well, the devil!" exclaimed Charles, "what does it matter to me what
happens when I am dead? The Béarnais rises behind my brother, you say!
By Heaven! so much the better! I said that I loved no one--I was
mistaken, I love Henriot. Yes, I love this good Henriot. He has a frank
manner, a warm handshake, while I see nothing but false looks around me,
and touch, only icy hands. He is incapable of treason towards me, I
swear. Besides, I owe him amends, poor boy! His mother was poisoned by
some members of my family, I am told. Moreover, I am well. But if I were
to be taken ill, I would call him, I should want him to stay with me, I
would take nothing except from him, and when I died I would make him
King of France and of Navarre. And by Heaven! instead of laughing at my
death as my brothers would do, he would weep, or at least he would
pretend to weep."

Had a thunderbolt fallen at Catharine's feet she would have been less
startled than at these words. She stood speechless, gazing at Charles
with haggard eyes. Then at the end of a few moments:

"Henry of Navarre!" she cried, "Henry of Navarre King of France to the
detriment of my children! Ah! Holy Virgin! we shall see! So this is why
you wish to send away my son?"

"Your son--and what am I, then? the son of a wolf, like Romulus?" cried
Charles, trembling with anger, his eyes shining as though they were on
fire. "Your son, you are right; the King of France is not your son, the
King of France has no brothers, the King of France has no mother, the
King of France has only subjects. The King of France has no need of
feelings, he has wishes. He can get on without being loved, but he shall
be obeyed."

"Sire, you have misunderstood my words. I called my son the one who was
going to leave me. I love him better just now because just now he is the
one I am most afraid I shall lose. Is it a crime for a mother to wish
that her child should not leave her?"

"And I, I tell you that he shall leave you. I tell you that he shall
leave France, that he shall go to Poland, and within two days, too, and
if you add one word he shall go to-morrow. Moreover, if you do not
smooth your brow, if you do not take that threatening look from your
eyes, I will strangle him this evening, as yesterday you yourself would
have strangled your daughter's lover. Only I shall not fail, as we
failed in regard to La Mole."

At the first threat Catharine's head fell; but she raised it again
almost immediately.

"Ah, poor child!" said she, "your brother would kill you. But do not
fear, your mother will protect you."

"Ah, you defy me!" cried Charles. "Well! by the blood of Christ, he
shall die, not this evening, not soon, but this very instant. Ah, a
weapon! a dagger! a knife! Ah!"

Having looked around in vain for what he wanted, Charles perceived the
little dagger his mother always wore at her belt, sprang toward it,
snatched it from its shagreen case encrusted with silver, and rushed
from the room to strike down Henry of Anjou wherever he might meet him.
But on reaching the hall, his strength, excited beyond human endurance,
suddenly left him. He put out his arm, dropped the sharp weapon, which
stuck point downwards into the wood, uttered a piercing cry, sank down,
and rolled over on the floor.

At the same instant a quantity of blood spurted forth from his mouth and
nose.

"Jesus!" said he. "They kill me! Help! help!"

Catharine, who had followed, saw him fall. For one instant she stood
motionless, watching him. Then recollecting herself, not because of any
maternal affection, but because of the awkwardness of the situation, she
called out:

"The King is ill! Help! help!"

At the cry a crowd of servants, officers, and courtiers gathered around
the young King. But ahead of them all a woman rushed out, pushed aside
the others, and raised Charles, who had grown as pale as death.

"They kill me, nurse, they kill me," murmured the King, covered with
perspiration and blood.

"They kill you, my Charles?" cried the good woman, glancing at the group
of faces with a look which reached even Catharine. "Who kills you?"

Charles heaved a feeble sigh, and fainted.

"Ah!" said the physician, Ambroise Paré, who was summoned at once, "ah!
the King is very ill!"

"Now, from necessity or compulsion," said the implacable Catharine to
herself, "he will have to grant a delay."

Whereupon she left the King to join her second son, who was in the
oratory, anxiously waiting to hear the result of an interview which was
of such importance to him.

CHAPTER XLI.

THE HOROSCOPE.

On leaving the oratory, in which she had just informed Henry all that
had occurred, Catharine found Réné in her chamber. It was the first time
that the queen and the astrologer had seen each other since the visit
the queen had made to his shop at the Pont Saint Michel. But the
previous evening she had written him, and Réné had brought the answer to
her note in person.

"Well," said the queen, "have you seen him?"

"Yes."

"How is he?"

"Somewhat better."

"Can he speak?"

"No, the sword traversed his larynx."

"I told you in that case to have him write."

"I tried. He collected all his strength, but his hand could trace only
two letters. They are almost illegible. Then he fainted. The jugular
vein was cut and the blood he lost has taken away all his strength."

"Have you seen the letters?"

"Here they are."

Réné drew a paper from his pocket and handed it to Catharine, who
hastily unfolded it.

"An _m_ and an _o_," said she. "Could it have been La Mole, and was all
that acting of Marguerite done to throw me off the track?"

"Madame," said Réné, "if I dared to express my opinion in a matter about
which your majesty hesitates to give yours I should say that I believe
Monsieur de la Mole is too much in love to be seriously interested in
politics."

"You think so?"

"Yes, and above all too much in love with the Queen of Navarre to serve
the King very devotedly; for there is no real love without jealousy."

"You think that he is very much in love, then?"

"I am sure of it."

"Has he been to you?"

"Yes."

"Did he ask you for some potion or philter?"

"No, we kept to the wax figure."

"Pierced to the heart?"

"To the heart."

"And this figure still exists?"

"Yes."

"Have you it?"

"It is in my rooms."

"It would be strange," said Catharine, "if these cabalistic preparations
really had the power attributed to them."

"Your majesty is a better judge of that than I."

"Is the Queen of Navarre in love with Monsieur de la Mole?"

"She loves him enough to ruin herself for him. Yesterday she saved him
from death at the risk of her honor and her life. You see, madame, and
yet you still doubt."

"Doubt what?"

"Science."

"Science also deceives me," said Catharine, looking steadily at Réné,
who bore her gaze without flinching.

"About what?"

"Oh! you know what I mean; unless, of course, it was the scholar and not
science."

"I do not know what you mean, madame," replied the Florentine.

"Réné, have your perfumes lost their odor?"

"No, madame, not when I use them; but it is possible that in passing
through the hands of others"--

Catharine smiled and shook her head.

"Your opiate has done wonders, Réné," said she; "Madame de Sauve's lips
are fresher and rosier than ever."

"It is not my opiate that is responsible for that, madame. The Baroness
de Sauve, using the privilege of every pretty woman to be capricious,
has said nothing more to me about this opiate, and after the suggestion
from your majesty I thought it best to send her no more of it. So that
all the boxes are still in my house just as you left them, with the
exception of one which disappeared, I know not how or why."

"That is well, Réné," said Catharine; "perhaps later we may return to
this. In the meantime, let us speak of the other matter."

"I am all attention, madame."

"What is necessary to gain an idea of the length of any one's life?"

"In the first place to know the day of his birth, his age, and under
what condition he first saw light."

"And then?"

"To have some of his blood and a lock of his hair."

"If I bring you some of his blood and a lock of his hair, if I tell you
the circumstance connected with his birth, the time, and his present
age, will you tell me the probable date of his death?"

"Yes, to within a few days."

"Very well; I have a lock of his hair and will get some of his blood."

"Was he born during the day or night?"

"At twenty-three minutes past five in the afternoon."

"Be at my room at five o'clock to-morrow. The experiment must be made at
the hour of his birth."

"Very well," said Catharine, "_we_ will be there."

Réné bowed, and withdrew without apparently noticing the "_we_ will be
there," which, however, contrary to her usual habit, indicated that
Catharine would not go alone.

The following morning at dawn Catharine went to her son's apartments. At
midnight she had sent to inquire after him, and had been told that
Maître Ambroise Paré was with him, ready to bleed him if the nervous
troubles continued.

Still starting up from his sleep, and still pale from loss of blood,
Charles dozed on the shoulder of his faithful nurse, who leaning against
the bed had not moved for three hours for fear of waking her dear child.

A slight foam appeared from time to time on the lips of the sick man,
and the nurse wiped it off with a fine embroidered linen handkerchief.
On the bed lay another handkerchief covered with great spots of blood.

For an instant Catharine thought she would take possession of the
handkerchief; but she feared that this blood mixed with the saliva would
be weak, and would not be efficacious. She asked the nurse if the doctor
had bled her son as he had said he would do. The nurse answered "Yes"
and that the flow of blood had been so great that Charles had fainted
twice. The queen mother, who, like all princesses in those days, had
some knowledge of medicine, asked to see the blood. Nothing was easier
to do, as the physician had ordered that the blood be kept in order that
he might examine it. It was in a basin in an adjoining closet. Catharine
went in to look at it, poured some into a small bottle which she had
brought for this purpose; and then came back, hiding in her pocket her
fingers, the tips of which otherwise would have betrayed her.

Just as she came back from the closet Charles opened his eyes and saw
his mother. Then remembering as in a dream all his bitter thoughts:

"Ah! is it you, madame?" said he. "Well, say to your well loved son, to
your Henry of Anjou, that it shall be to-morrow."

"My dear Charles," said Catharine, "it shall be just when you please. Be
quiet now and go to sleep."

As if yielding to this advice Charles closed his eyes; and Catharine,
who had spoken to him as one does to calm a sick person or a child, left
the room. But when he heard the door close Charles suddenly sat up, and
in a voice still weak from suffering, said:

"My chancellor! The seals! the court!--send for them all."

The nurse, with gentle insistence, laid the head of the King back on her
shoulder, and in order to put him to sleep strove to rock him as she
would have done a child.

"No, no, nurse, I cannot sleep any more. Call my attendants. I must work
this morning."

When Charles spoke in that way he was obeyed; and even the nurse, in
spite of the privileges allowed her by her foster-child, dared not
disobey. She sent for those whom the King wanted, and the council was
planned, not for the next day, which was out of the question, but for
five days from then.

At the hour agreed on, that is, at five o'clock, the queen mother and
the Duc d'Anjou repaired to the rooms of Réné, who, expecting their
visit, had everything ready for the mysterious seance. In the room to
the right, that is, in the chamber of sacrifices, a steel blade was
heating over a glowing brazier. From its fanciful arabesques this blade
was intended to represent the events of the destiny about which the
oracle was to be consulted. On the altar lay the Book of Fate, and
during the night, which had been very clear, Réné had studied the course
and the position of the stars.

Henry of Anjou entered first. He wore a wig, a mask concealed his face,
and a long cloak hid his figure. His mother followed. Had she not known
beforehand that the man who had preceded her was her son she never would
have recognized him. Catharine removed her mask; the Duc d'Anjou kept
his on.

"Did you make any observations last night?" asked Catharine.

"Yes, madame," said Réné; "and the answer of the stars has already told
me the past. The one you wish to know about, like every one born under
the sign of the Cancer, has a warm heart and great pride. He is
powerful. He has lived nearly a quarter of a century. He has until now
had glory and wealth. Is this so, madame?"

"Possibly," said Catharine.

"Have you a lock of his hair, and some of his blood?"

"Yes."

Catharine handed to the necromancer a lock of fair hair and a small
bottle filled with blood.

Réné took the flask, shook it thoroughly, so that the fibrine and water
would mix, and poured a large drop of it on the glowing steel. The
living liquid boiled for an instant, and then spread out into fantastic
figures.

"Oh, madame," cried Réné, "I see him twisting in awful agony. Hear how
he groans, how he calls for help! Do you see how everything around him
becomes blood? Do you see how about his death-bed great combats are
taking place? See, here are the lances; and look, there are the swords!"

"Will it be long before this happens?" asked Catharine, trembling from
an indescribable emotion and laying her hand on that of Henry of Anjou,
who in his eager curiosity was leaning over the brazier.

Réné approached the altar and repeated a cabalistic prayer, putting such
energy and conviction into the act that the veins of his temples
swelled, and caused the prophetic convulsions and nervous twinges from
which the ancient priestesses suffered before their tripods, and even on
their death-beds.

At length he rose and announced that everything was ready, took the
flask, still three-quarters full, in one hand, and in the other the lock
of hair. Then telling Catharine to open the book at random, and to read
the first words she looked at, he poured the rest of the blood on the
steel blade, and threw the hair into the brazier, pronouncing a
cabalistic sentence composed of Hebrew words which he himself did not
understand.

Instantly the Duc d'Anjou and Catharine saw a white figure appear on the
sword like that of a corpse wrapped in his shroud. Another figure, which
seemed that of a woman, was leaning over the first.

At the same time the hair caught fire and threw out a single flame,
clear, swift, and barbed like a fiery tongue.

"One year," cried Réné, "scarcely one year, and this man shall die. A
woman alone shall weep for him. But no, there at the end of the sword is
another woman, with a child in her arms."

Catharine looked at her son, and, mother though she was, seemed to ask
him who these two women were.

But Réné had scarcely finished speaking before the steel became white
and everything gradually disappeared from its surface. Then Catharine
opened the book and read the following lines in a voice which, in spite
of her effort at control, she could not keep from shaking:

    "_'Ains a peri cil que l'on redoutoit,_
    _Plus tôt, trop tôt, si prudence n'etoit.'_"[14]

A deep silence reigned for some moments.

"For the one whom you know," asked Catharine, "what are the signs for
this month?"

"As favorable as ever, madame; unless Providence interferes with his
destiny he will be fortunate. And yet"--

"And yet what?"

"One of the stars in his pleiad was covered with a black cloud while I
made my observations."

"Ah!" exclaimed Catharine, "a black cloud--there is some hope, then?"

"Of whom are you speaking, madame?" asked the Duc d'Anjou.

Catharine drew her son away from the light of the brazier and spoke to
him in a low tone.

Meanwhile Réné knelt down, and in the glow of the flame poured into his
hand the last drop of blood which had remained in the bottom of the
flask.

"Strange contradiction," said he, "which proves how little to be
depended on is the evidence of simple science practised by ordinary men!
To any one but myself, a physician, a scholar, even for Maître Ambroise
Paré, this blood would seem so pure, so healthy, so full of life and
animal spirits, that it would promise long years of life; and yet all
this vigor will soon disappear, all this life will be extinct within a
year!"

Catharine and Henry of Anjou had turned round and were listening.

The eyes of the prince glowed through his mask.

"Ah!" continued Réné, "the present alone is known to ordinary mortals;
while to us the past and the future are known."

"So," continued Catharine, "you still think he will die within the
year?"

"As surely as we are three living persons who some day will rest in our
coffins."

"Yet you said that the blood was pure and healthy, and that it indicated
a long life."

"Yes, if things followed their natural course. But might not an
accident"--

"Ah, yes, do you hear?" said Catharine to Henry, "an accident"--

"Alas!" said the latter, "all the more reason for my staying."

"Oh, think no more about that: it is not possible."

Then turning to Réné:

"Thanks," said the young man, disguising his voice, "thanks; take this
purse."

"Come, _count_," said Catharine, intentionally giving her son this title
to throw Réné off the track.

They left.

"Oh, mother, you see," said Henry, "an accident--and if an accident
should happen, I shall not be on hand; I shall be four hundred leagues
from you"--

"Four hundred leagues are accomplished in eight days, my son."

"Yes; but how do I know whether those Poles will let me come back? If I
could only wait, mother!"

"Who knows?" said Catharine; "might not this accident of which Réné
speaks be the one which since yesterday has laid the King on a bed of
pain? Listen, return by yourself, my child. I shall go back by the