XLII. CONFIDENCES
The first thing the Duc d'Anjou heard on arriving at the Louvre was that the formal reception of the ambassadors was arranged for the fifth day from that. The tailors and the jewellers were waiting for the prince with magnificent clothes and superb jewels which the King had ordered for him.
While the duke tried them on with an anger which brought the tears to his eyes, Henry of Navarre was very gay in a magnificent collar of emeralds, a sword with a gold handle, and a precious ring which Charles had sent him that morning.
D'Alençon had just received a letter and had shut himself up in his own room to read it.
As to Coconnas, he was searching every corner of the Louvre for his friend.
In fact, as may easily be imagined, he had been somewhat surprised at not seeing La Mole return that night, and by morning had begun to feel some anxiety.
Consequently he had started out to find his friend. He began his search at the Hôtel de la Belle Étoile, went from there to the Rue Cloche Percée, from the Rue Cloche Percée to the Rue Tizon, from there to the Pont Saint Michel, and finally from the Pont Saint Michel to the Louvre. This search, so far as those who had been questioned were concerned, had been carried on in a way so original and exacting (which may easily be believed when one realizes the eccentric character of Coconnas) that it had caused some explanations between him and three courtiers. These explanations had ended, as was the fashion of the times, on the ground. In these encounters Coconnas had been as conscientious as he usually was in affairs of that kind, and had killed the first man and wounded the two others, saying:
"Poor La Mole, he knew Latin so well!"
The last victim, who was the Baron de Boissey, said as he fell:
"Oh, for the love of Heaven, Coconnas, do vary a little and at least say that he knew Greek!"
At last the report of the adventure in the corridor leaked out. Coconnas was heartbroken over it; for an instant he thought that all these kings and princes had killed his friend and thrown him into some dungeon.
He learned that D'Alençon had been of the party; and overlooking the majesty which surrounded a prince of the blood, he went to him and demanded an explanation as he would have done of a simple gentleman.
At first D'Alençon was inclined to thrust out of the door the impertinent fellow who came and asked for an account of his actions. But Coconnas spoke so curtly, his eyes flashed with such brightness, and the affair of the three duels in less than twenty-four hours had raised the Piedmontese so high, that D'Alençon reflected, and instead of yielding to his first inclination, he answered the gentleman with a charming smile:
"My dear Coconnas, it is true that the King was furious at receiving a silver bowl on his shoulder, that the Duc d'Anjou was vexed at being hit on the head by some orange marmalade, and the Duc de Guise humiliated at having the breath knocked out of him by a haunch of venison, and so they were all determined to kill Monsieur de la Mole. But a friend of your friend's turned aside the blow. The party therefore failed in their attempt. I give you my word as prince."
"Ah!" said Coconnas, breathing as hard as a pair of bellows. "By Heaven, monseigneur, this is good news, and I should like to know this friend to show him my gratitude."
Monsieur d'Alençon made no reply, but smiled more pleasantly than he had yet done, implying to Coconnas that this friend was none other than the prince himself.
"Well, monseigneur!" said Coconnas, "since you have gone so far as to tell me the beginning of the story, crown your kindness by finishing it. They tried to kill him, but failed, you say. Well, what happened then? I am brave and can bear the news. Have they thrown him into some dungeon? So much the better. It will make him more careful in future. He never would listen to my advice; besides, we can get him out, by Heaven! Stone does not baffle every one."
D'Alençon shook his head.
"The worst of all this, my brave Coconnas," said he, "is that your friend disappeared after the affair, and no one knows where he went."
"By Heaven!" cried the Piedmontese, again growing pale, "had he gone to hell I should at least have known where he is."
"Listen," said D'Alençon, who, although for different reasons, was as anxious as Coconnas to know La Mole's whereabouts, "I will give you the advice of a friend."
"Give it, my lord," said Coconnas, eagerly.
"Go to Queen Marguerite. She must know what has become of the friend you mourn."
"I will confess to your highness," said Coconnas, "that I had thought of going to her, but I scarcely dared. Madame Marguerite has a way of making me feel somewhat uncomfortable at times, and besides this, I feared that I might find her in tears. But since your highness assures me that La Mole is not dead and that her majesty knows where he is I will take heart and go to her."
"Do so, my friend," said François. "And when you find out where La Mole is, let me know, for really I am as anxious as you are. But remember one thing, Coconnas"--
"What?"
"Do not say you have come at my suggestion, for if you do you will learn nothing."
"Monseigneur," said Coconnas, "since your highness recommends secrecy on this point, I shall be as silent as a tench or as the queen mother."
"What a kind, good, generous prince he is!" murmured Coconnas as he set out to find the Queen of Navarre.
Marguerite was expecting Coconnas, for the report of his despair had reached her, and on hearing by what exploits his grief had showed itself she almost forgave him for his somewhat rude treatment of her friend Madame la Duchesse de Nevers, to whom he had not spoken for two or three days, owing to some misunderstanding between them. Therefore as soon as he was announced to the queen he was admitted.
Coconnas entered the room, unable to overcome the constraint which he had mentioned to D'Alençon, and which he had always felt in the presence of the queen. It was caused more by her superior intellect than by her rank. But Marguerite received him with a smile which at once put him at his ease.
"Ah, madame," said he, "give me back my friend, I beg you, or at least tell me what has become of him, for without him I cannot live. Imagine Euryalus without Nisus, Damon without Pythias, or Orestes without Pylades, and pity my grief for the sake of one of the heroes I have just mentioned, whose heart, I swear, was no more tender than mine."
Marguerite smiled, and having made Coconnas promise not to reveal the secret, she told him of La Mole's escape from the window. As to his hiding-place, insistent as were the prayers of the Piedmontese, she preserved the strictest silence. This only half satisfied Coconnas, so he resorted to diplomatic speeches of the highest order.
The result was that Marguerite saw clearly that the Duc d'Alençon was partly the cause of the courtier's great desire to know what had become of La Mole.
"Well," said the queen, "if you must know something definite about your friend, ask King Henry of Navarre. He alone has the right to speak. As to me, all I can tell you is that the friend for whom you are searching is alive, and you may believe what I say."
"I believe one thing still more, madame," replied Coconnas; "that is, that your beautiful eyes have not wept."
Thereupon, thinking that there was nothing to add to a remark which had the double advantage of expressing his thought as well as the high opinion he had of La Mole, Coconnas withdrew, pondering on a reconciliation with Madame de Nevers, not on her account, but in order that he might find out from her what he had been unable to learn from Marguerite.
Deep griefs are abnormal conditions in which the mind shakes off the yoke as soon as possible. The thought of leaving Marguerite had at first broken La Mole's heart, and it was in order to save the reputation of the queen rather than to preserve his own life that he had consented to run away.
Therefore, the following evening he returned to Paris to see Marguerite from her balcony. As if instinct told her of the young man's plan, the queen spent the whole evening at her window. The result was that the lovers met again with the indescribable delight which accompanies forbidden pleasures. More than this, the melancholy and romantic temperament of La Mole found a certain charm in the situation. But a man really in love is happy only for the time being, while he sees or is with the woman he loves. After he has left her he suffers. Anxious to see Marguerite again, La Mole set himself busily to work to bring about the event which would make it possible for him to be with her; namely, the flight of the King of Navarre.
Marguerite on her part willingly gave herself up to the happiness of being loved with so pure a devotion. Often she was angry with herself for what she regarded as a weakness. Her strong mind despised the poverty of ordinary love, insensible to the details which for tender souls make it the sweetest, the most delicate, and the most desirable of all pleasures. So she felt that the days, if not happily filled, were at least happily ended. When, at about nine o'clock every evening, she stepped out on her balcony in a white dressing-gown, she perceived in the darkness of the quay a horseman whose hand was raised first to his lips, then to his heart. Then a significant cough reminded the lover of a cherished voice. Sometimes a note was thrown by a little hand, and in the note was hidden some costly jewel, precious not on account of its value, but because it had belonged to her who threw it; and this would fall on the pavement a few feet from the young man. Then La Mole would swoop down on it like a kite, press it to his heart, answer in the same voice, while Marguerite stood at her balcony until the sound of the horse's hoofs had died away in the darkness. The steed, ridden at full speed when coming, on leaving seemed as if made of material as lifeless as that of the famous horse which lost Troy.
This was why the queen was not anxious as to the fate of La Mole. But fearing that he might be watched and followed she persistently refused all interviews except these clandestine ones, which began immediately after La Mole's flight and continued every evening until the time set for the formal reception of the ambassadors, a reception which by the express orders of Ambroise Paré, as we have seen, was postponed for several days.
The evening before this reception, at about nine o'clock, when every one in the Louvre was engaged in preparations for the following day, Marguerite opened her window and stepped out upon her balcony. As she did so, without waiting for her note, La Mole, in greater haste than usual, threw his note which with his usual skill fell at the feet of his royal mistress.
Marguerite realized that the missive contained something special, and retired from the balcony to read it. The note consisted of two separate sheets.
On the first page were these words:
"Madame, I must speak to the King of Navarre. The matter is urgent. I will wait."
On the second page were these words:
"My lady and my queen, arrange so that I may give you one of the kisses I now send you. I will wait."
Marguerite had scarcely finished the second part of the letter when she heard the voice of Henry of Navarre, who with his usual caution had knocked on the outer door, and was asking Gillonne if he might enter.
The queen at once separated the letter, put one of the sheets in her robe, the other in her pocket, hurriedly closed the window, and stepped to the door.
"Enter, sire," said she.
Notwithstanding the fact that Marguerite had been careful to close the window quickly and gently, the sound had reached Henry, whose acute senses, in the midst of people he greatly mistrusted, had almost acquired the exquisite delicacy they attain in the savage. But the King of Navarre was not one of those tyrants who forbid their wives from taking the air and watching the stars.
Henry was as gracious and smiling as ever.
"Madame," said he, "while every one is rehearsing the coming ceremonial, I thought I would come and have a little talk with you about my affairs, which you still regard as yours, do you not?"
"Certainly, monsieur," replied Marguerite; "are not our interests one and the same?"
"Yes, madame, and that is why I wanted to ask what you thought about Monsieur le Duc d'Alençon's avoiding me so for the last few days. The day before yesterday he even went to Saint Germain. Does it not mean either that he is planning to leave by himself, for he is watched very little, or that he is not going to leave at all? Give me your opinion, madame, if you please. I confess it will be a great relief to me to tell you mine."
"Your majesty is right in being anxious at my brother's silence. I have been thinking about it all day, and my idea is that as circumstances have changed he has changed with them."
"You mean, do you not, that seeing King Charles ill and the Duc d'Anjou King of Poland he would not be averse to staying in Paris to keep watch over the crown of France?"
"Exactly."
"Be it so. I ask nothing better than for him to remain," said Henry; "only that will change our entire plan. To leave without him I shall need three times the guarantees I should have asked for had I gone with your brother, whose name and presence in the enterprise would have been my safeguard. But what surprises me is that I have not heard from Monsieur de Mouy. It is not like him to stay away so long. Have you had any news of him, madame?"
"I, sire!" exclaimed Marguerite, in astonishment; "why, how could you expect"--
"Why, by Heaven, my dear, nothing would be more natural. In order to please me, you were kind enough to save the life of young La Mole,--he must have reached Nantes,--and if one can get to a place he can easily get away from it."
"Ah! this explains an enigma, the answer to which I could not make out," said Marguerite. "I had left my window open, and found, on coming back to my room, a note on my floor."
"There now," said Henry.
"A note which at first I could not understand, and to which I attached no importance whatsoever," continued Marguerite. "Perhaps I was wrong, and that it comes from that quarter."
"That is possible," said Henry; "I might even say probable. Might I see this note?"
"Certainly, sire," replied Marguerite, handing to the king the missive she had put into her pocket. The king glanced at it.
"Is it not Monsieur de la Mole's handwriting?" said he.
"I do not know," replied Marguerite. "It looks to me like a counterfeit."
"No matter, let us read it." And he read:
"Madame, I must speak to the King of Navarre. The matter is urgent. I will wait."
"So!" said Henry--"you see, he says he will wait."
"Certainly I see that," said Marguerite. "But what would you expect?"
"Why! ventre saint gris! I expect that he is waiting!"
"That he is waiting!" cried Marguerite, looking at her husband in astonishment. "How can you say such a thing, sire? A man whom the King tried to kill--a man who is watched, threatened--waiting, you say! Would that be possible?--are the doors made for those who have been"--
"Obliged to escape by the window--you were going to say?"
"Yes, you have finished my sentence."
"Well, but if they know the way by the window, let them take it, since it is perfectly impossible for them to enter by the door. It is very simple."
"Do you think so?" said Marguerite, flushing with pleasure at the thought of again being near La Mole.
"I am sure of it."
"But how could one reach the window?" asked the queen.
"Did you not keep the rope ladder I sent you? Where is your usual foresight?"
"Yes, sire, I kept it," said Marguerite.
"In that case there will be no difficulty," said Henry.
"What does your majesty wish?"
"Why, it is very simple," said Henry. "Fasten it to your balcony and let it hang down. If it is De Mouy who is waiting and he wants to mount it, he will do so."
Without losing his gravity Henry took the candle to aid Marguerite in her search for the ladder. They did not have to look long; it was in a wardrobe in the famous closet.
"There it is," said Henry; "now, madame, if I am not asking too much, fasten it to the balcony, I beg you."
"Why should I fasten it and not you, sire?" said Marguerite.
"Because the best conspirators are the most careful. Seeing a man might perhaps frighten away our friend, you see." Marguerite smiled and tied the ladder.
"There," said Henry, concealing himself in a corner of the room, "stand so he can see you; now drop the ladder; good! I am sure that De Mouy will climb up."
In fact, about ten minutes later a man, mad with joy, stepped over the balcony, but seeing that the queen did not come to him, he hesitated a moment. Instead of Marguerite it was Henry who stepped forward.
"Ah!" said he, graciously, "it is not De Mouy, but Monsieur de la Mole. Good evening, Monsieur de la Mole. Come in, I beg you."
La Mole paused a moment, overwhelmed. Had he still been on the ladder instead of on the balcony he might possibly have fallen backward.
"You wanted to speak to the King of Navarre on matters of importance," said Marguerite. "I have told him so and here he is."
Henry closed the window.
"I love you," said Marguerite, hastily pressing the young man's hand.
"Well, monsieur," said Henry, placing a chair for La Mole, "what is it?"
"This, sire," replied La Mole. "I have left Monsieur de Mouy at the city gates. He desires to know if Maurevel has spoken, and if his presence in your majesty's room is known."
"Not yet, but it will be before long; so we must make haste."
"That is my opinion, sire, and if to-morrow evening Monsieur d'Alençon is ready to start, De Mouy will be at the Porte Saint Marcel with five hundred men. These will take you to Fontainebleau. Then you can easily reach Blois, Angoulême, and Bordeaux."
"Madame," said Henry, turning to his wife, "I can be ready by to-morrow; can you?"
La Mole's eyes were anxiously fixed on those of Marguerite.
"You have my promise," said the queen. "Wherever you go, I will follow. But you know Monsieur d'Alençon must leave at the same time. No half way with him; either he serves us or he betrays us. If he hesitates we do not stir."
"Does he know anything of this plan, Monsieur de la Mole?" asked Henry.
"He should have received a letter from Monsieur de Mouy several days ago."
"Why," said Henry, "he said nothing to me about it!"
"Be careful, monsieur," said Marguerite, "be careful."
"I shall be on my guard, you may be sure. How can we get an answer to De Mouy?"
"Do not worry, sire. On the right, on the left, of your majesty, visible or invisible, he will be on hand to-morrow during the reception of the ambassadors. One word in the address of the queen will suffice for him to understand whether you consent or not, whether he must leave or wait for you. If the Duc d'Alençon refuses, he asks but a fortnight to reorganize everything in your name."
"Really," said Henry, "De Mouy is invaluable. Can you insert the necessary words in your address, madame?"
"Nothing will be easier," replied Marguerite.
"Then I will see Monsieur d'Alençon to-morrow," said Henry. "Let de Mouy be at his post ready to understand at a word."
"He will be there, sire."
"And, Monsieur de la Mole," said Henry, "take my answer to him. You probably have a horse or a servant near by?"
"Orthon is waiting for me at the quay."
"Go back to him, monsieur. Oh, no, not by the window, which is good only for an emergency. You might be seen, and as it would not be known that you had taken this risk for me, it might compromise the queen."
"How shall I leave, sire?"
"Although you may not be able to enter the Louvre by yourself, you can at least leave it with me, for I have the password. You have your cloak, I have mine; we will put them on and can pass the gate without difficulty. Besides, I shall be glad to give some special orders to Orthon. Wait here while I go and see if there is any one in the corridor."
With the most natural air possible Henry went out to investigate. La Mole was left alone with the queen.
"Ah! when shall I see you again?" said he.
"To-morrow evening, if we leave. Otherwise some evening soon in the Rue Cloche Percée."
"Monsieur de la Mole," said Henry, returning, "you can come; there is no one here."
La Mole bowed respectfully to the queen.
"Give him your hand to kiss, madame," said Henry; "Monsieur de la Mole is no ordinary servitor."
Marguerite obeyed.
"By the way," said Henry, "be sure and keep the rope ladder. It is a valuable instrument for conspirators; and when we least expect it we may need it. Come, Monsieur de la Mole."
XLIII. THE AMBASSADORS
The following day the entire population of Paris rushed towards the Faubourg Saint Antoine, by which it had been decided that the Polish ambassadors were to enter. A line of Swiss restrained the crowd, and a regiment of horse protected the lords and the ladies of the court who rode ahead of the procession.
Soon, near the Abbey Saint Antoine, a troop of cavaliers appeared, dressed in red and yellow, with caps and furred mantles, and carrying long curved sabres like Turkish cimeters.
The officers rode at the side of the lines.
Behind this troop came a second, clothed with Oriental magnificence. They preceded the ambassadors, who, four in number, represented in a gorgeous manner the most mythological of the chivalrous kingdoms of the sixteenth century.
One of the ambassadors was the Bishop of Cracow. His costume was half ecclesiastical, half military, resplendent with gold and precious stones.
His white horse, with long mane and tail, walked with proud step and seemed to breathe out fire from his nostrils. No one would have supposed that for a month the noble animal had made fifteen leagues daily over roads which the weather had rendered almost impassable.
Beside the bishop rode the Palatine Lasco, a powerful noble, closely related to the royal family, as rich as a king and as proud.
Behind these two chief ambassadors, who were accompanied by two other palatines of high rank, came a number of Polish lords, whose horses in their harness of silk, studded with gold and precious stones, excited the applause of the people. The French horsemen, in spite of their rich apparel, were completely eclipsed by the newcomers, whom they scornfully called barbarians.
Up to the last moment Catharine had hoped the reception would be postponed on account of the King's illness. But when the day came, and she saw Charles, as pale as a corpse, put on the gorgeous royal mantle, she realized that apparently at least she must yield to his iron will, and began to believe that after all the safest plan for Henry of Anjou was to accept the magnificent exile to which he was condemned. With the exception of the few words he had uttered when he opened his eyes as his mother came out of the closet, Charles had not spoken to Catharine since the scene which had brought about the illness to which he had succumbed. Every one in the Louvre knew that there had been a dreadful altercation between mother and son, but no one knew the cause of it, and the boldest trembled before that coldness and silence, as birds tremble before the calm which precedes a storm.
Everything had been prepared in the Louvre, not as though there were to be a reception, but as if some funeral ceremony were to occur. Every one had obeyed orders in a gloomy or passive manner. It was known that Catharine had almost trembled, and consequently every one else trembled.
The large reception-hall of the palace had been prepared, and as such ceremonies were usually public, the guards and the sentinels had received orders to admit with the ambassadors as many people as the apartments and the courts would hold. As for Paris, it presented the same aspect that every large city presents under similar circumstances; that is, confusion and curiosity. But had any one looked closely at the population that day, he would have noticed, among the groups of honest bourgeois with smiling faces, a considerable number of men in long cloaks, who exchanged glances and signs when at a distance, and when they met, a few rapid words in a low tone. These men seemed greatly occupied with the procession, followed it closely, and appeared to receive their orders from an old man, whose sharp black eyes, in spite of his white beard and grayish eyebrows, showed a vigorous activity. This old man, either by his own efforts or by those of his companions, was among the first to gain admission to the Louvre, and, thanks to the kindness of the Swiss guard, succeeded in finding a place behind the ambassadors, opposite Marguerite and Henry of Navarre.
Henry, informed by La Mole that De Mouy would be present in some disguise or other, looked round on all sides. At last his eyes encountered those of the old man and held them.
A sign from De Mouy had dispelled all doubt. He was so changed that Henry himself was doubtful whether this old man with the white beard could be the intrepid Huguenot chief who five or six days before had made so desperate a defence.
A word from Henry whispered into Marguerite's ear called the attention of the queen to De Mouy. Then her beautiful eyes wandered around the great hall in search of La Mole; but in vain--La Mole was not there.
The speeches began. The first was to the King. Lasco, in the name of the Diet, asked him to consent that the crown of Poland be offered to a prince of the house of France.
Charles's reply was short and to the point. He presented his brother, the Duc d'Anjou, whose courage he praised highly to the Polish ambassadors. He spoke in French, and an interpreter translated his reply at the end of each sentence. While the interpreter was speaking, the King was seen applying a handkerchief to his lips, and each time he removed it, it was covered with blood. When Charles's reply was finished, Lasco turned to the Duc d'Anjou, bowed, and began a Latin address, in which he offered him the throne in the name of the Polish nation.
The duke replied in the same language, and in a voice he strove in vain to render firm, that he accepted with gratitude the honor which was offered to him. While he spoke, Charles remained standing, with lips compressed, and fixed on him eyes as calm and threatening as those of an eagle.
When the duke had finished, Lasco took the crown of the Jagellos from the red velvet cushion on which it rested, and while two Polish nobles placed the royal mantle on the duke, he laid the crown in Charles's hands.
Charles signed to his brother, the Duc d'Anjou knelt down before him, and with his own hand the King placed the crown on his brother's head. Then the two kings exchanged one of the most bitter kisses ever exchanged between two brothers.
At once a herald cried:
"Alexander Edward Henry of France, Duc d'Anjou, is crowned King of Poland. Long live the King of Poland!"
The entire assembly repeated the cry: "Long live the King of Poland!" Then Lasco turned to Marguerite. The discourse of the beautiful queen had been reserved for the last. Now, as it was a compliment accorded her in order to display her brilliant talents, as they were called, every one paid great attention to the reply, which was in Latin, and which, as we have said, Marguerite had composed herself. Lascos's address was more of a eulogy than an address. He had yielded, Sarmatian that he was, to the admiration which the beautiful queen of Navarre inspired in every one. He had borrowed his language from Ovid; his style was that of Ronsard. He said that having left Varsovia in the middle of a very dark night, neither he nor his companions would have been able to find their way, had they not, like the Magi, been guided by two stars which became more and more brilliant as they drew nearer to France, and which now they recognized as the two beautiful eyes of the Queen of Navarre. Finally, passing from the Gospel to the Koran, from Syria to Arabia, from Nazareth to Mecca, he concluded by saying that he was quite prepared to do what the ardent votaries of the prophet did. When they were fortunate enough to see his tomb, they put out their eyes, feeling that after they had looked at such a sight, nothing in the world was worth being admired.
This address was loudly applauded by those who understood Latin because they were of the same opinion as the orator, and by those who did not understand it because they wished to appear as though they did.
Marguerite made a gracious courtesy to the gallant Sarmatian; then fixing her eyes on De Mouy, began her reply in these words:
"Quod nunc hac in aulâ insperati adestis exultaremus, ego et conjux, nisi ideo immineret calamitas, scilicet non solum fratris sed etiam amici orbitas."[15]
These words had a double meaning, and, while intended for De Mouy, were apparently addressed to Henry of Anjou. The latter, therefore, bowed in token of gratitude.
Charles did not remember having read this sentence in the address which had been submitted to him some days before; but he attached no importance to Marguerite's words, which he knew were merely conventional. Besides, he understood Latin very imperfectly.
Marguerite continued:
"Adeo dolemur a te dividi ut tecum proficisci maluissemus. Sed idem fatum quo nunc sine ullâ morâ Lutetiâ cedere juberis, hac in urbe detinet. Proficiscere ergo, frater; proficiscere, amice; proficiscere sine nobis; proficiscentem sequuntur spes et desideria nostra."[16]
It may easily be imagined that De Mouy listened with the closest attention to these words which, although addressed to the ambassadors, were intended for him alone. Two or three times Henry had glanced indifferently over his shoulder to intimate to the young Huguenot that D'Alençon had refused; but the act, which appeared involuntary, would have been insufficient for De Mouy, had not Marguerite's words confirmed it.
While looking at Marguerite and listening with his whole soul, his piercing black eyes beneath their gray brows struck Catharine, who started as if she had had a shock of electricity, and who did not remove her eyes from him.
"What a strange face!" thought she, continuing to change her expression according as the ceremony required it. "Who is this man who watches Marguerite so attentively and whom Marguerite and Henry on their part look at so earnestly?"
The Queen of Navarre went on with her address, which from that point was a reply to the courtesies of the Polish ambassador. While Catharine was racking her brain to discover the name of this fine old man the master of ceremonies came up behind her and handed her a perfumed satin bag containing a folded paper. She opened the bag, drew out the paper, and read these words:
"By the aid of a cordial which I have just administered to him Maurevel has somewhat recovered his strength, and has succeeded in writing the name of the man who was in the apartment of the King of Navarre. This man was Monsieur de Mouy."
"De Mouy!" thought the queen; "well, I felt it was he. But this old man--ah! cospetto!--this old man is"--
She leaned toward the captain of the guard.
"Look, Monsieur de Nancey," said she, "but without attracting attention; look at Lasco who is speaking. Behind him--do you see the old man with the white beard, in the black velvet suit?"
"Yes, madame," replied the captain.
"Well, do not lose sight of him."
"The one to whom the King of Navarre made a sign just now?"
"Exactly. Station yourself at the door of the Louvre with ten men, and when he comes out invite him in the King's name to dinner. If he accepts, take him into some room in which you must keep him a prisoner. If he resists, seize him, dead or alive."
Fortunately Henry, who had been paying but little attention to Marguerite's address, was looking at Catharine, and had not lost a single expression of her face. Seeing the eyes of the queen mother fixed so earnestly on De Mouy, he grew uneasy; when he saw her give an order to the captain of the guard he comprehended everything.
It was at this moment that he made the sign which had surprised Monsieur de Nancey, and which meant, "You are discovered, save yourself!"
De Mouy understood this gesture, which was a fitting climax to the portion of Marguerite's address intended for him. He did not delay an instant, but mingled with the crowd and disappeared.
Henry, however, was not easy until Monsieur de Nancey had returned to Catharine, and he saw from the frown on the queen mother's face that the captain had not been in time.
The audience was over. Marguerite exchanged a few unofficial words with Lasco.
The King staggered to his feet, bowed, and went out, leaning on the arm of Ambroise Paré, who had not left him since his illness.
Catharine, pale with anger, and Henry, silent from disappointment, followed.
As to the Duc d'Alençon, he had scarcely been noticed during the ceremony, and not once had Charles, whose eyes had not left the Duc d'Anjou, glanced at him.
The new King of Poland felt himself lost. Far from his mother, carried away by those barbarians of the north, he was like Antæus, the son of Terra, who lost his strength when lifted in the arms of Hercules. Once beyond the frontier the Duc d'Anjou felt that he was forever excluded from the throne of France.
Instead of following the King he retired to his mother's apartments.
He found her no less gloomy and preoccupied than himself, for she was thinking of that fine mocking face she had not lost sight of during the ceremony, of the Béarnais for whom destiny had seemed to make way, sweeping aside kings, royal assassins, enemies, and obstacles.
Seeing her beloved son pale beneath his crown, and bent under his royal mantle, clasping his beautiful hands in silence, and holding them out to her piteously, Catharine rose and went to him.
"Oh, mother," cried the King of Poland, "I am condemned to die in exile!"
"My son," said Catharine, "have you so soon forgotten Réné's prediction? Do not worry, you will not have to stay there long."
"Mother, I entreat you," said the Duc d'Anjou, "if there is the slightest hint, or the least suspicion, that the throne of France is to be vacant, send me word."
"Do not worry, my son," said Catharine. "Until the day for which both of us are waiting, there shall always be a horse saddled in my stable, and in my antechamber a courier ready to set out for Poland."
XLIV. ORESTES AND PYLADES
Henry of Anjou having departed, peace and happiness seemed to have returned to the Louvre, among this family of the Atrides.
Charles, forgetting his melancholy, recovered his vigorous health, hunting with Henry, and on days when this was not possible discussing hunting affairs with him, and reproaching him for only one thing, his indifference to hawking, declaring that he would be faultless if he knew how to snare falcons, gerfalcons, and hawks as well as he knew how to hunt brocks and hounds.
Catharine had become a good mother again. Gentle to Charles and D'Alençon, affectionate to Henry and Marguerite, gracious to Madame de Nevers and Madame de Sauve; and under the pretext that it was in obedience to an order from her that he had been wounded, she carried her amiabilities so far as to visit Maurevel twice during his convalescence, in his house in the Rue de la Cerisaie.
Marguerite continued to carry on her love affair after the Spanish fashion.
Every evening she opened her window and by gestures and notes kept up her correspondence with La Mole, while in each of his letters the young man reminded his lovely queen of her promise of a few moments in the Rue Cloche Percée as a reward for his exile.
Only one person was lonely and unhappy in the now calm and peaceful Louvre.
This was our friend Count Annibal de Coconnas.
It was certainly something to know that La Mole was alive; it was much to be the favorite of Madame de Nevers, the most charming and the most whimsical of women. But all the pleasure of a meeting granted him by the beautiful duchess, all the consolation offered by Marguerite as to the fate of their common friend, did not compensate in the eyes of the Piedmontese for one hour spent with La Mole at their friend La Hurière's before a bottle of light wine, or for one of those midnight rambles through that part of Paris in which an honest man ran the risk of receiving rents in his flesh, his purse, or his clothes.
To the shame of humanity it must be said that Madame de Nevers bore with impatience her rivalry with La Mole.
It was not that she hated the Provincial; on the contrary, carried away by the irresistible instinct which, in spite of herself, makes every woman a coquette with another woman's lover, especially when that woman is her friend, she had not spared La Mole the flashes of her emerald eyes, and Coconnas might have envied the frank handclasps and the amiable acts done by the duchess in favor of his friend during those days in which the star of the Piedmontese seemed growing dim in the sky of his beautiful mistress; but Coconnas, who would have strangled fifteen persons for a single glance from his lady, was so little jealous of La Mole that he had often after some indiscretions of the duchess whispered certain offers which had made the man from the Provinces blush.
At this stage of affairs it happened that Henriette, who by the absence of La Mole was deprived of all the enjoyment she had had from the company of Coconnas, that is, his never-ending flow of spirits and fun, came to Marguerite one day to beg her to do her this three-fold favor without which the heart and the mind of Coconnas seemed to be slipping away day by day.
Marguerite, always sympathetic and, besides, influenced by the prayers of La Mole and the wishes of her own heart, arranged a meeting with Henriette for the next day in the house with the double entrance, in order to discuss these matters thoroughly and uninterruptedly.
Coconnas received with rather bad grace the note from Henriette, asking him to be in the Rue Tizon at half-past nine.
Nevertheless he went to the place appointed, where he found Henriette, who was provoked at having arrived first.
"Fie, Monsieur!" she cried, "it is very bad to make--I will not say a princess--but a lady--wait in this way."
"Wait?" said Coconnas, "what an idea! I'll wager, on the contrary, that we are ahead of time."
"I was."
"Well! and I too; it cannot be more than ten o'clock at the latest."
"Well! my note said half-past nine."
"Therefore I left the Louvre at nine o'clock. I am in the service of Monsieur le Duc d'Alençon, be it said in passing, and for this reason I shall be obliged to leave you in an hour."
"Which pleases you, no doubt?"
"No, indeed! considering the fact that Monsieur d'Alençon is an ill-tempered and capricious master; moreover, if I am to be found fault with, I prefer to have it done by pretty lips like yours rather than by such sullen ones as his."
"Ah!" said the duchess, "that is a little better. You say, then, that you left the Louvre at nine o'clock."
"Yes, and with every idea of coming directly here, when at the corner of the Rue de Grenelle I saw a man who looked like La Mole."
"Good! La Mole again."
"Always, with or without permission."
"Brutal man!"
"Ah!" said Coconnas, "we are going to begin our complimentary speeches again."
"Not at all; but finish your story."
"I was not the one who wanted to tell it. It was you who asked me why I was late."
"Yes; was it my place to arrive first?"
"Well, you are not looking for any one."
"You are growing tiresome, my dear friend; but go on. At the corner of the Rue de Grenelle you saw a man who looked like La Mole--But what is that on your doublet--blood?"
"Yes, and here is more which was probably sprinkled over me as he fell."
"You had a fight?"
"I should think so."
"On account of your La Mole?"
"On whose account do you think I would fight? For a woman?"
"I thank you!"
"So I followed this man who had the impudence to look like my friend. I joined him in the Rue Coquillière, I overtook him, and stared into his face under the light from a shop. But it was not La Mole."
"Good! that was well done."
"Yes, but he did not think so. 'Monsieur,' said I to him, 'you are an ass to take it upon yourself to resemble from afar my friend Monsieur de la Mole, who is an accomplished cavalier; while on nearer view one can easily perceive that you are nothing but a vagrant.' Whereupon he drew his sword, and I mine. At the third pass he fell down, sprinkling me with his blood."
"But you assisted him at least?"
"I was about to do so when a horseman rode by. Ah! this time, duchess, I was sure that it was La Mole. Unfortunately he was galloping. I ran after him as hard as I could, and those who collected around to see the fight ran behind me. Now as I might easily have been mistaken for a thief, followed as I was by all that rabble shouting at my heels, I was obliged to turn back to scatter them, which made me lose a little time. In the meanwhile the rider disappeared; I followed, inquired of every one, gave the color of the horse; but it was useless; no one had noticed him. At last, tired out from the chase, I came here."
"Tired of the chase!" said the duchess. "How flattering you are!"
"Listen, dear friend," said Coconnas, turning nonchalantly in his chair. "You are going to bother me again on account of poor La Mole. Now, you are wrong, for friendship, you see,--I wish I had his wit or knowledge, I would then find some comparison which would make you understand how I feel--friendship, you see, is a star, while love--love--wait! I have it!--love is only a candle. You will tell me there are several varieties"--
"Of love?"
"No! of candles, and that some are better than others. The rose, for instance, is the best; but rose as it is, the candle burns out, while the star shines forever. You will answer this by saying that when the candle is burned out, another is put in its place."
"Monsieur de Coconnas, you are a goose."
"Indeed!"
"Monsieur de Coconnas, you are impertinent."
"Ah?"
"Monsieur de Coconnas, you are a scoundrel."
"Madame, I warn you that you will make me trebly regret La Mole."
"You no longer love me."
"On the contrary, duchess, you do not know it, but I idolize you. But I can love and cherish and idolize you, and yet in my spare moments praise my friend."
"So you call the time spent with me spare moments, do you?"
"What can you expect? Poor La Mole is constantly in my thoughts."
"You prefer him to me; that is shameful! and I detest you, Annibal! Why not be frank, and tell me you prefer him to me? Annibal, I warn you of one thing: if you prefer anything in the world to me"--
"Henriette, the loveliest of duchesses! For your own peace of mind, believe me, do not ask such unwise questions. I love you more than any woman, and I love La Mole more than any man."
"Well answered!" said a strange voice suddenly. A damask curtain was raised in front of a great panel, which, sliding back into the wall, opened a passage between the two rooms, and showed La Mole in the doorway, like one of Titian's fine portraits in its gilded frame.
"La Mole!" exclaimed Coconnas, without paying any attention to Marguerite or taking the time to thank her for the surprise she had arranged for him; "La Mole, my friend, my dear La Mole!" and he rushed into the arms of his friend, upsetting the armchair in which he had been sitting and the table that stood in his way.
La Mole returned his embrace with effusion; then, turning to the Duchesse de Nevers:
"Pardon me, madame, if the mention of my name has sometimes disturbed your happiness." "Certainly," he added, glancing at Marguerite with a look of ineffable tenderness, "it has not been my fault that I have not seen you sooner."
"You see, Henriette," said Marguerite, "I have kept my word; here he is!"
"Is it, then, to the prayers of Madame la Duchesse that I owe this happiness?" asked La Mole.
"To her prayers alone," replied Marguerite.
Then, turning to La Mole, she continued:
"La Mole, I will allow you not to believe one word of what I say."
Meanwhile Coconnas pressed his friend to his heart over and over again, walked round him a dozen times, and even held a candelabrum to his face the better to see him; then suddenly turning, he knelt down before Marguerite and kissed the hem of her robe.
"Ah! that is pleasant!" said the Duchesse de Nevers. "I suppose now you will find me bearable."
"By Heaven!" cried Coconnas, "I shall find you as adorable as ever; only now I can tell you so with a lighter heart, and were there any number of Poles, Sarmatians, and other hyperborean barbarians present I should make them all admit that you were the queen of beauties."
"Gently, gently, Coconnas," said La Mole, "Madame Marguerite is here!"
"Oh! I cannot help that," cried Coconnas, with the half-comic air which belonged to him alone, "I still assert that Madame Henriette is the queen of beauties and Madame Marguerite is the beauty of queens."
But whatever he might say or do, the Piedmontese, completely carried away by the joy of having found his dear La Mole, had neither eyes nor ears for any one but him.
"Come, my beautiful queen," said Madame de Nevers, "come, let us leave these dear friends to chat awhile alone. They have a thousand things to say to each other which would be interrupted by our conversation. It is hard for us, but it is the only way, I am sure, to make Monsieur Annibal perfectly sane. Do this for me, my queen! since I am foolish enough to love this worthless fellow, as his friend La Mole calls him."
Marguerite whispered a few words to La Mole, who, anxious as he had been to see his friend, would have been glad had the affection of Coconnas for him been less exacting. Meanwhile Coconnas was endeavoring to bring back a smile and a gentle word to Henriette's lips, a result which was easily attained. Then the two women passed into the next room, where supper was awaiting them.
The young men were alone. The first questions Coconnas asked his friend were about that fatal evening which had almost cost him his life. As La Mole proceeded in his story the Piedmontese, who, however, was not easily moved, trembled in every limb.
"But why," said he, "instead of running about the country as you have done, and causing me such uneasiness, did you not seek refuge with our master? The duke who had defended you would have hidden you. I should have been near you and my grief, although feigned, would nevertheless have disturbed every simpleton at court."
"Our master!" said La Mole, in a low voice, "the Duc d'Alençon?"
"Yes. According to what he told me, I supposed it was to him you owed your life."
"I owe my life to the King of Navarre," replied La Mole.
"Oh!" exclaimed Coconnas, "are you sure?"
"Beyond a doubt."
"Oh! what a good, kind king! But what part did the Duc d'Alençon play in it all?"
"He held the rope to strangle me."
"By Heaven!" cried Coconnas, "are you sure of what you say, La Mole? What! this pale-faced, pitiful-looking cur strangle my friend! Ah! by Heaven, by to-morrow I will let him know what I think of him."
"Are you mad?"
"That is true, he would begin again. But what does it matter? Things cannot go on like this."
"Come, come, Coconnas, calm yourself and try and remember that it is half-past eleven o'clock and that you are on duty to-night."
"What do I care about my duty to him! Bah! Let him wait! My attendance! I serve a man who has held a rope? You are joking! No! This is providential; it is said that I should find you to leave you no more. I shall stay here."
"Why, man alive, think what you are saying. You are not drunk, I hope."
"No, fortunately; if I were I would set fire to the Louvre."
"Come, Annibal," said La Mole, "be reasonable. Return to your duties. Service is a sacred thing."
"Will you return with me?"
"Impossible."
"Are they still thinking of killing you?"
"I think not. I am of too little importance for them to have any plot on hand about me. For an instant they wanted to kill me, but that was all. The princes were on a frolic that night."
"What are you going to do, then?"
"Nothing; wander about or take a walk."
"Well, I will walk, too, and wander with you. That will be charming. Then, if you are attacked, there will be two of us, and we will give them no end of trouble. Let him come, your duke! I will pin him to the wall like a butterfly!"
"But, at least, say that you are going to leave his service!"
"Yes, I am."
"In that case, tell him so."
"Well, that seems only right. I will do so. I will write to him."
"Write to him! That would be discourteous, Coconnas, to a prince of the blood."
"Yes, of the blood! of the blood of my friend. Take care," cried Coconnas, rolling his large, tragic eyes, "lest I trifle with points of etiquette!"
"Probably," said La Mole to himself, "in a few days he will need neither the prince nor any one else, for if he wants to come with us, we will take him."
Thereupon Coconnas took the pen without further opposition from his friend and hastily composed the following specimen of eloquence:
"Monseigneur: There can be no doubt but that your highness, versed as you are in the writings of all authors of antiquity, must know the touching story of Orestes and Pylades, who were two heroes celebrated for their misfortunes and their friendship. My friend La Mole is no less unfortunate than was Orestes, while I am no less tender than Pylades. At present he has affairs of importance which demand my aid. It is therefore impossible for me to leave him. So with the consent of your highness I will take a short vacation, determined as I am to attach myself to my friend's fortune, whithersoever it may lead me. It is with the deepest grief that I tear myself away from the service of your highness, but for this I trust I may obtain your pardon. I venture to subscribe myself with respect, my lord,
"Your highness's very humble and very obedient servant,
"ANNIBAL, COMTE DE COCONNAS,
"The inseparable friend of Monsieur de la Mole."
This masterpiece finished, Coconnas read it aloud to La Mole, who merely shrugged his shoulders.
"Well! what do you say to it?" asked Coconnas, who had not seen the shrug, or who had pretended not to see it.
"I say," replied La Mole, "that Monsieur d'Alençon will laugh at us."
"At us?"
"Both of us."
"That will be better, it seems to me, than to strangle each of us separately."
"Bah!" said La Mole, laughing, "the one will not necessarily prevent the other."
"Well! so much the worse. Come what may, I will send the letter to-morrow morning. Where shall we sleep when we leave here?"
"At Maître la Hurière's, in that little room in which you tried to stab me before we were Orestes and Pylades!"
"Very well, I will send my letter to the Louvre by our host."
Just then the panel moved.
"Well!" asked both princesses at once, "where are Orestes and Pylades?"
"By Heaven! madame," replied Coconnas, "Pylades and Orestes are dying of hunger and love."
It was Maître la Hurière himself who, at nine o'clock the following morning, carried to the Louvre the respectful missive of Count Annibal de Coconnas.
XLV. ORTHON
After the refusal of the Duc d'Alençon, which left everything in peril, even his life, Henry became more intimate with the prince than ever, if that were possible. Catharine concluded from the intimacy that the two princes not only understood each other perfectly, but also that they were planning some mutual conspiracy. She questioned Marguerite on the subject, but Marguerite was worthy of her mother, and the Queen of Navarre, whose chief talent lay in avoiding explanations, parried her mother's questions so cleverly that although replying to all she left Catharine more mystified than ever.
The Florentine, therefore, had nothing to guide her except the spirit of intrigue she had brought with her from Tuscany, the most interesting of the small states of that period, and the feeling of hatred she had imbibed from the court of France, which was more divided in its interests and opinions than any court at that time.
She realized that a part of the strength of the Béarnais came from his alliance with the Duc d'Alençon, and she determined to separate them.
From the moment she formed this resolution she beset her son with the patience and the wiles of an angler, who, when he has dropped his bait near the fish, unconsciously draws it in until his prey is caught.
François perceived this increase of affection on the part of his mother and made advances to her. As for Henry, he pretended to see nothing, but kept a closer watch on his ally than he had yet done.
Every one was waiting for some event.
During this state of things, one morning when the sun rose clear, giving out that gentle warmth and sweet odor which announce a beautiful day, a pale man, leaning on a cane, and walking with difficulty, came out of a small house situated behind the arsenal, and walked slowly along the Rue du Petit Muse.
At the Porte Saint Antoine he turned into the street which encircles the moat of the Bastille like a marsh, left the boulevard on his left and entered the Archery Garden, where the gatekeeper received him with every mark of respect.
There was no one in the garden, which, as its name implies, belonged to a particular society called the Taxopholites. Had there been any strollers there the pale man would have merited their sympathy, for his long mustache, his military step and bearing, though weakened by suffering, sufficiently indicated that he was an officer who had been recently wounded, and who was endeavoring to regain his strength by moderate exercise in the open air.
Yet, strange to say, when the cloak opened in which, in spite of the increasing heat, this apparently harmless man was wrapped, it displayed a pair of long pistols suspended from the silver clasps of his belt. This belt also sustained a dagger and a sword so enormously long that it seemed almost impossible to be handled, and which, completing this living arsenal, clattered against his shrunken and trembling legs.
As an additional precaution the lonely soldier glanced around at every step as though to question each turn of the path, each bush and ditch.
Having entered the garden without being molested, the man reached a sort of small arbor, facing the boulevard, from which it was separated by a thick hedge and a small ditch which formed a double inclosure. He threw himself upon a grassy bank within reach of a table on which the host of the establishment, who combined with his duties as gatekeeper the vocation of cook, at once placed a bottle of cordial.
The invalid had been there about ten minutes and had several times raised the china cup to his lips, taking little sips of its contents, when suddenly his countenance, in spite of its interesting pallor, assumed a startled expression. From the Croix Faubin, along a path which to-day is the Rue de Naples, he had perceived a cavalier, wrapped in a great cloak, stop near the moat.
Not more than five minutes had elapsed, during which the man of the pale face, whom the reader has perhaps already recognized as Maurevel, had scarcely had time to recover from the emotion caused by his unexpected presence, when the horseman was joined by a man in a close-fitting coat, like that of a page, who came by the road which is since known as the Rue des Fossés Saint Nicholas.
Hidden in his leafy arbor, Maurevel could easily see and hear everything, and when it is known that the cavalier was De Mouy and the young man in the tight-fitting cloak Orthon, one may imagine whether Maurevel's eyes and ears were not on the alert.
Both men looked very carefully around. Maurevel held his breath.
"You may speak, monsieur," said Orthon, who being the younger was the more confident; "no one can either see or hear us."
"That is well," said De Mouy, "you are to go to Madame de Sauve, and if you find her in her rooms give her this note. If she is not there, you will place it behind the mirror where the king is in the habit of putting his letters. Then you will wait in the Louvre. If you receive an answer, you will bring it you know where; if no reply is sent, you will meet me this evening with a petronel at the spot I showed you, and from which I have just come."
"Very well," said Orthon, "I understand."
"I will now leave you. I have much to do to-day. You need make no haste--there is no use in it, for you do not need to reach the Louvre until he is there, and I think he is taking a lesson in hawking this morning. Now go, and show me what you can do. You have recovered, and you apparently are going to thank Madame de Sauve for her kindness to you during your illness. Now go, my boy."
Maurevel listened, his eyes fixed, his hair on end, his forehead covered with perspiration. His first impulse had been to detach one of his pistols from his belt and aim at De Mouy; but a movement of the latter had opened his cloak and displayed a firm and solid cuirass. Therefore in all probability the ball would flatten itself against this cuirass or strike some part of the body wherein the wound would not be fatal. Besides, he reflected that De Mouy, strong and well armed, would have an advantage over him, wounded as he was. So with a sigh he drew back the weapon which he had pointed at the Huguenot.
"How unfortunate," he murmured, "that I am unable to stretch him dead on the spot, without other witness than that young varlet who would have been such a good mark for my second ball!"
But Maurevel thought that the note given to Orthon and which he was to deliver to Madame de Sauve might perhaps be of more importance than the life of the Huguenot chief.
"Well!" said he, "you have escaped me again this morning; be it so. To-morrow I will have my turn at you if I have to follow you into that hell from which you have come to ruin me, unless I destroy you."
De Mouy raised his cloak over his face, and set out rapidly in the direction of the Temple. Orthon took the road along the moat which led to the banks of the river.
Then Maurevel, rising with more energy and vigor than he had dared to hope for, regained the Rue de la Cerisaie, reached his home, ordered a horse to be saddled, and weak as he was and at the risk of opening his wounds again, set off at a gallop to the Rue Saint Antoine, reached the quays, and entered the Louvre.
Five minutes after he had passed under the gate Catharine knew all that had just taken place, and Maurevel had received the thousand golden crowns promised him for the arrest of the King of Navarre.
"Oh!" said Catharine, "either I am mistaken or this De Mouy is the black spot that was discovered by Réné in the horoscope of the accursed Béarnais."
A quarter of an hour after Maurevel Orthon entered the Louvre, showed himself as De Mouy had directed, and went to the apartments of Madame de Sauve, after having spoken to several attendants of the palace.
Dariole was the only one in her mistress's rooms. Catharine had asked the latter to write certain important letters, and she had been with the queen for the last five minutes.
"No matter," said Orthon, "I will wait."
Taking advantage of his intimacy in the house, the young man went into the sleeping-room of the baroness, and, having assured himself that he was alone, he laid the note behind the mirror. Just as he was removing his hand Catharine entered.
Orthon turned pale, for it seemed to him that the quick, searching glance of the queen mother was first directed to the mirror.
"What are you doing here, my little man?" asked Catharine; "looking for Madame de Sauve?"
"Yes, madame; it is a long time since I saw her, and if I delay any longer in thanking her I fear she will think me ungrateful."
"You love this dear Charlotte very much, do you not?"
"With all my heart, madame!"
"And you are faithful, from what I hear."
"Your majesty will understand that this is very natural when you know that Madame de Sauve took more care of me than I, being only an humble servant, deserved."
"And upon what occasion did she bestow all this care on you?" asked Catharine, pretending to be ignorant of what had happened to the youth.
"When I was wounded, madame."
"Ah, poor boy!" said Catharine, "you were wounded?"
"Yes, madame."
"When was that?"
"The night they tried to arrest the King of Navarre. I was so terrified at sight of the soldiers that I called and shouted; and one of the men gave me a blow on the head which knocked me senseless."
"Poor boy! And are you quite recovered now?"
"Yes, madame."
"So that you are trying to get back into the service of the King of Navarre?"
"No, madame. When the King of Navarre learned that I had dared to resist your majesty's order he dismissed me at once."
"Indeed!" said Catharine, in a tone full of interest; "well, I will see to that affair. But if you are waiting for Madame de Sauve you will wait in vain, for she is occupied in my apartments."
Whereupon, thinking that Orthon perhaps had not had time to hide his note behind the mirror, Catharine stepped into the adjoining room in order to give him the necessary opportunity.
But just as Orthon, anxious at the unexpected arrival of the queen mother, was wondering whether her coming did not forebode some plot against his master, he heard three gentle taps against the ceiling. This was the signal which he himself was in the habit of giving his master in case of danger when the latter was with Madame de Sauve and Orthon was keeping guard.
He started at the sound; a light broke upon his mind; he fancied that this time the warning had been given to him. Springing to the mirror, he removed the note he had just placed there.
Through an opening in the tapestry Catharine had followed every movement of the boy. She saw him dart to the mirror, but she did not know whether it was to hide the note or take it away.
"Well!" murmured the impatient Florentine; "why does he not leave now?"
And she returned to the room smiling.
"Still here, my boy?" said she; "why, what do you want? Did I not tell you that I would look after your fortune? When I say a thing you do not doubt it, do you?"
"Oh, madame, God forbid!" replied Orthon.
And approaching the queen, he bent his knee, kissed the hem of her robe, and at once withdrew.
As he went through the antechamber he saw the captain of the guards, who was waiting for Catharine. The sight of this man, instead of allaying his suspicions, augmented them.
On her part, no sooner had she seen the curtains fall behind Orthon than Catharine sprang to the mirror. But in vain she sought behind it with hands trembling with impatience. She found no note.
And yet she was sure that she had seen the boy approach the mirror. It was to remove the note, therefore, and not to leave it. Fate had given to her enemies a strength equal to her own.
A child had become a man the moment he fought with her.
She moved the mirror, looked behind it, tapped it; nothing was there!
"Oh! unhappy boy!" cried she, "I wished him no ill and now by removing the note he hastens his destiny. Ho, there, Monsieur de Nancey!"
The vibrating tones of the queen mother rang through the salon and penetrated into the anteroom, where, as we have said, Monsieur de Nancey was waiting.
The captain of the guards hastened to the queen.
"Here I am, madame," said he, "what is your majesty's will?"
"Have you been in the antechamber?"
"Yes, madame."
"Did you see a young man, a child, pass through?"
"Just now."
"He cannot have gone far, can he?"
"Scarcely to the stairway."
"Call him back."
"What is his name?"
"Orthon. If he refuses to come bring him back by force; but do not frighten him unless he resists. I must speak to him at once."
The captain of the guards hurriedly withdrew.
As he had said, Orthon was scarcely half way down the stairs, for he was descending slowly, hoping to meet or see the King of Navarre or Madame de Sauve somewhere.
He heard his name and gave a start.
His first impulse was to run, but with forethought beyond his years he realized that by doing so all would be lost.
He stopped therefore.
"Who calls me?"
"I, Monsieur de Nancey," replied the captain of the guards, hurrying down the stairs.
"But I am in haste," said Orthon.
"By order of her majesty the queen mother," said Monsieur de Nancey, as he came up to him.
The youth wiped the perspiration from his brow and turned back.
The captain followed.
Catharine's first idea had been to stop the young man, have him searched, and take possession of the note which she knew he had. She had planned to accuse him of theft, and with this end in view she had removed from the toilet table a diamond clasp which she was going to say he had taken.
But on reflection she concluded that this would be dangerous, in that it would arouse the boy's suspicions and he would inform his master, who would then begin to mistrust something, and so her enemy would gain an advantage over her.
She could, no doubt, have the young man taken to some dungeon, but the rumor of the arrest, however secretly it might be done, would spread through the Louvre, and the slightest inkling of it would put Henry on his guard. However, she must have the note, for a note from Monsieur de Mouy to the King of Navarre, a note sent with such precautions, surely meant conspiracy.
She put back the clasp from where she had taken it.
"No, no," said she, "that would be the method of a guard; it is poor. But for a note--which perhaps after all is not worth the trouble," she continued, frowning, and speaking so low that she herself could scarcely hear the sound of her words. "Well, it is not my fault, but his. Why did not the little scoundrel put the note where he should have put it? I must have this letter."
Just then Orthon entered.
Catharine's face wore such a terrible expression that the youth stopped on the threshold pale as death. He was still too young to be perfect master of himself.
"Madame," said he, "you have done me the honor of calling me back. In what can I serve your majesty?"
Catharine's face lighted up as if a ray of sunlight had touched it.
"I called you back, my child," said she, "because your face pleases me, and having promised to help you I am anxious to do so without delay. We queens are sometimes accused of being forgetful. But this is not on account of our hearts, but because our minds are filled with business. Now I remembered that kings hold men's fortunes in their hands, and so I called you back. Follow me, my child."
Monsieur de Nancey, who was taking the affair seriously, was greatly surprised at Catharine's affectionate manner.
"Can you ride, my child?" asked Catharine.
"Yes, madame."
"Then come into my room. I want to give you a message to carry to Saint Germain."
"I am at your majesty's command."
"Order a horse to be saddled, De Nancey."
Monsieur de Nancey disappeared.
"Come, boy," said Catharine, leading the way.
Orthon followed. The queen mother descended to the next floor, entered the corridor in which were the apartments of the king and the Duc d'Alençon, reached the winding staircase, again descended a flight of stairs, and opened a door leading to a circular gallery to which none but the king and herself possessed the key. Bidding Orthon pass in first, she entered after him and locked the door. This gallery formed a sort of rampart to a certain portion of the apartments of the king and the queen mother, and, like the corridor of the castle of Saint Angelo at Rome, or that of the Pitti Palace at Florence, was a safe place in case of danger. The door locked, Catharine was alone with the young man in the dark corridor. Each advanced a few steps, the queen leading the way, Orthon following.
Suddenly Catharine turned and Orthon again saw on her face the same sinister expression which he had seen on it a few minutes before. Her eyes were as round as those of a cat or a panther and seemed to dart forth fire in the darkness.
"Stop!" she cried.
Orthon felt a shiver run through him; a deathly cold like an icy cloak seemed to fall from the ceiling. The floor felt like the covering of a tomb. Catharine's glance was so sharp that it seemed to penetrate to the very soul of the page. He recoiled and leaned against the wall, trembling from head to foot.
"Where is the note you were charged to give to the King of Navarre?"
"The note?" stammered Orthon.
"Yes; which, if you did not find him, you were to place behind the mirror?"
"I, madame," said Orthon, "I do not know what you mean."
"The note which De Mouy gave you an hour ago, behind the Archery Garden."
"I have no note," said Orthon; "your majesty must be mistaken."
"You lie," said Catharine; "give me the note, and I will keep the promise I made you."
"What promise, madame?"
"I will make your fortune."
"I have no note, madame," repeated the child.
Catharine ground her teeth; then assuming a smile:
"Give it to me," said she, "and you shall have a thousand golden crowns."
"I have no note, madame."
"Two thousand crowns."
"Impossible; since I have no note, how can I give it to you?"
"Ten thousand crowns, Orthon."
Orthon, who saw the anger of the queen rising, felt that there was only one way of saving his master, and that was to swallow the note. He put his hand to his pocket, but Catharine guessed his intention and stopped him.
"There, my child," said she, laughing, "you are certainly faithful. When kings wish to attach a follower to them there is no harm in their making sure of his trustworthiness. Here, take this purse as a first reward. Go and carry your note to your master, and tell him that from to-day you are in my service. You can get out without me by the door we entered. It opens from within."
And giving the purse to the astonished youth Catharine walked on a few steps and placed her hand against the wall.
But the young man stood still, hesitating. He could not believe that the danger he had felt hovering over him was gone.
"Come, do not tremble so," said Catharine. "Have I not told you that you were free to go, and that if you wish to come back your fortune is made?"
"Thank you, madame," said Orthon. "Then you pardon me?"
"I do more, I reward you; you are a faithful bearer of notes, a gentle messenger of love. But you forget your master is waiting for you."
"Ah! that is true," said the young man, springing towards the door.
But scarcely had he advanced three steps before the floor gave way beneath his feet. He stumbled, extended both hands, gave a fearful cry, and disappeared in the dungeon of the Louvre, the spring of which Catharine had just touched.
"So," murmured the queen, "thanks to the fellow's obstinacy I shall have to descend a hundred and fifty steps."
The queen mother returned to her apartments, lighted a dark lantern, came back to the corridor, closed the spring, and opened the door of a spiral staircase which seemed to lead to the bowels of the earth. Urged on by the insatiable thirst of a curiosity which was but the minister of her hatred, she reached an iron door which turned on its hinges and admitted her to the depths of the dungeon. Bleeding, crushed, and mutilated by a fall of a hundred feet or more, but still breathing, lay poor Orthon.
Beyond the thick wall the waters of the Seine were heard roaring, brought to the foot of the stairs by a subterranean channel.
Catharine entered the damp and unwholesome place, which during her reign had witnessed many a fall similar to the one it had just seen, searched the body, seized the letter, made sure that it was the one she desired, then pushing aside the body with her foot she pressed a spring, the bottom of the dungeon sank, and the corpse, carried down by its own weight, disappeared in the direction of the river.
Closing the door again, Catharine ascended, shut herself in her closet, and read the note, which contained these words:
"This evening at ten o'clock, Rue de l'Arbre Sec, Hôtel de la Belle Étoile. If you come send no reply; otherwise send back NO by the bearer.
"DE MOUY DE SAINT PHALE."
As Catharine read this note a smile came to her lips. She was thinking of the victory she was to gain, forgetting the price at which she had bought it. But after all what was Orthon? A faithful, devoted follower, a handsome young boy; that was all.
That, one may well imagine, would not for an instant have turned the scales on which the fate of empires had been weighed.
The note read, Catharine at once went to Madame de Sauve's and placed it behind the mirror.
As she came down she found the captain of the guards at the entrance of the corridor.
"Madame," said Monsieur de Nancey, "according to your majesty's orders the horse is ready."
"My dear baron," said Catharine, "we shall not need it. I have made the boy speak, and he is really too stupid to be charged with the errand I wanted to entrust to him. I thought he was a lackey, but he is nothing but a groom at best. I gave him some money and dismissed him by the private gate."
"But," said Monsieur de Nancey, "the errand?"
"The errand?" asked Catharine.
"The one on which he was to go to Saint Germain. Does your majesty wish me to undertake it, or shall I have one of my men attend to it?"
"No, no," said Catharine, "this evening you and your men will have something else to do."
Whereupon the queen mother returned to her room, hoping that evening to hold in her hands the fate of the accursed King of Navarre.
XLVI. THE INN OF LA BELLE ÉTOILE
Two hours after the event we have described, no trace of which remained on Catharine's face, Madame de Sauve, having finished her work for the queen, returned to her own rooms. Henry followed her, and learning from Dariole that Orthon had been there he went directly to the mirror and found the note.
It was, as we have said, couched in these terms:
"This evening at ten o'clock, Rue de l'Arbre Sec, Hôtel de la Belle Étoile. If you come send no reply; otherwise send back NO by the bearer."
There was no address.
"Henry will not fail to keep the appointment," said Catharine, "for even had he not wished to do so there is no longer a messenger to take back his answer."
Catharine was not mistaken.
Henry inquired for Orthon. Dariole said that he had gone out with the queen mother; but as the note had been found in its place, and as the poor boy was known to be incapable of treason, Henry felt no anxiety.
He dined as usual at the table of the King, who joked him greatly on the mistakes he had made while hawking that morning.
Henry made excuses for himself, saying that he came from the mountains and not the plain, but he promised Charles to study the art. Catharine was charming, and on leaving the table begged Marguerite to pass the evening with her.
At eight o'clock Henry took two attendants, left by the Porte Saint Honoré, made a long circuit, returned by the Tour de Bois, and crossing the Seine at the ferry of Nesle, rode up the Rue Saint Jacques, where he dismissed his gentlemen, as if he were going to keep some love appointment. At the corner of the Rue des Mathurins he found a man on horseback, wrapped in a cloak. He approached him.
"Mantes!" said the man.
"Pau!" replied the king.
The man at once dismounted. Henry put on his splashed mantle, mounted the horse, which was covered with foam, returned by the Rue de la Harpe, crossed the Pont Saint Michel, passed down the Rue Barthélemy, again crossed the river at the Pont aux Meuniers, descended the quays, took the Rue de l'Arbre Sec, and knocked at the door of Maître la Hurière's.
La Mole was in a room writing a long love-letter--to whom may easily be imagined.
Coconnas was in the kitchen with La Hurière, watching half a dozen partridges roasting, and disputing with his friend the host as to when they should be removed from the spit. At this moment Henry knocked. Grégoire opened the door and led the horse to the stable, while the traveller entered, stamping on the floor as if to warm his benumbed feet.
"Maître La Hurière," said La Mole, as he continued to write, "here is a gentleman asking for you."
La Hurière advanced, looked at Henry from head to foot, and as his thick cloth mantle did not inspire the innkeeper with very great veneration:
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Well, by Heaven!" said Henry, pointing to La Mole, "monsieur has just told you; I am a gentleman from Gascony come to court."
"What do you want?"
"A room and supper."
"Humph!" said La Hurière, "have you a lackey?"
This was the question usually asked, as is well known.
"No," replied Henry, "but I hope to have one when I make my fortune."
"I do not let rooms to any one unless he has a lackey," said La Hurière.
"Even if I offered to pay you double for your supper?"
"Oh! you are very generous, worthy sir!" said La Hurière, looking suspiciously at Henry.
"Not at all, but, hoping to pass the night in your hotel, which has been highly recommended by a nobleman from my county who has been here, I invited a friend to sup with me. Have you any good wine of Arbois?"
"I have some which is better than the King of Navarre drinks."
"Good! I will pay well for it. Ah! here is my friend."
Just then the door opened and a gentleman entered older by a few years than the first, and dragging a long rapier at his side.
"Ah!" said he, "you are prompt, my young friend. For a man who has just made two hundred leagues it is something to be so punctual."
"Is this your guest?" asked La Hurière.
"Yes," said the first, going up to the young man with the rapier and shaking him by the hand, "we will have our supper now."
"Here or in your room?"
"Wherever you please."
"Maître," said La Mole to La Hurière, "rid us of these Huguenot fellows. Coconnas and I cannot say a word before them."
"Carry the supper to room No. 2, on the third floor. Upstairs, gentlemen."
The two travellers followed Grégoire, who preceded them with lights.
La Mole watched them until they had disappeared. Then turning round he saw Coconnas, whose head was thrust out of the kitchen door. Two great eyes and an open mouth gave to the latter's face a remarkable expression of astonishment.
La Mole stepped up to him.
"By Heaven!" said Coconnas, "did you see?"
"What?"
"Those two gentlemen."
"Well?"
"I would swear that it was"--
"Who?"
"Why--the King of Navarre and the man in the red cloak."
"Swear if you will, but not too loud."
"Did you recognize them too?"
"Certainly."
"What are they here for?"
"Some love affair."
"You think so?"
"I am sure of it."
"La Mole, I prefer sword-thrusts to these love affairs. I would have sworn a moment ago, now I will bet."
"What will you bet?"
"That there is some plot on hand."
"You are mad."
"I tell you"--
"I tell you that even if they are plotting it is their own affair."
"That is true. However," said Coconnas, "I no longer belong to Monsieur d'Alençon. So let them do as they see fit."
As the partridges had apparently reached the state in which Coconnas liked them, the Piedmontese, who counted on making the most of his dinner of them, called Maître la Hurière to remove them from the spit.
Meantime Henry and De Mouy were installed in their chamber.
"Well, sire," said De Mouy, when Grégoire had set the table, "have you seen Orthon?"
"No; but I found the note he left behind the mirror. The boy must have become frightened, I suppose, for Queen Catharine came in while he was there, so he went away without waiting for my answer."
"For a moment I felt somewhat anxious about him, as Dariole told me that the queen mother had had a long talk with him."
"Oh! there is no danger. The boy is clever, and although the queen mother knows his profession he will not let her find out much from him, I am sure."
"But have you seen him, De Mouy?" asked Henry.
"No, but I expect to this evening. At midnight he is to come here for me with a good petronel. He will tell me what happened as we walk along."
"And the man at the corner of the Rue des Mathurins?"
"What man?"
"The man who gave me his horse and cloak. Are you sure of him?"
"He is one of our most devoted followers. Besides, he neither knows your majesty nor why he himself was there."
"Can we discuss our affairs without fear, then?"
"Certainly. Besides, La Mole is on the watch."
"Well, sire, what says Monsieur d'Alençon?"
"Monsieur d'Alençon will not go, De Mouy. He said so positively. The election of D'Anjou to the throne of Poland and the king's illness have changed his mind."
"So he is the one who spoiled our plan?"
"Yes."
"Has he betrayed us?"
"Not yet; but he will do so at the first opportunity."
"Coward! traitor! Why did he not answer my letters?"
"In order to have proofs against you, and none against himself. Meantime, all is lost, is it not, De Mouy?"
"On the contrary, sire, all is won. You know that the whole party, except the faction of the Prince de Condé, was for you, and used the duke, with whom it seemed to have relations, only as a safeguard. Well, since the day of the ceremony I have arranged so that everything is for you. One hundred men were enough to escape with the Duc d'Alençon; I have raised fifteen hundred. In one week they will be ready and drawn up on the road to Pau. It will not be a flight but a retreat. Fifteen hundred men will suffice, sire, will they not? Shall you feel safe with such an army?"
Henry smiled and touched him on the shoulder.
"You know, De Mouy," said he, "and you alone know it, that Henry of Navarre is not naturally such a coward as is supposed."
"Yes, I know that, sire; and I trust before long that all France will know it too."
"But where one plots one must succeed. The first condition of success is decision; and for decision to be rapid, frank, and to the point, one must be sure of success."
"Well, sire, what days do you hunt?"
"Every week or ten days we either hunt or hawk."
"When did you hunt last?"
"To-day."
"Then a week or ten days from now you will hunt again?"
"No doubt; possibly before then."
"Listen, sire; everything seems perfectly quiet. The Duc d'Anjou has left; no one thinks of him. The King is getting better every day. The persecution against us has almost ceased. Play the amiable with the queen mother and Monsieur d'Alençon; keep telling him that you cannot go without him, and try to make him believe you, which is more difficult."
"Do not worry, he will believe me."
"Do you think he has such confidence in you?"
"No, God forbid, but he believes everything the queen says."
"And is the queen true to us?"
"Oh! I have proof of it. Besides, she is ambitious and is dying for this far-off crown of Navarre."
"Well! three days before the hunt send me word where it will take place--whether it is to be at Bondy, at Saint Germain, or at Rambouillet. Monsieur de la Mole will ride ahead of you; follow him, and ride fast. Once out of the forest if the queen mother wants you she will have to run after you; and I trust that her Norman horses will not see even the hoofs of our Barbary steeds and our Spanish ponies."
"Agreed, De Mouy."
"Have you any money, sire?"
Henry made the same grimace he made all his life at this question.
"Not much," said he; "but I think Margot has some."
"Well! whether it is yours or hers, bring as much as you can."
"And in the meantime what are you going to do?"
"Having paid some attention to your majesty's affairs, as you see, will your majesty permit me to devote a little time to my own?"
"Certainly, De Mouy, certainly, but what are yours?"
"Yesterday Orthon told me (he is a very intelligent boy, whom I recommend to your majesty) that he met that scoundrel of a Maurevel near the arsenal, that thanks to Réné he has recovered, and that he was warming himself in the sun like the snake that he is."
"Ah, yes, I understand," said Henry.
"Very good, then. You will be king some day, sire, and if you have anything such as I have to avenge you can do so in a kingly way. I am a soldier and must avenge myself like a soldier. So while all our little affairs are being arranged, which will give that scoundrel five or six days in which to recover more fully, I too shall take a stroll around the arsenal, and I will pin him to the grass with four blows of my rapier, after which I shall leave Paris with a lighter heart."
"Attend to your affairs, my friend, by all means," said the Béarnais. "By the way, you are pleased with La Mole, are you not?"
"Yes; he is a charming fellow, devoted to you body and soul, sire, and on whom you can depend as you can on me--brave"--
"And above all, discreet. So he must follow us to Navarre, De Mouy; once there we will look about and see what we can do to recompense him."
As Henry concluded these words with a sly smile, the door opened or rather was broken in, and the man they had just been praising appeared, pale and agitated.
"Quick, sire," cried he; "quick, the house is surrounded."
"Surrounded!" cried Henry, rising; "by whom?"
"By the King's guards."
"Oh!" said De Mouy, drawing his pistols from his belt, "we are to have a battle, apparently."
"Well," said La Mole, "you may well talk of pistols and battle, but what can you do against fifty men?"
"He is right," said the king; "and if there were any means of escape"--
"There is one which has already been of use to me, and if your majesty will follow me"--
"And De Mouy?"
"And De Mouy too if he wishes, but you must be quick."
Steps were heard on the stairs.
"It is too late," said Henry.
"Ah! if any one would only engage them for five minutes," cried La Mole, "I would save the king."
"Save him, then, monsieur," said De Mouy; "I will look after them. Go, sire, go."
"But what shall you do?"
"Do not fear, sire, but go."
And De Mouy began by hiding the king's plate, napkin, and goblet, so that it might seem as though he had been alone at table.
"Come, sire, come," cried La Mole, seizing the king by the arm and dragging him towards the stairway.
"De Mouy, my brave De Mouy!" exclaimed Henry, holding out his hand to the young man.
De Mouy kissed the hand, pushed Henry from the room, and closed and bolted the door after him.
"Yes, I understand," said Henry, "he will be caught, while we escape; but who the devil can have betrayed us?"
"Come, sire, come. They are on the stairs."
In fact, the light of the torches was beginning to be seen on the wall, while at the foot of the stairs sounds like the clanking of swords were heard.
"Quick, quick, sire!" cried La Mole.
And, guiding the king in the darkness, he ascended two flights, pushed open a door, which he locked behind him, and, opening the window of a closet:
"Sire," said he, "is your majesty very much afraid of a walk across the roofs?"
"I?" said Henry, "come, now; am I not a chamois hunter?"
"Well, your majesty must follow me. I know the way and will guide you."
"Go on," said Henry, "I will follow."
La Mole stepped out, went along the ledge, which formed a sort of gutter, at the end of which they came to a depression between two roofs. In this way they reached an open window leading to an empty garret.
"Sire," said La Mole, "here we are at the opening."
"Ah! so much the better," said Henry, wiping the perspiration from his pale face.
"Now," said La Mole, "it will be easier: this garret opens on to a stairway, the stairway leads to an alley, and the alley to the street. I travelled the same road, sire, on a much more terrible night than this."
"Go on, go on," said Henry.
La Mole sprang through the open window, reached the unlocked door, opened it, came to a winding stairway, and placing in the king's hand the cord that served as a baluster:
"Come, sire," said he.
Half way down the stairs Henry stopped. He was before a window which overlooked the courtyard of the Belle Étoile. On the opposite stairway soldiers were seen running, some carrying swords, others torches.
Suddenly in the midst of a group the King of Navarre perceived De Mouy. He had surrendered his sword and was quietly descending the stairs.
"Poor fellow," said Henry, "so brave and devoted!"
"Faith, sire," said La Mole, "your majesty is right. He certainly does seem calm; and see, he even laughs! It must be that he is planning some scheme, for you know he seldom laughs."
"And the young man who was with you?"
"Monsieur de Coconnas?" asked La Mole.
"Yes; what has become of him?"
"Oh! sire, I am not anxious about him. On seeing the soldiers he said only one word to me: 'Do we risk anything?'
"'Our heads,' I answered.
"'Can you escape?'
"'I hope so.'
"'Well, I can too,' he replied. And I promise you he will! Sire, when Coconnas is caught it will be because he wishes to be caught."
"Then," said Henry, "all is well. Let us try to get back to the Louvre."
"That will be easy enough, sire," said La Mole. "Let us wrap ourselves in our cloaks and start. The street is full of people running to see the commotion, and we shall be taken for spectators."
The gate was open and Henry and La Mole encountered no obstacle beyond the crowds in the street.
They reached the Rue d'Avernon; but in passing by the Rue Poulies they saw De Mouy and his escort cross the Place Saint Germain l'Auxerrois, led by the captain of the guards, Monsieur de Nancey.
"Ah!" said Henry, "they are taking him to the Louvre, apparently. The devil! the gates will be closed. They will take the names of all those who enter, and if I am seen returning after him they will think I have been with him."
"Well! but, sire," said La Mole, "enter some other way than by the gate."
"How the devil do you mean?"
"Well, sire, there is the Queen of Navarre's window."
"Ventre saint gris, Monsieur de la Mole," said Henry, "you are right. I never thought of that! But how can I attract the attention of the queen?"
"Oh," said La Mole, bowing with an air of respectful gratitude, "your majesty throws stones so well!"
XLVII. DE MOUY DE SAINT PHALE
This time Catharine had taken such precautions that she felt sure of her object.
Consequently, about ten o'clock she sent away Marguerite, thoroughly convinced, as was the case, that the Queen of Navarre was ignorant of the plot against her husband, and went to the King, begging him not to retire so early.
Mystified by the air of triumph which, in spite of her usual dissimulation, appeared on his mother's face, Charles questioned Catharine, who merely answered:
"I can say only one thing to your Majesty: that this evening you will be freed from two of your bitterest enemies."
Charles raised his eyebrows like a man who says to himself:
"That is well; we shall see;" and whistling to his great boar-hound, who came to him dragging his belly along the ground like a serpent to lay his fine and intelligent head on his master's knee, he waited. At the end of a few minutes, during which Catharine sat with eyes and ears alert, a pistol-shot was heard in the courtyard of the Louvre.
"What is that noise?" asked Charles, frowning, while the hound sprang up and pricked his ears.
"Nothing except a signal," said Catharine; "that is all."
"And what is the meaning of the signal?"
"It means that from this moment, sire, your one real enemy can no longer injure you."
"Have they killed a man?" asked Charles, looking at his mother with that look of command which signifies that assassination and mercy are two inherent attributes of royal power.
"No, sire, they have only arrested two."
"Oh!" murmured Charles, "always hidden plots, always conspiracies around the King. And yet, the devil! mother, I am grown up, and big enough to look out for myself. I need neither leading-strings nor padded caps. Go to Poland with your son Henry if you wish to reign; I tell you you are wrong to play this kind of game here."
"My son," said Catharine, "this is the last time I shall meddle with your affairs. But the enterprise in which you have always thwarted me was begun long ago, and I have earnestly endeavored to prove to your Majesty that I am right."
At that moment several men stopped in the outer hall and the butt-ends of muskets were heard on the pavement. Almost at the same instant Monsieur de Nancey begged an audience of the King.
"Let him enter," said Charles, hastily.
Monsieur de Nancey appeared, saluted the King, and turning to Catharine said:
"Madame, your majesty's orders are executed; he is captured."
"What he?" cried Catharine, greatly troubled. "Have you arrested only one?"
"He was alone, madame."
"Did he defend himself?"
"No, he was supping quietly in a room, and gave up his sword the moment it was demanded."
"Who?" asked the King.
"You shall see," said Catharine. "Bring in the prisoner, Monsieur de Nancey."
Five minutes later De Mouy was there.
"De Mouy!" cried the King; "what is the matter now, monsieur?"
"Well, sire," said De Mouy, with perfect composure, "if your Majesty will allow me the liberty, I will ask the same of you."
"Instead of asking this question of the King," said Catharine, "have the kindness, Monsieur de Mouy, to tell my son who was the man found in the chamber of the King of Navarre a certain night, and who on that night resisted the orders of his Majesty like the rebel that he is, killed two guards, and wounded Monsieur de Maurevel?"
"Yes," said Charles, frowning, "do you know the name of that man, Monsieur de Mouy?"
"Yes, sire; does your Majesty wish to hear it?"
"That will please me, I admit."
"Well, sire, he is called De Mouy de Saint Phale."
"It was you?"
"It was I."
Catharine, astonished at this audacity, recoiled a step.
"How did you dare resist the orders of the King?" asked Charles.
"In the first place, sire, I did not know that there was an order from your Majesty; then I saw only one thing, or rather one man, Monsieur de Maurevel, the assassin of my father and of the admiral. I remembered that a year and a half ago, in the very room in which we now are, on the evening of the 24th of August, your Majesty promised me to avenge us on the murderer, and as since that time very grave events have occurred I thought that in spite of himself the King had changed his mind. Seeing Maurevel within reach, I believed Heaven had sent him to me. Your Majesty knows the rest. Sire, I sprang upon him as upon an assassin and fired at his men as I would have fired at bandits."
Charles made no reply. His friendship for Henry had for some time made him look at many things in a different light from which he had at first seen them, and more than once with terror.
In regard to Saint Bartholomew the queen mother had registered in her memory remarks which had fallen from her son's lips and which resembled remorse.
"But," observed Catharine, "what were you doing at that hour in the apartments of the King of Navarre?"
"Oh!" replied De Mouy, "it is a long story, but if his Majesty has the patience to listen"--
"Yes," said Charles; "speak, I wish to hear it."
"I will obey, sire," said De Mouy, bowing.
Catharine sat down, fixing an anxious look on the young chief.
"We are listening," said Charles. "Here, Actéon!"
The dog resumed the place he had occupied before the prisoner had been admitted.
"Sire," said De Mouy, "I came to his majesty the King of Navarre as the deputy of our brethren, your faithful subjects of the reformed religion."
Catharine signed to Charles IX.
"Be quiet, mother," said the latter. "I do not lose a word. Go on, Monsieur de Mouy, go on; why did you come?"
"To inform the King of Navarre," continued Monsieur de Mouy, "that his abjuration had lost for him the confidence of the Huguenot party; but that, nevertheless, in remembrance of his father, Antoine de Bourbon, and especially on account of his mother, the courageous Jeanne d'Albret, whose name is dear among us, the followers of the reformed religion owed him this mark of deference, to beg him to desist from his claims to the crown of Navarre."
"What did he say?" asked Catharine, unable in spite of her self-control to receive this unexpected blow calmly.
"Ah! ah!" said Charles, "and yet this crown of Navarre, which without my permission has been made to jump from head to head, seems to belong a little to me."
"The Huguenots, sire, recognize better than any one the principle of sovereignty to which your Majesty has just referred. Therefore they hope to induce your Majesty to place the crown on a head that is dear to you."
"To me!" said Charles; "on a head that is dear to me! The devil! what head do you mean, monsieur? I do not understand."
"On the head of Monsieur le Duc d'Alençon."
Catharine became as pale as death, and gave De Mouy a flashing glance.
"Did my brother D'Alençon know this?"
"Yes, sire."
"And did he accept the crown?"
"Subject to the consent of your Majesty, to whom he referred us."
"Ah!" said Charles, "it is a crown which would suit our brother D'Alençon wonderfully well. And I never thought of it! Thanks, De Mouy, thanks! When you have such ideas you will always be welcome at the Louvre."
"Sire, you would long since have been informed of this project had it not been for that unfortunate affair of Maurevel's, which made me afraid I had fallen into disgrace with your Majesty."
"Yes, but what did Henry say to this plan?" asked Catharine.
"The King of Navarre, madame, yielded to the desire of his brethren, and his renunciation was ready."
"In that case," said Catharine, "you must have the renunciation."
"It happens that I have it with me, madame, signed by him and dated."
"Dated previous to the affair in the Louvre?" said Catharine.
"Yes, the evening before, I think."
De Mouy drew from his pocket an abdication in favor of the Duc d'Alençon, written and signed in Henry's hand, and bearing the date indicated.
"Faith, yes," said Charles, "and all is in due form."
"What did Henry demand in return for this renunciation?"
"Nothing, madame; the friendship of King Charles, he told us, would amply repay him for the loss of a crown."
Catharine bit her lips in anger and wrung her beautiful hands.
"All this is perfectly correct, De Mouy," said the King.
"Then," said the queen mother, "if everything was settled between you and the King of Navarre, what was the object of your interview with him this evening?"
"I, madame! with the King of Navarre?" said De Mouy. "Monsieur de Nancey, who arrested me, will bear witness that I was alone. Your majesty can ask him."
"Monsieur de Nancey!" called the King.
The captain of the guards entered.
"Monsieur de Nancey," said Catharine, quickly, "was Monsieur de Mouy entirely alone at the inn of the Belle Étoile?"
"In the room, yes, madame; in the hostelry, no."
"Ah!" said Catharine, "who was his companion?"
"I do not know if he was the companion of Monsieur de Mouy, madame, but I know that a man escaped by a back door after having stretched two of my men on the floor."
"And you recognized this gentleman, no doubt?"
"No, I did not, but my guards did."
"Who was he?" asked Charles IX.
"Monsieur le Comte Annibal de Coconnas."
"Annibal de Coconnas!" exclaimed the King, gloomy and thoughtful; "the one who made such a terrible slaughter of the Huguenots during the massacre of Saint Bartholomew?"
"Monsieur de Coconnas, a gentleman in the suite of Monsieur d'Alençon," said Monsieur de Nancey.
"Very good," said Charles IX. "You may go, Monsieur de Nancey, and another time, remember one thing."
"What is it, sire?"
"That you are in my service, and that you are to obey no one but me."
Monsieur de Nancey withdrew backwards, bowing respectfully.
De Mouy smiled ironically at Catharine.
There was an instant's silence. The queen twisted the tassels of her girdle; Charles caressed his dog.
"But what was your intention, monsieur?" continued Charles; "were you acting violently?"
"Against whom, sire?"
"Why, against Henry, or François, or myself."
"Sire, we have the renunciation of your brother-in-law, the consent of your brother; and, as I have had the honor of telling you, we were on the point of soliciting your Majesty's sanction when that unfortunate affair occurred at the Louvre."
"Well, mother," said Charles, "I see nothing wrong in all this. You were right, Monsieur de Mouy, in asking for a king. Yes, Navarre may and ought to be a separate kingdom. Moreover, it seems made expressly to give to my brother D'Alençon, who has always had so great a desire for a crown that when we wear ours he cannot keep his eyes off of it. The only thing which stood in the way of this coronation was Henriot's rights; but since Henriot voluntarily abdicates"--
"Voluntarily, sire."
"It seems that it is the will of God! Monsieur de Mouy, you are free to return to your brethren, whom I have chastised somewhat roughly, perhaps, but that is between God and myself. Tell them that since they desire to have my brother d'Alençon for King of Navarre the King of France accedes to their wishes. From this moment Navarre is a kingdom, and its sovereign is called François. I ask only eight days for my brother to leave Paris with the brilliancy and pomp befitting a king. Now go, Monsieur de Mouy, go! Monsieur de Nancey, allow Monsieur de Mouy to pass; he is free."
"Sire," said De Mouy, advancing a step, "will your Majesty permit me?"
"Yes," said the King, and he extended his hand to the young Huguenot.
De Mouy knelt and kissed the King's hand.
"By the way," said Charles, detaining him as he was about to rise, "did you not demand from me justice on that scoundrel of a Maurevel?"
"Yes, sire."
"I do not know where he is, as he is hiding; but if you meet him, take justice into your own hands. I authorize you to do this and gladly."
"Ah! sire," cried De Mouy, "your Majesty overwhelms me. Your Majesty may rely on me. I have no idea where he is, but I will find him, you may rest assured."
De Mouy respectfully saluted King Charles and Queen Catharine, and withdrew without hindrance from the guards who had brought him thither. He passed rapidly through the corridors, reached the gate, and once outside hurried to Place Saint Germain l'Auxerrois, to the inn of the Belle Étoile. Here he found his horse, thanks to which, three hours after the scene we have just described, the young man breathed in safety behind the walls of Mantes.
Catharine, consumed with rage, returned to her apartments, whence she passed into those of Marguerite.
She found Henry there in his dressing-gown, apparently ready for bed.
"Satan!" she murmured, "aid a poor queen for whom God will do nothing more!"
XLVIII. TWO HEADS FOR ONE CROWN
"Ask Monsieur d'Alençon to come to me," said Charles as he dismissed his mother.
Monsieur de Nancey, in accordance with the remark of the King that henceforth he was to obey him alone, hastened to the duke's apartments and delivered word for word the order he had just received.
The Duc d'Alençon gave a start. He had always feared Charles, and now more than ever since by conspiring he had reason to be afraid.
Nevertheless, he went to his brother in all haste.
Charles was standing up, whistling a hunting-song.
As he entered, the Duc d'Alençon caught from the glassy eye of the King one of those bitter looks of hatred which he knew so well.
"Your Majesty has sent for me," said he. "Here I am; what does your Majesty desire?"
"I desire to tell you, my good brother, that as a reward for the great friendship you bear me I have decided to-day to do for you the thing you most want."
"For me?"
"Yes, for you. Think what for some time you have been dreaming of, without daring to ask it of me, and I will give it to you."
"Sire," said François, "I swear to you that I desire nothing but the continued good health of the King."
"In that case you will be glad to know, D'Alençon, that the indisposition I experienced at the time the Poles arrived has passed by. Thanks to Henriot, I escaped a furious wild boar, which would have ripped me open, and I am so well that I do not envy the most healthy man in my kingdom. Without being an unkind brother you can, therefore, ask for something besides the continuation of my health, which is excellent."
"I want nothing, sire."
"Yes, yes, François," said Charles, impatiently, "you desire the crown of Navarre, since you have had an understanding with Henriot and De Mouy,--with the first, that he would abdicate; with the second, that he would give it to you. Well! Henriot renounces it! De Mouy has told me of your wish, and this crown for which you are ambitious"--
"Well?" asked D'Alençon in a trembling voice.
"Well, the devil! it is yours."
D'Alençon turned frightfully pale; then suddenly the blood rushed from his heart, which almost burst, flowed to his face, and his cheeks became suffused with a burning flush. The favor the King granted him at that moment threw him into despair.
"But, sire," said he, trembling with emotion and trying in vain to recover his self-possession, "I never desired and certainly never asked for such a thing."
"That is possible," said the King, "for you are very discreet, brother; but it has been desired and asked for you."
"Sire, I swear to you that never"--
"Do not swear."
"But, sire, are you going to exile me, then?"
"Do you call this exile, François? Plague it, you are hard to please! What better do you hope for?"
D'Alençon bit his lips in despair.
"Faith!" continued Charles, affecting kindness, "I did not think you were so popular, François, especially with the Huguenots. But they have sought you, and I have to confess to myself that I was mistaken. Besides, I could ask nothing better than to have one of my family--my brother who loves me and who is incapable of betraying me--at the head of a party which for thirty years has made war against us. This will quell everything as if by enchantment, to say nothing of the fact that we shall all be kings in the family. There will be no one except poor Henriot who will be nothing but my friend. But he is not ambitious and he shall take this title which no one else claims."
"Oh, sire! you are mistaken. I claim this title, and who has a better right to it than I? Henry is only your brother by marriage. I am your brother by blood, and more than this, my love--Sire, I beg you, keep me near you."
"No, no, François," replied Charles; "that would be to your unhappiness."
"How so?"
"For many reasons."
"But, sire, shall you ever find as faithful a companion as I am? From my childhood I have never left your Majesty."
"I know that very well; and sometimes I have wished you farther away."
"What does your Majesty mean?"
"Nothing, nothing; I understand myself. Oh, what fine hunts you will have there, François! How I envy you! Do you know that in those devilish mountains they hunt the bear as here we do the wild boar? You will send us all such magnificent skins! They hunt there with a dagger, you know; they wait for the animal, excite him, irritate him; he advances towards the hunter, and when within four feet of him he rises on his hind legs. It is then that they plunge the steel into his heart as Henry did to the boar at our last hunt. It is dangerous sport, but you are brave, François, and the danger will be a real pleasure for you."
"Ah! your Majesty increases my grief, for I shall hunt with you no more."
"By Heaven! so much the better!" said the King. "It helps neither of us to hunt together."
"What does your Majesty mean?"
"That hunting with me causes you such pleasure and rouses in you such emotion that you who are the personification of skill, you who with any musket can bring down a magpie a hundred feet away, the last time we hunted together failed at twenty paces to hit a wild boar; but with your weapon, a weapon, too, with which you are familiar, you broke the leg of my best horse. The devil, François, that makes one reflect, you know!"
"Oh! sire, pardon me, it was from emotion," said D'Alençon, who had become livid.
"Yes," replied Charles, "I can well imagine what the emotion was; and it is on account of this emotion that I realize all that it means when I say to you: 'Believe me, François, when one has such emotions it is best for us to hunt at a distance from each other. Think about it, brother, not while you are with me, because I can see my presence troubles you, but when you are alone, and you will see that I have every reason to fear that in another hunt you might be seized with another emotion. There is nothing like emotion for causing the hand to rise, and you might kill the rider instead of the horse, the king instead of the beast. Plague it, a bullet aimed too high or too low changes an entire government. We have an example of this in our own family. When Montgommery killed our father, Henry II., by accident--emotion, perhaps--the blow placed our brother, François II., on the throne and sent our father Henry to Saint Denis. So little is necessary for Providence to effect much!"
The duke felt the perspiration running down his face at this attack, as formidable as it was unforeseen.
It would have been impossible for the King to show more clearly that he had surmised all. Veiling his anger under a jesting manner, Charles was perhaps more terrible than as if he had let himself pour forth the lava of hate which was consuming his heart; his vengeance seemed in proportion to his rancor. As the one grew sharper, the other increased, and for the first time D'Alençon felt remorse, or rather regret for having meditated a crime which had not succeeded. He had sustained the struggle as long as he could, but at this final blow he bent his head, and Charles saw dawning in his eyes that devouring fire which in beings of a tender nature ploughs the furrow from which spring tears.
But D'Alençon was one of those who weep only from anger. Charles fixed on him his vulture gaze, watching the feelings which succeeded one another across the face of the young man, and all those sensations appeared to him as accurately, thanks to the deep study he had made of his family as if the heart of the duke had been an open book.
He left him a moment, crushed, motionless, and mute; then in a voice stamped with the firmness of hatred:
"Brother," said he, "we have declared to you our resolution; it is immutable. You will go."
D'Alençon gave a start, but Charles did not appear to notice it, and continued:
"I wish Navarre to be proud of having for king a brother of the King of France. Gold, power, honor, all that belongs to your birth you shall have, as your brother Henry had, and like him," he added, smiling, "you will bless me from afar. But no matter, blessings know no distance."
"Sire"--
"Accept my decision, or rather, resign yourself. Once king, we shall find a wife for you worthy of a son of France, and she, perhaps, may bring you another throne."
"But," said the Duc d'Alençon, "your Majesty forgets your good friend Henry."
"Henry! but I told you that he did not want the throne of Navarre! I told you he had abdicated in favor of you! Henry is a jovial fellow, and not a pale-face like you. He likes to laugh and amuse himself at his ease, and not mope, as we who wear crowns are condemned to do."
D'Alençon heaved a sigh.
"Your Majesty orders me then to occupy myself"--
"No, not at all. Do not disturb yourself at all; I will arrange everything; rely on me, as on a good brother. And now that everything is settled, go. However, not a word of our conversation to your friends. I will take measures to give publicity to the affair very soon. Go now, François."
There was nothing further to be said, so the duke bowed and withdrew, rage in his heart.
He was very anxious to find Henry and talk with him about all that had just taken place; but he found only Catharine. As a matter of fact, Henry wished to avoid the interview, whereas the latter sought for it.
On seeing Catharine the duke swallowed his anger and strove to smile. Less fortunate than Henry of Anjou, it was not a mother he sought in Catharine, but merely an ally. He began therefore by dissimulation, for in order to make good alliances it is necessary for each party to be somewhat deceived.
He met Catharine with a face on which there remained only a slight trace of anxiety.
"Well, madame," said he, "here is great news; have you heard it?"
"I know that there is a plan on hand to make a king of you, monsieur."
"It is a great kindness on the part of my brother, madame."
"Is it not?"
"And I am almost tempted to believe that I owe a part of my gratitude to you; for it was really you who advised Charles to make me the present of a throne; it is to you I owe it. However, I will confess that, at heart, it gives me pain thus to rob the King of Navarre."
"You love Henriot very much, apparently."
"Why, yes; we have been intimate for some time."
"Do you think he loves you as much as you love him?"
"I hope so, madame."
"Such a friendship is very edifying; do you know it? especially between princes. Court friendships mean very little, François."
"Mother, you must remember we are not only friends, but almost brothers."
Catharine smiled a strange smile.
"Ah," said she, "are there brothers among kings?"
"Oh! as to that, neither of us was a king, mother, when our intimacy began. Moreover, we never expected to be kings; that is why we loved each other."
"Yes, but things are changed."
"How changed?"
"Why, who can say now whether both of you will not be kings?"
From the nervous start of the duke and the flush which rose to his brow Catharine saw that the arrow aimed by her had hit the mark.
"He?" said he, "Henriot king? And of what kingdom, mother?"
"One of the most magnificent kingdoms in Christendom, my son."
"Oh! mother," said D'Alençon, growing pale, "what are you saying?"
"What a good mother ought to say to her son, and what you have thought of more than once, François."
"I?" said the duke; "I have thought of nothing, madame, I swear to you."
"I can well believe you, for your friend, your brother Henry, as you call him, is, under his apparent frankness, a very clever and wily person, who keeps his secrets better than you keep yours, François. For instance, did he ever tell you that De Mouy was his man of business?"
As she spoke, Catharine turned a glance upon François as though it were a dagger aimed at his very soul.
But the latter had but one virtue, or rather vice,--the art of dissimulation; and he bore her look unflinchingly.
"De Mouy!" said he in surprise, as if it were the first time he had heard the name mentioned in that connection.
"Yes, the Huguenot De Mouy de Saint Phale; the one who nearly killed Monsieur de Maurevel, and who, secretly and in various disguises, is running all over France and the capital, intriguing and raising an army to support your brother Henry against your family."
Catharine, ignorant that on this point her son François knew as much if not more than she, rose at these words and started majestically to leave the room, but François detained her.
"Mother," said he, "another word, if you please. Since you deign to initiate me into your politics, tell me how, with his feeble resources, and being so slightly known, Henry could succeed in carrying on a war serious enough to disturb my family?"
"Child," said the queen, smiling, "he is supported by perhaps more than thirty thousand men; he has but to say the word and these thirty thousand men will appear as suddenly as if they sprang from the ground; and these thirty thousand men are Huguenots, remember, that is, the bravest soldiers in the world, and then he has a protector whom you neither could nor would conciliate."
"Who is that?"
"He has the King, the King, who loves him and who urges him on; the King, who from jealousy of your brother of Poland, and from spite against you, is looking about for a successor. But, blind man that you are if you do not see it, he seeks somewhere else besides in his own family."
"The King!--you think so, mother?"
"Have you not noticed how he loves Henriot, his Henriot?"
"Yes, mother, yes."
"And how he is repaid, for this same Henriot, forgetting that his brother-in-law would have shot him at the massacre of Saint Bartholomew, grovels to the earth like a dog which licks the hand that has beaten him."
"Yes, yes," murmured François, "I have already noticed that Henry is very humble with my brother Charles."
"Clever in trying to please him in everything."
"So much so that because of being always rallied by the King as to his ignorance of hawking he has begun to study it; and yesterday, yes, it was only yesterday, he asked me if I had not some books on that sport."
"Well," said Catharine, whose eyes sparkled as if an idea had suddenly come to her, "what did you answer him?"
"That I would look in my library."
"Good," said Catharine, "he must have this book."
"But I looked, madame, and found nothing."
"I will find one--and you shall give it to him as though it came from you."
"And what will come of this?"
"Have you confidence in me, D'Alençon?"
"Yes, mother."
"Will you obey me blindly so far as Henry is concerned? For whatever you may have said you do not love him."
D'Alençon smiled.
"And I detest him," continued Catharine.
"Yes, I will obey you."
"Well, the day after to-morrow come here for the book; I will give it to you, you shall take it to Henry, and"--
"And?"
"Leave the rest to Providence or to chance."
François knew his mother well enough to realize that she was not in the habit of leaving to Providence or to chance the care of friendships or hatreds. But he said nothing, and bowing like a man who accepts the commission with which he is charged, he returned to his own apartments.
"What does she mean?" thought the young man as he mounted the stairs. "I cannot see. But what I do understand in all this is that she acts like our common enemy. Well, let her go ahead."
Meantime Marguerite, through La Mole, had received a letter from De Mouy to the King of Navarre. As in politics the two illustrious allies had no secrets, she opened the letter and read it.
The letter must have interested her, for, taking advantage of the darkness which was beginning to overshadow the walls of the Louvre, Marguerite at once hurried along the secret corridor, ascended the winding stairway, and, having looked carefully about on all sides, glided on like a shadow and disappeared within the antechamber of the King of Navarre.
This room had been unguarded since the disappearance of Orthon.
This circumstance, of which we have not spoken since the reader learned of the tragic fate of poor Orthon, had greatly troubled Henry. He had spoken of it to Madame de Sauve and to his wife, but neither of them knew any more about it than he did. Madame de Sauve had given him some information from which it was perfectly clear to Henry's mind that the poor boy had been a victim of some machination of the queen mother, and that this was why he himself had been interrupted with De Mouy in the inn of the Belle Étoile. Any other than Henry would have kept silence, fearing to speak, but Henry calculated everything. He realized that his silence would betray him. One does not as a rule lose one's servitor and confidant thus, without making inquiries about him and looking for him. So Henry asked and searched even in the presence of the King and the queen mother, and of every one, from the sentinel who walked before the gate of the Louvre to the captain of the guards, keeping watch in the antechamber of the King; but all inquiry and search was in vain, and Henry seemed so affected by the circumstance and so attached to the poor absent servitor that he said he would not put another in his place until he was perfectly sure that Orthon had disappeared forever.
So the antechamber, as we have said, was empty when Marguerite reached it.
Light as were the steps of the queen, Henry heard them and turned round.
"You, madame!" he exclaimed.
"Yes," said Marguerite. "Quick! Read this!" and she handed him the open letter.
It contained these lines:
"Sire: The moment has come for putting our plan of flight into execution. The day after to-morrow there will be hunting along the Seine, from Saint Germain to Maisons, that is, all along the forest.
"Go to the hunt, although it is hawking; wear a good coat of mail under your suit; take your best sword and ride the best horse in your stable. About noon, when the chase is at its height, and the King is galloping after the falcon, escape alone if you come alone; with the Queen of Navarre if the queen will follow you.
"Fifty of our men will be hidden in the Pavilion of François I., of which we have the key; no one will know that they will be there, for they will have come at night, and the shutters will be closed.
"You will pass by the Alley of the Violettes, at the end of which I shall be watching; at the right of this alley in an open space will be Messieurs de la Mole and Coconnas, with two horses. These horses are intended to replace yours and that of her majesty the Queen of Navarre, if necessary.
"Adieu, sire; be ready, as we shall be."
"You will be," said Marguerite, uttering after sixteen hundred years the same words that Cæsar spoke on the banks of the Rubicon.
"Be it so, madame," replied Henry; "I will not fail you."
"Now, sire, be a hero; it is not difficult. You have but to follow the path that is indicated, and make a beautiful throne for me," said the daughter of Henry II.
An imperceptible smile rose to the thin lips of the Béarnais. He kissed Marguerite's hand, and went out to explore the corridor, whistling the refrain of an old song:
"Cil qui mieux battit la muraille N'entra pas dedans le chasteau."[17]
The precaution was wise, for just as he opened the door of his sleeping-room the Duc d'Alençon opened that of his antechamber. Henry motioned to Marguerite, and then, aloud, said:
"Ah! is it you, brother? Welcome."
At the sign from her husband the queen had understood everything, and stepped hurriedly into a dressing-closet, in front of the door of which hung a thick tapestry. The Duc d'Alençon entered with a timorous step and looked around him.
"Are we alone, brother?" asked he in a whisper.
"Entirely. But what is the matter? You seem disturbed."
"We are discovered, Henry."
"How?--discovered?"
"Yes, De Mouy has been arrested."
"I know it."
"Well, De Mouy has told the King all."
"What has he told him?"
"He has told him that I desire the throne of Navarre, and that I have conspired to obtain it."
"Ah, the stupid!" cried Henry, "so that now you are compromised, my poor brother! How is it, then, that you have not been arrested?"
"I do not know. The King joked with me by pretending to offer me the throne of Navarre. He hoped, no doubt, to draw some confession from me, but I said nothing."
"And you did well, ventre saint gris!" said the Béarnais. "Stand firm, for our lives depend on that."
"Yes," said François, "the position is unsafe, I know. That is why I came to ask your advice, brother; what do you think I ought to do--run or stay?"
"You must have seen the King, since he spoke to you?"
"Yes, of course."
"Well! you must have read his thoughts. So follow your inspiration."
"I prefer to remain," replied François.
Notwithstanding the fact that he was almost thorough master of himself, Henry could not prevent a movement of joy from escaping him, and slight as it was, François saw it.
"Remain, then," said Henry.
"But you?"
"Why!" replied Henry, "if you remain, I have no motive for leaving. I was going only to follow you from devotion, in order not to be separated from my brother."
"So," said D'Alençon, "there is an end to all our plans; you give up without a struggle at the first stroke of ill luck?"
"I do not look upon it as a stroke of ill luck to remain here," said Henry. "Thanks to my careless disposition, I am contented everywhere."
"Well, then," said D'Alençon, "we need say no more about it, only in case you decide anything different let me know."
"By Heaven! I shall not fail to do that, you may be sure," replied Henry. "Was it not agreed that we were to have no secrets from each other?"
D'Alençon said no more, but withdrew, pondering, however; for at one time he thought he had seen the tapestry in front of the closet move.
Scarcely was the duke gone when the curtain was raised and Marguerite reappeared.
"What do you think of this visit?" asked Henry.
"That there is something new and important on hand."
"What do you think it is?"
"I do not know yet; but I will find out."
"In the meanwhile?"
"In the meanwhile do not fail to come to my room to-morrow evening."
"Indeed I will not fail, madame!" said Henry, gallantly kissing the hand of his wife.
With the same caution she had used in coming Marguerite returned to her own apartments.
XLIX. THE TREATISE ON HUNTING
Three days had elapsed since the events we have just related. Day was beginning to dawn, but every one was already up and awake at the Louvre as usual on hunting days, when the Duc d'Alençon entered the apartments of the queen mother in answer to the invitation he had received. Catharine was not in her bedroom; but she had left orders that if her son came he was to wait for her.
At the end of a few minutes she came out of a private closet, to which no one but herself had admission, and in which she carried on her experiments in chemistry. As Catharine entered the room there came either from the closet or from her clothes the penetrating odor of some acrid perfume, and through the open door D'Alençon perceived a thick vapor, as of some burnt aromatic substance, floating in the laboratory like a white cloud.
The duke could not repress a glance of curiosity.
"Yes," said Catharine de Médicis, "I have been burning several old parchments which gave out such an offensive smell that I put some juniper into the brazier, hence this odor."
D'Alençon bowed.
"Well," said the queen, concealing under the wide sleeves of her dressing-gown her hands, which here and there were stained with reddish spots, "is there anything new since yesterday?"
"Nothing, mother."
"Have you seen Henry?"
"Yes."
"Does he still refuse to leave?"
"Absolutely."
"The knave!"
"What do you say, madame?"
"I say that he will go."
"You think so?"
"I am sure of it."
"Then he will escape us?"
"Yes," said Catharine.
"And shall you let him go?"
"Not only that, but I tell you he must go."
"I do not understand, mother."
"Listen well to what I am about to tell you, François. A very skilful physician, the one who let me take the book on hunting which you are to give him, has told me that the King of Navarre is on the point of being attacked with consumption, one of those incurable diseases for which science has no remedy. Now, you understand that if he has to die from such a cruel malady it would be better for him to die away from us than among us here at court."
"In fact," said the duke, "that would cause us too much pain."
"Especially your brother Charles," said Catharine; "whereas, if he dies after having betrayed him the King will regard his death as a punishment from Heaven."
"You are right, mother," said François in admiration, "he must leave. But are you sure that he will?"
"All his plans are made. The meeting-place is in the forest of Saint Germain. Fifty Huguenots are to escort him as far as Fontainebleau, where five hundred others will await him."
"And," said D'Alençon, with a slight hesitation and visible pallor, "will my sister Margot accompany him?"
"Yes," replied Catharine, "that is agreed on. But at Henry's death Margot is to return to court a widow and free."
"And Henry will die, madame? Are you sure of this?"
"The physician who gave me the book assured me of it."
"Where is this book, madame?"
Catharine went slowly towards the mysterious closet, opened the door, entered, and a moment later appeared with the book in her hand.
"Here it is," said she.
D'Alençon looked at the volume with a certain feeling of terror.
"What is this book, madame?" he asked, shuddering.
"I have already told you, my son. It is a treatise on the art of raising and training falcons, gerfalcons, and hawks, written by a very learned scholar for Lord Castruccio Castracani, tyrant of Lucca."
"What must I do with it?"
"Take it to your good friend Henriot, who you told me had asked you for a treatise on the art of hunting. As he is going hawking to-day with the King he will not fail to read some of it, in order to prove to Charles that he has followed his advice and taken a lesson or two. The main thing is to give it into Henry's own hands."
"Oh! I do not dare!" said D'Alençon, shuddering.
"Why not?" asked Catharine; "it is a book like any other except that it has been packed away for so long that the leaves stick together. Do not attempt to read it, François, for it can be read only by wetting the finger and turning over each leaf, and this takes time and trouble."
"So that only a man who is very anxious to be instructed in the sport of hawking would waste his time and go to this trouble?" asked D'Alençon.
"Exactly, my son; you understand."
"Oh!" said D'Alençon; "there is Henriot in the court-yard. Give me the book, madame. I will take advantage of his absence and go to his room with it. On his return he will find it."
"I should prefer you to give it to him yourself, François, that would be surer."
"I have already said that I do not dare, madame," replied the duke.
"Very well; but at least put it where he can see it."
"Open? Is there any reason why it should not be open?"
"None."
"Then give it to me."
D'Alençon tremblingly took the book, which Catharine with a firm hand held out to him.
"Take it," said the queen, "there is no danger--I touch it; besides, you have gloves on."
This precaution was not enough for D'Alençon, who wrapped the volume in his cloak.
"Make haste," said Catharine; "Henry may return at any moment."
"You are right, madame. I will go at once."
The duke went out, trembling with fright.
We have often introduced the reader into the apartments of the King of Navarre, and he has been present at the events which have taken place in them, events bright or gloomy, according to the smile or frown of the protecting genius of the future king of France.
But perhaps never had these walls, stained with the blood of murders, sprinkled with the wine of orgies, scented with the perfumes of love,--perhaps never had this corner of the Louvre seen a paler face than that of the Duc d'Alençon, as with book in hand he opened the door of the bedchamber of the King of Navarre. And no one, as the duke had expected, was in the room to question with curious or anxious glances what he was about to do. The first rays of the morning sun alone were lighting up the vacant chamber.
On the wall in readiness hung the sword which Monsieur de Mouy had advised Henry to take with him. Some links of a coat of mail were scattered on the floor. A well-filled purse and a small dagger lay on a table, and some light ashes in the fireplace, joined to the other evidence, clearly showed D'Alençon that the King of Navarre had put on the shirt of mail, collected some money from his treasurer, and burned all papers that might compromise him.
"My mother was not mistaken," said D'Alençon "the knave would have betrayed me."
Doubtless this conviction gave added strength to the young man. He sounded the corners of the room at a glance, raised the portieres, and realizing from the loud noise in the court-yard below and the dense silence in the apartments that no one was there to spy on him, he drew the book from under his cloak, hastily laid it on the table, near the purse, propping it up against a desk of sculptured oak; then drawing back, he reached out his arm, and, with a hesitation which betrayed his fears, with his gloved hand he opened the volume to an engraving of a hunt. This done, D'Alençon again stepped back, and drawing off his glove threw it into the still warm fire, which had just consumed the papers. The supple leather crackled over the coals, twisted and flattened itself out like the body of a great reptile, leaving nothing but a burned and blackened lump.
D'Alençon waited until the flame had consumed the glove, then rolling up the cloak which had been wrapped around the book, he put it under his arm, and hastily returned to his own apartments. As he entered with beating heart, he heard steps on the winding stairs, and not doubting but that it was Henry he quickly closed his door. Then he stepped to the window, but he could see only a part of the court-yard of the Louvre. Henry was not there, however, and he felt convinced that it was the King of Navarre who had just returned.
The duke sat down, opened a book, and tried to read. It was a history of France from Pharamond to Henry II., for which, a few days after his accession to the throne, Henry had given a license.
But the duke's thoughts were not on what he was reading; the fever of expectation burned in his veins. His temples throbbed clear to his brain, and as in a dream or some magnetic trance, it seemed to François that he could see through the walls. His eyes appeared to probe into Henry's chamber, in spite of the obstacles between.
In order to drive away the terrible object before his mind's eye the duke strove to fix his attention on something besides the terrible book opened on the oak desk; but in vain he looked at his weapons, his ornaments; in vain he gazed a hundred times at the same spot on the floor; every detail of the picture at which he had merely glanced remained graven on his memory. It consisted of a gentleman on horseback fulfilling the duties of a beater of hawking, throwing the bait, calling to the falcon, and galloping through the deep grass of a swamp. Strong as was the duke's will, his memory triumphed over it.
Then it was not only the book he saw, but the King of Navarre approaching it, looking at the picture, trying to turn the pages, finally wetting his thumb and forcing the leaves apart. At this sight, fictitious and imaginary as it was, D'Alençon staggered and was forced to lean one hand against a table, while with the other he covered his eyes, as if by so doing he did not see more clearly than before the vision he wished to escape. This vision was in his own thoughts.
Suddenly D'Alençon saw Henry cross the court; he stopped a few moments before the men who were loading two mules with the provisions for the chase--none other than the money and other things he wished to take with him; then, having given his orders, he crossed the court diagonally and advanced towards the door.
D'Alençon stood motionless. It was not Henry, then, who had mounted the secret staircase. All the agony he had undergone during the last quarter of an hour had been useless. What he thought was over or almost over was only beginning.
François opened the door of his chamber, then holding it so he listened. This time he could not be mistaken, it was Henry himself; he recognized his step and the peculiar jingle of his spurs.
Henry's door opened and closed.
D'Alençon returned to his room and sank into an armchair.
"Good!" said he, "this is what is now taking place: he has passed through the antechamber, the first room, the sleeping-room; then he glances to see if his sword, his purse, his dagger are there; at last he finds the book open on his table.
"'What book is this?' he asks himself. 'Who has brought it?'
"Then he draws nearer, sees the picture of the horseman calling his falcon, wants to read, tries to turn the leaves."
A cold perspiration started to the brow of François.
"Will he call? Is the effect of the poison sudden? No, no, for my mother said he would die of slow consumption."
This thought somewhat reassured him.
Ten minutes passed thus, a century of agony, dragging by second after second, each supplying all that the imagination could invent in the way of maddening terror, a world of visions.
D'Alençon could stand it no longer. He rose and crossed the antechamber, which was beginning to fill with gentlemen.
"Good morning, gentlemen," said he, "I am going to the King."
And to distract his consuming anxiety, and perhaps to prepare an alibi, D'Alençon descended to his brother's apartments. Why did he go there? He did not know. What had he to say? Nothing! It was not Charles he sought--it was Henry he fled.
He took the winding staircase and found the door of the King's apartments half opened. The guards let the duke enter without opposition. On hunting days there was neither etiquette nor orders.
François traversed successively the antechamber, the salon, and the bedroom without meeting any one. He thought Charles must be in the armory and opened the door leading thither.
The King was seated before a table, in a deep carved armchair. He had his back to the door, and appeared to be absorbed in what he was doing.
The duke approached on tiptoe; Charles was reading.
"By Heaven!" cried he, suddenly, "this is a fine book. I had heard of it, but I did not know it could be had in France."
D'Alençon listened and advanced a step.
"Cursed leaves!" said the King, wetting his thumb and applying it to the pages; "it looks as though they had been stuck together on purpose to conceal the wonders they contain from the eyes of man."
D'Alençon bounded forward. The book over which Charles was bending was the one he had left in Henry's room. A dull cry broke from him.
"Ah, is it you, François?" said Charles, "you are welcome; come and see the finest book on hunting which ever came from the pen of man."
D'Alençon's first impulse was to snatch the volume from the hands of his brother; but an infernal thought restrained him; a frightful smile passed over his pallid lips, and he rubbed his hand across his eyes like a man dazed. Then recovering himself by degrees, but without moving:
"Sire," he asked, "how did this book come into your Majesty's possession?"
"I went into Henriot's room this morning to see if he was ready; he was not there, he was probably strolling about the kennels or the stables; at any rate, instead of him I found this treasure, which I brought here to read at my leisure."
And the King again moistened his thumb, and again turned over an obstinate page.
"Sire," stammered D'Alençon, whose hair stood on end, and whose whole body was seized with a terrible agony. "Sire, I came to tell you"--
"Let me finish this chapter, François," said Charles, "and then you shall tell me anything you wish. I have read or rather devoured fifty pages."
"He has tasted the poison twenty-five times," murmured François; "my brother is a dead man!"
Then the thought came to him that there was a God in heaven who perhaps after all was not chance.
With trembling hand the duke wiped away the cold perspiration which stood in drops on his brow, and waited in silence, as his brother had bade him do, until the chapter was finished.
L. HAWKING
Charles still read. In his curiosity he seemed to devour the pages, and each page, as we have said, either because of the dampness to which it had been exposed for so long or from some other cause, adhered to the next.
With haggard eyes D'Alençon gazed at this terrible spectacle, the end of which he alone could see.
"Oh!" he murmured, "what will happen? I shall go away, into exile, and seek an imaginary throne, while at the first news of Charles's illness Henry will return to some fortified town near the capital, and watch this prey sent us by chance, able at a single stride to reach Paris; so that before the King of Poland even hears the news of my brother's death the dynasty will be changed. This cannot be!"
Such were the thoughts which dominated the first involuntary feeling of horror that had urged François to warn Charles. It was the never-failing fatality which seemed to preserve Henry and follow the Valois which the duke was again going to try to thwart. In an instant his whole plan with regard to Henry was altered. It was Charles and not Henry who had read the poisoned book. Henry was to have gone, and gone condemned to die. The moment fate had again saved him, Henry must remain; for Henry was less to be feared in the Bastille or as prisoner at Vincennes than as the King of Navarre at the head of thirty thousand men.
The Duc d'Alençon let Charles finish his chapter, and when the King had raised his head:
"Brother," said the duke, "I have waited because your Majesty ordered me to do so, but I regret it, because I have something of the greatest importance to say to you."
"Go to the devil!" said Charles, whose cheeks were slowly turning a dull red, either because he had been too much engrossed in his reading or because the poison had begun to act. "Go to the devil! If you have come to discuss that same subject again, you shall leave as did the King of Poland. I rid myself of him, and I will do the same to you without further talk about it."
"It is not about my leaving, brother, that I want to speak to you, but about some one else who is going away. Your Majesty has touched me in my most sensitive point, my love for you as a brother, my devotion to you as a subject; and I hope to prove to you that I am no traitor."
"Well," said Charles, as he leaned his elbow on the book, crossed his legs, and looked at D'Alençon like a man who is trying to be patient. "Some fresh report, some accusation?"
"No, sire, a certainty, a plot, which my foolish scruples alone prevented my revealing to you before."
"A plot?" said Charles, "well, let us hear about it."
"Sire," said François, "while your Majesty hawks near the river in the plain of Vesinet the King of Navarre will escape to the forest of Saint Germain, where a troop of friends will be waiting to flee with him."
"Ah, I knew it," said Charles, "another calumny against my poor Henry! When will you be through with him?"
"Your Majesty need not wait long at least to find out whether or not what I have just had the honor of telling you is a calumny."
"How so?"
"Because this evening our brother-in-law will be gone."
Charles rose.
"Listen," said he, "I will try for the last time to believe you; but I warn you, both you and your mother, that it will be the last time."
Then raising his voice:
"Summon the King of Navarre!" he cried.
A guard started to obey, but François stopped him with a gesture.
"This is a poor way, brother, to learn anything," said he. "Henry will deny, will give a signal, his accomplices will be warned and will disappear. Then my mother and myself will be accused not only of being visionary but of being calumniators."
"What do you want, then?"
"In the name of our brotherly love I ask your Majesty to listen to me, in the name of my devotion, which you will realize, I want you to do nothing hastily. Act so that the real culprit, who for two years has been betraying your Majesty in will as well as in deed, may at last be recognized as guilty by an infallible proof, and punished as he deserves."
Charles did not answer, but going to a window raised it. The blood was rushing to his head.
Then turning round quickly:
"Well!" said he, "what would you do? Speak, François."
"Sire," said D'Alençon, "I would surround the forest of Saint Germain with three detachments of light horse, who at a given hour, eleven o'clock, for instance, should start out and drive every one in the forest to the Pavilion of Francis I., which I would, as if by chance, have indicated as the meeting-place. Then I would spur on, as if following my falcon, to the meeting-place, where Henry should be captured with his companions."
"The idea is good," said the King; "summon the captain of the guards."
D'Alençon drew from his doublet a silver whistle, suspended from a gold chain, and raised it to his lips.
De Nancey appeared.
Charles gave him some orders in a low tone.
Meanwhile Actéon, the great greyhound, had dragged a book from the table, and was tossing it about the room, making great bounds after it.
Charles turned round and uttered a terrible oath. The book was the precious treatise on hunting, of which there existed only three copies in the world.
The punishment was proportionate to the offence.
Charles seized a whip and gave the dog three whistling blows.
Actéon uttered a howl, and fled under a table covered with a large cloth which served him as a hiding-place.
Charles picked up the book and saw with joy that only one leaf was gone, and that was not a page of the text, but an engraving. He placed the volume carefully away on a shelf where Actéon could not reach it. D'Alençon looked anxiously at him. Now that the book had fulfilled its dread mission he would have liked to see it out of Charles's hands.
Six o'clock struck. It was time for the King to descend to the court-yard, already filled with horses richly caparisoned, and elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen. The hunters held on their wrists their hooded falcons; some outriders carried horns wound with scarfs, in case the King, as sometimes happened, grew weary of hawking, and wished to hunt a deer or a chamois.
Charles closed the door of his armory and descended. D'Alençon watched each movement closely, and saw him put the key in his pocket.
As he went down the stairs Charles stopped and raised his hand to his head.
The limbs of the Duc d'Alençon trembled no less than did those of the King.
"It seems to me," said the duke, "that there is going to be a storm."
"A storm in January!" said Charles; "you are mad. No, I am dizzy, my skin is dry, I am weak, that is all."
Then in a low tone:
"They will kill me," he murmured, "with their hatred and their plots."
But on reaching the court the fresh morning air, the shouts of the hunters, the loud greetings of the hundred people gathered there, produced their usual effect on Charles.
He breathed freely and happily. His first thought was for Henry, who was beside Marguerite.
This excellent couple seemed to care so much for each other that they were unable to be apart.
On perceiving Charles, Henry spurred his horse, and in three bounds was beside him.
"Ah, ah!" said Charles, "you are mounted as if you were going to hunt the stag, Henriot; but you know we are going hawking to-day."
Then without waiting for a reply:
"Forward, gentlemen, forward! we must be hunting by nine o'clock!" and Charles frowned and spoke in an almost threatening tone.
Catharine was watching everything from a window, behind which a curtain was drawn back, showing her pale face. She herself was dressed in black and was hidden from view.
At the order from Charles all this gilded, embroidered, perfumed crowd, with the King at its head, lengthened out to pass through the gate of the Louvre, and swept like an avalanche along the road to Saint Germain, amid the shouts of the people, who saluted the young King as he rode by, thoughtful and pensive, on his white horse.
"What did he say to you?" asked Marguerite of Henry.
"He congratulated me on the speed of my horse."
"Was that all?"
"Yes."
"Then he suspects something."
"I fear so."
"Let us be cautious."
Henry's face lighted up with one of his beautiful smiles, which meant especially to Marguerite, "Be easy, my love." As to Catharine, scarcely had the cortège left the court of the Louvre before she dropped the curtain.
But she had not failed to see one thing, namely, Henry's pallor, his nervousness, and his low-toned conversation with Marguerite.
Henry was pale because, not having physical courage, his blood, under all circumstances in which his life was at stake, instead of rushing to his head, as is usually the case, flowed to his heart. He was nervous because the manner in which he had been received by Charles, so different from usual, had made a deep impression on him. Finally, he had conferred with Marguerite because, as we know, the husband and wife had formed, so far as politics were concerned, an alliance offensive and defensive.
But Catharine had interpreted these facts differently.
"This time," she murmured, with her Florentine smile, "I think I may rely on my dear Henriot."
Then to satisfy herself, having waited a quarter of an hour to give the party time to leave Paris, she went out of her room, mounted the winding staircase, and with the help of her pass-key opened the door of the apartments of the King of Navarre. She searched, but in vain, for the book. In vain she looked on every table, shelf, and in every closet; nowhere could she find it.
"D'Alençon must have taken it away," said she, "that was wise."
And she descended to her own chamber, quite sure this time that her plan would succeed.
The King went on towards Saint Germain, which he reached after a rapid ride of an hour and a half. They did not ascend to the old castle, which rose dark and majestic in the midst of the houses scattered over the mountain. They crossed the wooden bridge, which at that time was opposite the tree to-day called the "Sully Oak." Then they signed for the boats adorned with flags which followed the hunting-party to aid the King and his suite in crossing the river. This was done. Instantly all the joyous procession, animated by such varied interests, again began to move, led by the King, over the magnificent plain which stretched from the wooded summit of Saint Germain, and which suddenly assumed the appearance of a great carpet covered with people, dotted with a thousand colors, and of which the river foaming along its banks seemed a silver fringe.
Ahead of the King, still on his white horse and holding his favorite falcon, rode the beaters, in their long green close-fitting coats and high boots, calling now and then to the half dozen great dogs, and beating, with their whips, the reeds which grew along the river banks.
At that moment the sun, until then hidden behind a cloud, suddenly burst forth and lighted with one of its rays all that procession of gold, all the ornaments, all the glowing eyes, and turned everything into a torrent of flame. Then, as if it had waited for that moment so that the sun might shine on its defeat, a heron rose from the midst of the reeds with a prolonged and plaintiff cry.
"Haw! Haw!" cried Charles, unhooding his falcon and sending it after the fugitive.
"Haw! Haw!" cried every voice to encourage the bird.
The falcon, dazzled for an instant by the light, turned, described a circle, then suddenly perceiving the heron, dashed after it.
But the heron, like a prudent bird, had risen a hundred yards before the beaters, and while the King had been unhooding his falcon, and while the latter had been growing accustomed to the light, it had gained a considerable height, so that by the time its enemy saw it, it had risen more than five hundred feet, and finding in the higher zones the air necessary for its powerful wings, continued to mount rapidly.
"Haw! Haw! Iron Beak!" cried Charles, cheering his falcon. "Show us that you are a thoroughbred! Haw! Haw!"
As if it understood the words the noble bird rose like an arrow, described a diagonal line, then a vertical one, as the heron had done, and mounted higher as though it would soon disappear in the upper air.
"Ah! coward!" cried Charles, as if the fugitive could hear him, and, spurring his horse, he followed the flight of the birds as far as he could, his head thrown back so as not to lose sight of them for an instant. "Ah! double coward! You run! My Iron Beak is a thoroughbred; on! on! Haw, Iron Beak! Haw!"
The contest was growing exciting. The birds were beginning to approach each other, or rather the falcon was nearing the heron. The only question was which could rise the higher.
Fear had stronger wings than courage. The falcon passed under the heron, and the latter, profiting by its advantage, dealt a blow with its long beak.
The falcon, as though hit by a dagger, described three circles, apparently overcome, and for an instant it looked as if the bird would fall. But like a warrior, who when wounded rises more terrible than before, it uttered a sharp and threatening cry, and went after the heron. The latter, making the most of its advantage, had changed the direction of its flight and turned toward the forest, trying this time to gain in distance instead of in height, and so escape. But the falcon was indeed a thoroughbred, with the eye of a gerfalcon.
It repeated the same manoeuvre, rose diagonally after the heron, which gave two or three cries of distress and strove to rise perpendicularly as at first.
At the end of a few seconds the two birds seemed again about to disappear. The heron looked no larger than a lark, and the falcon was a black speck which every moment grew smaller.
Neither Charles nor his suite any longer followed the flight of the birds. Each one stopped, his eyes fixed on the clouds.
"Bravo! Bravo! Iron-beak!" cried Charles, suddenly. "See, see, gentlemen, he is uppermost! Haw! haw!"
"Faith, I can see neither of them," said Henry.
"Nor I," said Marguerite.
"Well, but if you cannot see them, Henry, you can hear them," said Charles, "at least the heron. Listen! listen! he asks quarter!"
Two or three plaintive cries were heard which a practised ear alone could detect.
"Listen!" cried Charles, "and you will see them come down more quickly than they went up."
As the King spoke, the two birds reappeared. They were still only two black dots, but from the size of the dots the falcon seemed to be uppermost.
"See! see!" cried Charles, "Iron Beak has him!"
The heron, outwitted by the bird of prey, no longer strove to defend itself. It descended rapidly, constantly struck at by the falcon, and answered only by its cries. Suddenly it folded its wings and dropped like a stone; but its adversary did the same, and when the fugitive again strove to resume its flight a last blow of the beak finished it; it continued to fall, turning over and over, and as it touched the earth the falcon swooped down and uttered a cry of victory which drowned the cry of defeat of the vanquished.
"To the falcon! the falcon!" shouted Charles, spurring his horse to the place where the birds had fallen. But suddenly he reined in his steed, uttered a cry, dropped his bridle, and grasping his horse's mane with one hand pressed the other to his stomach as though he would tear out his very vitals.
All the courtiers hastened to him.
"It is nothing, nothing," said Charles, with inflamed face and haggard eye; "it seemed as if a red-hot iron were passing through me just now; but forward! it is nothing."
And Charles galloped on.
D'Alençon turned pale.
"What now?" asked Henry of Marguerite.
"I do not know," replied she; "but did you see? My brother was purple in the face."
"He is not usually so," said Henry.
The courtiers glanced at one another in surprise and followed the King.
They arrived at the scene of combat. The falcon had already begun to peck at the head of the heron.
Charles sprang from his horse to obtain a nearer view; but on alighting he was obliged to seize hold of the saddle. The ground seemed to spin under him. He felt very sleepy.
"Brother! Brother!" cried Marguerite; "what is the matter?"
"I feel," said Charles, "as Portia must have felt when she swallowed her burning coals. I am burning up and my breath seems on fire."
Charles exhaled his breath and seemed surprised not to see fire issue from his lips.
The falcon had been caught and hooded again, and every one had gathered around the King.
"Why, what does it mean? Great Heavens! It cannot be anything, or if it is it must be the sun which is affecting my head and blinding my eyes. So on, on, to the hunt, gentlemen! There is a whole flight of herons. Unhood the falcons, all of them, by Heaven! now for some sport!"
Instantly five or six falcons were unhooded and let loose. They rose in the direction of the prey, while the entire party, the King at their head, reached the bank of the river.
"Well! what do you say, madame?" asked Henry of Marguerite.
"That the moment is favorable, and that if the King does not look back we can easily reach the forest from here."
Henry called the attendant who was carrying the heron, and while the noisy, gilded avalanche swept along the road which to-day is a terrace he remained behind as if to examine the dead bird.
LI. THE PAVILION OF FRANÇOIS I
Hawking was a beautiful sport as carried on by kings, when kings were almost demi-gods, and when the chase was not only a pastime but an art.
Nevertheless we must leave the royal spectacle to enter a part of the forest where the actors in the scene we have just described will soon join us.
The Allée des Violettes was a long, leafy arcade and mossy retreat in which, among lavender and heather, a startled hare now and then pricked up its ears, and a wandering stag raised its head heavy with horns, opened its nostrils, and listened. To the right of this alley was an open space far enough from the road to be invisible, but not so far but that the road could be seen from it.
In the middle of the clearing two men were lying on the grass. Under them were travellers' cloaks, at their sides long swords, and near each of them a musketoon (then called a petronel) with the muzzle turned from them. In the richness of their costume they resembled the joyous characters of the "Decameron;" on closer view, by the threatening aspect of their weapons, they seemed like those forest robbers whom a hundred years later Salvator Rosa painted from nature in his landscapes. One of them was leaning on his hand and on one knee, listening as attentively as the hare or deer we mentioned above.
"It seems to me," said this one, "that the hunt was very near us just now. I heard the cries of the hunters cheering the falcon."
"And now," said the other, who seemed to await events with much more philosophy than his companion, "now I hear nothing more; they must have gone away. I told you this was a poor place from which to see anything. We cannot be seen, it is true; but we cannot see, either."
"The devil! my dear Annibal," said the first speaker, "we had to put our horses somewhere, as well as the mules, which, by the way, are so heavily laden that I do not see how they can follow us. Now I know that these old beeches and oaks are perfectly suited to this difficult task. I should venture to say that far from blaming Monsieur de Mouy as you are doing, I recognize in every detail of the enterprise he is directing the common sense of a true conspirator."
"Good!" said the second gentleman, whom no doubt our reader has already recognized as Coconnas; "good! that is the word! I expected it! I relied on you for it! So we are conspiring?"
"We are not conspiring; we are serving the king and the queen."
"Who are conspiring and which amounts to the same for us."
"Coconnas, I have told you," said La Mole, "that I do not in the least force you to follow me in this affair. I have undertaken it only because of a particular sentiment, which you can neither feel nor share."
"Well, by Heaven! Who said that you were forcing me? In the first place, I know of no one who could compel Coconnas, to do what he did not wish to do; but do you suppose that I would let you go without following you, especially when I see that you are going to the devil?"
"Annibal! Annibal!" said La Mole, "I think that I see her white palfrey in the distance. Oh! it is strange how my heart throbs at the mere thought of her coming!"
"Yes, it is strange," said Coconnas, yawning; "my heart does not throb in the least."
"It is not she," said La Mole. "What can have happened? They were to be here at noon, I thought."
"It happens that it is not noon," said Coconnas, "that is all, and, apparently, we still have time to take a nap."
So saying, Coconnas stretched himself on his cloak like a man who is about to add practice to precept; but as his ear touched the ground he raised his finger and motioned La Mole to be silent.
"What is it?" asked the latter.
"Hush! this time I am sure I hear something."
"That is singular; I have listened, but I hear nothing."
"Nothing?"
"No."
"Well!" said Coconnas, rising and laying his hand on La Mole's arm, "look at that deer."
"Where?"
"Yonder."
Coconnas pointed to the animal.
"Well?"
"Well, you will see."
La Mole watched the deer. With head bent forward as though about to browse it listened without stirring. Soon it turned its head, covered with magnificent branching horns, in the direction from which no doubt the sound came. Then suddenly, without apparent cause, it disappeared like a flash of lightning.
"Oh!" said La Mole, "I believe you are right, for the deer has fled."
"Because of that," said Coconnas, "it must have heard what you have not heard."
In short, a faint, scarcely perceptible sound quivered vaguely through the passes; to less practised ears it would have seemed like the breeze; for the two men it was the far-off galloping of horses. In an instant La Mole was on his feet.
"Here they are!" said he; "quick."
Coconnas rose, but more calmly. The energy of the Piedmontese seemed to have passed into the heart of La Mole, while on the other hand the indolence of the latter seemed to have taken possession of his friend. One acted with enthusiasm; the other with reluctance. Soon a regular and measured sound struck the ear of the two friends. The neighing of a horse made the coursers they had tied ten paces away prick up their ears, as through the alley there passed like a white shadow a woman who, turning towards them, made a strange sign and disappeared.
"The queen!" they exclaimed together.
"What can it mean?" asked Coconnas.
"She made a sign," said La Mole, "which meant 'presently.'"
"She made a sign," said Coconnas, "which meant 'flee!'"
"The signal meant 'wait for me.'"
"The signal meant 'save yourself.'"
"Well," said La Mole, "let each act on his own conviction; you leave and I will remain."
Coconnas shrugged his shoulders and lay down again.
At that moment in the opposite direction from that in which the queen was going, but in the same alley, there passed at full speed a troop of horsemen whom the two friends recognized as ardent, almost rabid Protestants. Their steeds bounded like the locusts of which Job said, 'They came and went.'"
"The deuce! the affair is growing serious," said Coconnas, rising. "Let us go to the pavilion of François I."
"No," said La Mole; "if we are discovered it will be towards the pavilion that the attention of the King will be at first directed, since that is the general meeting-place."
"You may be right, this time," grumbled Coconnas.
Scarcely had Coconnas uttered these words before a horseman passed among the trees like a flash of lightning, and leaping ditches, bushes, and all barriers reached the two gentlemen.
He held a pistol in each hand and with his knees alone guided his horse in its furious chase.
"Monsieur de Mouy!" exclaimed Coconnas, uneasy and now more on the alert than La Mole; "Monsieur de Mouy running away! Every one for himself, then!"
"Quick! quick!" cried the Huguenot; "away! all is lost! I have come around to tell you so. Away!"
As if he had not stopped to utter these words, he was gone almost before they were spoken, and before La Mole and Coconnas realized their meaning.
"And the queen?" cried La Mole.
But the young man's voice was lost in the distance; De Mouy was too far away either to hear or to answer him.
Coconnas had speedily made up his mind. While La Mole stood motionless, gazing after De Mouy, who had disappeared among the trees, he ran to the horses, led them out, sprang on his own, and, throwing the bridle of the other to La Mole, prepared to gallop off.
"Come! come!" cried he; "I repeat what De Mouy said: Let us be off! De Mouy knows what he is doing. Come, La Mole, quick!"
"One moment," said La Mole; "we came here for something."
"Unless it is to be hanged," replied Coconnas, "I advise you to lose no more time. I know you are going to parse some rhetoric, paraphrase the word 'flee,' speak of Horace, who hurled his buckler, and Epaminondas, who was brought back on his. But I tell you one thing, when Monsieur de Mouy de Saint Phale flees all the world may run too."
"Monsieur de Mouy de Saint Phale," said La Mole, "was not charged to carry off Queen Marguerite! Nor does Monsieur de Mouy de Saint Phale love Queen Marguerite!"
"By Heaven! he is right if this love would make him do such foolish things as you plan doing. May five hundred thousand devils from hell take away the love which may cost two brave gentlemen their heads! By Heaven! as King Charles says, we are conspiring, my dear fellow; and when plans fail one must run. Mount! mount, La Mole!"
"Mount yourself, my dear fellow, I will not prevent you. I even urge you to do so. Your life is more precious than mine. Defend it, therefore."
"You must say to me: 'Coconnas, let us be hanged together,' and not 'Coconnas, save yourself.'"
"Bah! my friend," replied La Mole, "the rope is made for clowns, not for gentlemen like ourselves."
"I am beginning to think," said Coconnas, "that the precaution I took is not bad."
"What precaution?"
"To have made friends with the hangman."
"You are sinister, my dear Coconnas."
"Well, what are we going to do?" cried the latter, impatiently.
"Set out and find the queen."
"Where?"
"I do not know--seek the king."
"Where?"
"I have not the least idea; but we must find him, and we two by ourselves can do what fifty others neither could nor would dare to do."
"You appeal to my pride, Hyacinthe; that is a bad sign."
"Well! come; to horse and away!"
"A good suggestion!"
La Mole turned to seize the pommel of his saddle, but just as he put his foot in the stirrup an imperious voice was heard:
"Halt there! surrender!"
At the same moment the figure of a man appeared behind an oak, then another, then thirty. They were the light-horse, who, dismounted, had glided on all fours in and out among the bushes, searching the forest.
"What did I tell you?" murmured Coconnas, in a low tone.
A dull groan was La Mole's only answer.
The light-horse were still thirty paces away from the two friends.
"Well!" continued the Piedmontese, in a loud tone, to the lieutenant of the dragoons. "What is it, gentlemen?"
The lieutenant ordered his men to aim.
Coconnas continued under breath:
"Mount, La Mole, there is still time. Spring into your saddle as I have seen you do hundreds of times, and let us be off."
Then turning to the light-horse:
"The devil, gentlemen, do not fire; you would kill friends."
Then to La Mole:
"Between the trees they cannot aim well; they will fire and miss us."
"Impossible," said La Mole, "we cannot take Marguerite's horse with us or the two mules. They would compromise us, whereas by my replies I can avert all suspicion. Go, my friend, go!"
"Gentlemen," said Coconnas, drawing his sword and raising it, "gentlemen, we surrender."
The light-horse dropped their muskets.
"But first tell us why we must do so?"
"You must ask that of the King of Navarre."
"What crime have we committed?"
"Monsieur d'Alençon will inform you."
Coconnas and La Mole looked at each other. The name of their enemy at such a moment did not greatly reassure them.
Yet neither of them made any resistance. Coconnas was asked to dismount, a manoeuvre which he executed without a word. Then both were placed in the centre of the light-horse and took the road to the pavilion.
"You always wanted to see the pavilion of François I.," said Coconnas to La Mole, perceiving through the trees the walls of a beautiful Gothic structure; "now it seems you will."
La Mole made no reply, but merely extended his hand to Coconnas.
By the side of this lovely pavilion, built in the time of Louis XII., and named after François I., because the latter always chose it as a meeting-place when he hunted, was a kind of hut built for prickers, partly hidden behind the muskets, halberds, and shining swords like an ant-hill under a whitening harvest.
The prisoners were conducted to this hut.
We will now relate what had happened and so throw some light on the situation, which looked very dark, especially for the two friends.
The Protestant gentlemen had assembled, as had been agreed on, in the pavilion of François I., of which, as we know, De Mouy had the key.
Masters of the forest, or at least so they had believed, they had placed sentinels here and there whom the light-horse, having exchanged their white scarfs for red ones (a precaution due to the ingenious zeal of Monsieur de Nancey), had surprised and carried away without a blow.
The light-horse had continued their search surrounding the pavilion; but De Mouy, who, as we know, was waiting for the king at the end of the Allée des Violettes, had perceived the red scarfs stealing along and had instantly suspected them. He sprang to one side so as not to be seen, and noticed that the vast circle was narrowing in such a way as to beat the forest and surround the meeting-place. At the same time, at the end of the principal alley, he had caught a glimpse of the white aigrettes and the shining arquebuses of the King's bodyguard.
Finally he saw the King himself, while in the opposite direction he perceived the King of Navarre.
Then with his hat he had made a sign of the cross, which was the signal agreed on to indicate that all was lost.
At this signal the king had turned back and disappeared. De Mouy at once dug the two wide rowels of his spurs into the sides of his horse and galloped away, shouting as he went the words of warning which we have mentioned, to La Mole and Coconnas.
Now the King, who had noticed the absence of Henry and Marguerite, arrived, escorted by Monsieur d'Alençon, just as the two men came out of the hut to which he had said that all those found, not only in the pavilion but in the forest, were to be conducted.
D'Alençon, full of confidence, galloped close by the King, whose sharp pains were augmenting his ill humor. Two or three times he had nearly fainted and once he had vomited blood.
"Come," said he on arriving, "let us make haste; I want to return to the Louvre. Bring out all these rascals from their hole. This is Saint Blaise's day; he was cousin to Saint Bartholomew."
At these words of the King the entire mass of pikes and muskets began to move, and one by one the Huguenots were forced out not only from the forest and the pavilion but from the hut.
But the King of Navarre, Marguerite, and De Mouy were not there.
"Well," said the King, "where is Henry? Where is Margot? You promised them to me, D'Alençon, and, by Heaven, they will have to be found!"
"Sire, we have not even seen the King and the Queen of Navarre."
"But here they are," said Madame de Nevers.
At that moment, at the end of an alley leading to the river, Henry and Margot came in sight, both as calm as if nothing had happened; both with their falcons on their wrists, riding lovingly side by side, so that as they galloped along their horses, like themselves, seemed to be caressing each other.
It was then that D'Alençon, furious, commanded the forest to be searched, and that La Mole and Coconnas were found within their ivy bower. They, too, in brotherly proximity entered the circle formed by the guards; only, as they were not sovereigns, they could not assume so calm a manner as Henry and Marguerite. La Mole was too pale and Coconnas too red.
LII. THE EXAMINATION
The spectacle which struck the young men as they entered the circle, although seen but for a few moments, was one never to be forgotten.
As we have said, Charles IX. had watched the gentlemen as the guards led them one by one from the pricker's hut.
Both he and D'Alençon anxiously followed every movement, waiting to see the King of Navarre come out. Both, however, were doomed to disappointment. But it was not enough to know that the king was not there, it was necessary to find out what had become of him.
Therefore when the young couple were seen approaching from the end of the alley, D'Alençon turned pale, while Charles felt his heart grow glad; he instinctively desired that everything his brother had forced him to do should fall back on the duke.
"He will outwit us again," murmured François, growing still paler.
At that moment the King was seized with such violent pains that he dropped his bridle, pressed both hands to his sides, and shrieked like a madman.
Henry hastily approached him, but by the time he had traversed the few hundred feet which separated them, Charles had recovered.
"Whence do you come, monsieur?" said the King, with a sternness that frightened Marguerite.
"Why, from the hunt, brother," replied she.
"The hunt was along the river bank, and not in the forest."
"My falcon swooped down on a pheasant just as we stopped behind every one to look at the heron."
"Where is the pheasant?"
"Here; a beautiful bird, is it not?"
And Henry, in perfect innocence, held up his bird of purple, blue, and gold plumage.
"Ah!" said Charles, "and this pheasant caught, why did you not rejoin me?"
"Because the bird had directed its flight towards the park, sire, and when we returned to the river bank we saw you half a mile ahead of us, riding towards the forest. We set out to gallop after you, therefore, for being in your Majesty's hunting-party we did not wish to lose you."
"And were all these gentlemen invited also?" said Charles.
"What gentlemen?" asked Henry, casting an inquiring look about.
"Why, your Huguenots, by Heaven!" said Charles; "at all events if they were invited it was not by me."
"No, sire," replied Henry, "but possibly Monsieur d'Alençon asked them."
"Monsieur d'Alençon? How so?"
"I?" said the duke.
"Why, yes, brother," said Henry; "did you not announce yesterday that you were King of Navarre? The Huguenots who demanded you for their king have come to thank you for having accepted the crown, and the King for having given it. Is it not so, gentlemen?"
"Yes! yes!" cried twenty voices. "Long live the Duc d'Alençon! Long live King Charles!"
"I am not king of the Huguenots," said François, white with anger; then, glancing stealthily at Charles, "and I sincerely trust I never shall be!"
"No matter!" said Charles, "but you must know, Henry, that I consider all this very strange."
"Sire," said the King of Navarre, firmly, "God forgive me, but one would say that I were undergoing an examination."
"And if I should tell you that you were, what would you answer?"
"That I am a king like yourself, sire," replied Henry, proudly, "for it is not the crown but birth that makes royalty, and that I would gladly answer any questions from my brother and my friend, but never from my judge."
"And yet," murmured Charles, "I should really like to know for once in my life how to act."
"Let Monsieur de Mouy be brought out," said D'Alençon, "and then you will know. Monsieur de Mouy must be among the prisoners."
"Is Monsieur de Mouy here?" asked the King.
Henry felt a moment's anxiety and exchanged glances with Marguerite; but his uneasiness was of short duration.
No voice replied.
"Monsieur de Mouy is not among the prisoners," said Monsieur de Nancey; "some of our men think they saw him, but no one is sure of it."
D'Alençon uttered an oath.
"Well!" said Marguerite, pointing to La Mole and Coconnas, who had heard all that had passed, and on whose intelligence she felt she could depend, "there are two gentlemen in the service of Monsieur d'Alençon; question them; they will answer."
The duke felt the blow.
"I had them arrested on purpose to prove that they do not belong to me," said he.
The King looked at the two friends and started on seeing La Mole again.
"Ah! that Provençal here?" said he.
Coconnas bowed graciously.
"What were you doing when you were arrested?" asked the King.
"Sire, we were planning deeds of war and of love."
"On horseback, armed to the teeth, ready for flight!"
"No, sire," said Coconnas; "your Majesty is misinformed. We were lying under the shade of a beech tree--sub tegmine fagi."
"Ah! so you were lying under the shade of a beech tree?"
"And we might easily have escaped had we thought that in any way we had roused your Majesty's anger. Now, gentlemen, on your honor as soldiers," continued Coconnas, turning to the light-horse, "do you not think that had we so wished we could have escaped?"
"The fact is," said the lieutenant, "that these gentlemen did not even attempt to run."
"Because their horses were too far away," said the Duc d'Alençon.
"I humbly beg monseigneur's pardon," said Coconnas; "but I was on mine, and my friend the Comte Lerac de la Mole was holding his by the bridle."
"Is this true, gentlemen?" said the King.
"Yes, sire," replied the lieutenant; "on seeing us Monsieur de Coconnas even dismounted."
Coconnas smiled in a way which signified, "You see, sire!"
"But the other horses, the mules, and the boxes with which they were laden?" asked François.
"Well," said Coconnas, "are we stable boys? Send for the groom who had charge of them."
"He is not here," exclaimed the duke, furious.
"Then he must have become frightened and run away," said Coconnas; "one cannot expect a clown to have the manners of a gentleman."
"Always the same system," said D'Alençon, gnashing his teeth. "Fortunately, sire, I told you that for some time these gentlemen have not been in my service."
"I!" exclaimed Coconnas, "am I unfortunate enough no longer to belong to your highness?"
"By Heaven! monsieur, you ought to know that better than any one, since you yourself gave me your dismissal, in a letter so impertinent that, thank God, I kept it, and fortunately have it with me."
"Oh!" exclaimed Coconnas, "I had hoped that your highness would forgive me for a letter written under the first impulse of anger. I had been told that your highness had tried to strangle my friend La Mole in one of the corridors of the Louvre."
"What is he saying?" interrupted the King.
"At first I thought your highness was alone," continued Coconnas, ingenuously, "but afterwards I learned that three others"--
"Silence!" exclaimed Charles; "we have heard enough. Henry," said he to the King of Navarre, "your word not to try to escape."
"I give it to your Majesty, sire."
"Return to Paris with Monsieur de Nancey, and remain in your chamber under arrest. You, gentlemen," continued he, addressing the two friends, "give up your swords."
La Mole looked at Marguerite. She smiled. La Mole at once handed his sword to the nearest officer. Coconnas did the same.
"Has Monsieur de Mouy been found?" asked the King.
"No, sire," said Monsieur de Nancey; "either he was not in the forest or he escaped."
"So much the worse," said the King; "but let us return. I am cold and dizzy."
"Sire, it is from anger, probably," said François.
"Possibly; but my eyes trouble me. Where are the prisoners? I cannot see them. Is it night already? Oh! mercy! I am burning up! Help! Help!"
The unfortunate King dropped the bridle of his horse, stretched out his arms, and fell backward. The courtiers, frightened at this second attack, caught him as he fell.
François, standing apart, wiped the perspiration from his brow, for he alone knew the cause of the trouble from which his brother was suffering.
On the other side the King of Navarre, already under the guard of Monsieur de Nancey, looked upon the scene with growing astonishment.
"Well! well!" murmured he, with that wonderful intuition which at times made him seem inspired, "was I perhaps fortunate in having been stopped in my flight?"
He glanced at Margot, whose great eyes, wide open with surprise, were looking first at him and then at the King.
This time Charles was unconscious. A litter was brought and he was laid on it. They covered him with a cloak, taken from the shoulders of one of the courtiers. The procession silently set out in the direction of Paris, whence that morning light-hearted conspirators and a happy King had started forth, and to which now a dying King was returning, surrounded by rebel prisoners.
Marguerite, who throughout all this had lost neither the control of her mind nor body, gave her husband a look of intelligence; then, passing so close to La Mole that the latter was able to catch the following two Greek words, she said:
"Me deide," which meant, "Fear nothing."
"What did she say?" asked Coconnas.
"She told me to fear nothing," replied La Mole.
"So much the worse," murmured the Piedmontese, "so much the worse; that means that it is not good for us to be here. Every time that word has been said to me in an encouraging tone I have either received a bullet or a sword-thrust in my body, or a flower pot on my head. 'Fear nothing,' whether in Hebrew, Greek, Latin, or French, has always meant for me: 'Take care!'"
"Forward, gentlemen!" said the lieutenant of the light-horse.
"Without being indiscreet, monsieur," said Coconnas, "may we know where we are going?"
"To Vincennes, I think," said the lieutenant.
"I would rather go elsewhere," said Coconnas; "but one does not always go just where one wishes."
On the way the King recovered consciousness and some strength.
At Nanterre he even wanted to ride, but this was not allowed.
"Summon Maître Ambroise Paré," said Charles, on reaching the Louvre.
He descended from his litter, ascended the stairs, leaning on the arm of Tavannes, and entered his apartment, giving orders that no one be allowed to follow him.
Every one had noticed that he seemed very grave. During the journey he had been in a deep study, not addressing a word to any one, concerned neither with conspiracy nor conspirators. It was evident that he was occupied with his illness; a malady so sudden, so strange, so severe, some of the symptoms of which had been noticed in his brother François II. a short time before his death.
So the order to admit no one whomsoever to his rooms, except Maître Paré, caused no surprise. It was well known that the prince was a misanthrope. Charles entered his sleeping-room, seated himself in a folding-chair, and leaned his head against the cushions. Then reflecting that Maître Ambroise Paré might not be at home, and that there might be some delay before he saw him, he decided to employ the intervening time.
He clapped his hands, thus summoning a guard.
"Say to the King of Navarre that I wish to speak with him," said Charles.
The man bowed and withdrew.
Just then Charles's head fell back, a great weight seemed to oppress him; his ideas grew confused; it was as if a sort of bloody vapor were floating before his eyes; his mouth was dry, although he had already swallowed a whole carafe of water.
While he was in this drowsy state the door opened and Henry appeared. Monsieur de Nancey had followed him, but stopped in the antechamber.
The King of Navarre waited until the door was closed. Then he advanced.
"Sire," said he, "you sent for me; I am here."
The King started at the voice and mechanically extended his hand.
"Sire," said Henry, letting his arms hang at his side, "your Majesty forgets that I am no longer your brother but your prisoner."
"Ah! that is true," said Charles. "Thank you for having reminded me of it. Moreover, it seems to me that when we last spoke together you promised to answer frankly what I might ask you."
"I am ready to keep my word, sire. Ask your questions."
The King poured some cold water into his hand and applied it to his forehead.
"Tell me, Henry, how much truth is there in the accusation brought against you by the Duc d'Alençon?"
"Only a little. It was Monsieur d'Alençon who was to have fled, and I who was to have accompanied him."
"And why should you have gone with him? Are you dissatisfied with me, Henry?"
"No, sire; on the contrary, I have only praise for your majesty; and God, who reads our hearts, knows how deeply I love my brother and my King."
"It seems to me," said Charles, "that it is not natural to flee from those we love and who love us."
"I was not fleeing from those who love me; I was fleeing from those who hate me. Will your Majesty permit me to speak openly?"
"Speak, monsieur."
"Those who hate me, sire, are Monsieur d'Alençon and the queen mother."
"As for Monsieur d'Alençon I will not answer; but the queen mother overwhelms you with attentions."
"That is just why I mistrust her, sire. And I do well to do so."
"Mistrust her?"
"Her, or those about her. You know, sire, that the misfortune of kings is not always that they are too little but that they are too well served."
"Explain yourself; you promised to tell me everything."
"Your Majesty will see that I will do so."
"Continue."
"Your Majesty loves me, you have said."
"I loved you before your treason, Henry."
"Pretend that you still love me, sire."
"Very well."
"If you love me you must want me to live, do you not?"
"I should be wretched were any harm to befall you."
"Well, sire, twice your Majesty has just escaped being wretched."
"How so?"
"Twice Providence has saved my life. It is true that the second time Providence assumed the features of your Majesty?"
"What form did it assume the first time?"
"That of a man who would be greatly surprised to see himself mistaken for Providence; I mean Réné. You, sire, saved me from steel."
Charles frowned, for he remembered the night when he had taken Henry to the Rue des Barres.
"And Réné?" said he.
"Réné saved me from poison."
"The deuce, Henriot, you have luck," said the King, trying to smile. But a quick spasm of pain changed the effort into a nervous contraction of the lips. "That is not his profession."
"Two miracles saved me, sire. A miracle of repentance on the part of the Florentine, and a miracle of goodness on your part. Well! I will confess to your Majesty that I am afraid Heaven will grow weary of working miracles, and I tried to run away, because of the proverb: 'Heaven helps those who help themselves.'"
"Why did you not tell me this sooner, Henriot?"
"Had I uttered these words yesterday I should have been a denunciator."
"And to-day?"
"To-day is different--I am accused and I am defending myself."
"Are you sure of the first attempt, Henriot?"
"As sure as I am of the second."
"And they tried to poison you?"
"Yes."
"With what?"
"With an opiate."
"How could they poison you with an opiate?"
"Why, sire, ask Réné; poisoning is done with gloves"--
Charles frowned; then by degrees his brow cleared.
"Yes," said he, as if speaking to himself. "It is the nature of wild creatures to flee from death. Why, then, should not knowledge do what instinct does?"
"Well, sire!" said Henry, "is your Majesty satisfied with my frankness, and do you believe that I have told you everything?"
"Yes, Henriot, and you are a good fellow. Do you think that those who hate you have grown weary, or will new attempts be made on your life?"
"Sire, every evening I am surprised to find myself still living."
"It is because they know I love you, Henriot, that they wish to kill you. But do not worry. They shall be punished for their evil intentions. Meanwhile you are free."
"Free to leave Paris, sire?" asked Henry.
"No; you well know that I cannot possibly do without you. In the name of a thousand devils! I must have some one here who loves me."
"Then, sire, if your Majesty keep me with you, will you grant me a favor"--
"What is it?"
"Not to keep me as a friend, but as a prisoner. Yes; does not your Majesty see that it is your friendship for me that is my ruin?"
"Would you prefer my hatred?"
"Your apparent hatred, sire. It will save me. As soon as they think I am in disgrace they will be less anxious for my death."
"Henriot," said Charles, "I know neither what you desire, nor what object you seek; but if your wishes do not succeed, and if your object is not accomplished, I shall be greatly surprised."
"I may, then, count on the severity of the King?"
"Yes."
"In that case I shall be less uneasy. Now what are your Majesty's commands?"
"Return to your apartments, Henriot, I am in pain. I will see my dogs and then go to bed."
"Sire," said Henry, "your Majesty ought to send for a physician. Your trouble is perhaps more serious than you imagine."
"I have sent for Maître Ambroise Paré, Henriot."
"Then I shall retire more satisfied."
"Upon my soul," said the King, "I believe that of all my family you are the only one who really loves me."
"Is this indeed your opinion, sire?"
"On the word of a gentleman."
"Then commend me to Monsieur de Nancey as a man your deep anger may not allow to live a month. By this means you will have me many years to love you."
"Monsieur de Nancey!" cried Charles.
The captain of the guards entered.
"I commit into your hands the most guilty man of my kingdom. You will answer for him with your life."
Henry assumed an air of consternation, and followed Monsieur de Nancey.
LIII. ACTÉON
Charles, left alone, wondered greatly at not having seen either of his favorites, his nurse Madeleine or his greyhound Actéon.
"Nurse must have gone to chant psalms with some Huguenot of her acquaintance," said he to himself; "and Actéon is probably still angry with me for the whipping I gave him this morning."
Charles took a candle and went into his nurse's room. The good woman was not there. From her chamber a door opened into the armory, it may be remembered. The King started towards this door, but as he did so he was seized with one of those spasms he had already felt, and which seemed to attack him suddenly. He felt as if his entrails were being run through with a red-hot iron, and an unquenchable thirst consumed him. Seeing a cup of milk on the table, he swallowed it at a gulp, and felt somewhat relieved.
Taking the candle he had set down, he entered the armory.
To his great astonishment Actéon did not come to meet him. Had he been shut up? If so, he would have known that his master had returned from hunting, and would have barked.
Charles called and whistled, but no animal appeared. He advanced a few steps, and as the light from the candle fell upon a corner of the room, he perceived an inert something lying there on the floor.
"Why! hello, Actéon!" cried Charles. He whistled again, but the dog did not stir. Charles hastened forward and touched him; the poor beast was stiff and cold. From his throat, contracted by pain, several drops of gall had fallen, mixed with foamy and bloody saliva. The dog had found an old cap of his master's in the armory, and had died with his head resting on this object, which represented a friend.
At the sight, which made him forget his own pain and restored all his energy, rage boiled in Charles's veins. He would have cried out; but, restrained as they are in their greatness, kings are not free to yield to that first impulse which every man turns to the profit of his passion or to his defence. Charles reflected that there had been some treason, and was silent.
Then he knelt down before his dog and with experienced eye examined the body. The eyes were glassy, the tongue red and covered with pustules. It was a strange disease, and one which made Charles shudder. The King put on his gloves, which he had taken off and slipped into his belt, opened the livid lips of the dog to examine his teeth, and perceived in the interstices some white-looking fragments clinging to the sharp points of the molars. He took out these pieces, and saw that they were paper. Near where the paper had been the swelling was greater, the gums were swollen, and the skin looked as if it had been eaten by vitriol.
Charles gazed carefully around him. On the carpet lay two or three bits of the paper similar to that which he had already recognized in the dog's mouth. One of the pieces, larger than the others, showed the marks of a woodcut. Charles's hair stood on end, for he recognized a fragment of the picture which represented a gentleman hawking, and which Actéon had torn from the treatise on hunting.
"Ah!" said he, turning pale; "the book was poisoned!"
Then, suddenly remembering:
"A thousand devils!" he exclaimed, "I touched every page with my finger, and at every page I raised my finger to my lips. These fainting-spells, these attacks of pain and vomiting! I am a dead man!"
For an instant Charles remained motionless under the weight of this terrible thought. Then, rising with a dull groan, he hastened to the door of the armory.
"Maître Réné!" he cried, "I want Maître Réné, the Florentine; send some one as quickly as possible to the Pont Saint Michel and bring him to me! He must be here within ten minutes. Let some one mount a horse and lead another that he may come more quickly. If Maître Ambroise Paré arrives have him wait."
A guard went instantly to carry out the King's commands.
"Oh!" murmured Charles, "if I have to put everybody to the torture, I will know who gave this book to Henriot;" and with perspiration on his brow, clenched hands, and heaving breast, he stood with his eyes fixed on the body of his dead dog.
Ten minutes later the Florentine knocked timidly and not without some anxiety at the door of the King's apartments. There are some consciences to which the sky is never clear.
"Enter!" said Charles.
The perfumer appeared. Charles went towards him with imperious air and compressed lip.
"Your Majesty sent for me," said Réné, trembling.
"You are a skilful chemist, are you not?"
"Sire"--
"And you know all that the cleverest doctors know?"
"Your Majesty exaggerates."
"No; my mother has told me so. Besides, I have confidence in you, and I prefer to consult you rather than any one else. See," he continued, pointing to the dog, "look at what this animal has between his teeth, I beg you, and tell me of what he died."
While Réné, candle in hand, bent over the floor as much to hide his emotion as to obey the King, Charles stood up, his eyes fixed on the man, waiting with an impatience easy to understand for the reply which was to be his sentence of death or his assurance of safety.
Réné drew a kind of scalpel from his pocket, opened it, and with the point detached from the mouth of the greyhound the particles of paper which adhered to the gums; then he looked long and attentively at the humor and the blood which oozed from each wound.
"Sire," said he, trembling, "the symptoms are very bad."
Charles felt an icy shudder run through his veins to his very heart.
"Yes," said he, "the dog has been poisoned, has he not?"
"I fear so, sire."
"With what sort of poison?"
"With mineral poison, I think."
"Can you ascertain positively that he has been poisoned?"
"Yes, certainly, by opening and examining the stomach."
"Open it. I wish there to be no doubt."
"I must call some one to assist me."
"I will help you," said Charles.
"You, sire!"
"Yes. If he has been poisoned, what symptoms shall we find?"
"Red blotches and herborizations in the stomach."
"Come, then," said Charles, "begin."
With a stroke of the scalpel Réné opened the hound's body and with his two hands removed the stomach, while Charles, one knee on the floor, held the light with clenched and trembling hand.
"See, sire," said Réné; "here are evident marks. These are the red spots I spoke of; as to these bloody veins, which seem like the roots of a plant, they are what I meant by herborizations. I find here everything I looked for."
"So the dog was poisoned?"
"Yes, sire."
"With mineral poison?"
"In all probability."
"And what symptoms would a man have who had inadvertently swallowed some of the same poison?"
"Great pain in the head, internal burning as if he had swallowed hot coals, pains in the bowels, and vomiting."
"Would he be thirsty?" asked Charles.
"Intensely thirsty."
"That is it! that is it!" murmured the King.
"Sire, I seek in vain for the motive for all these questions."
"Of what use to seek it? You need not know it. Answer my questions, that is all."
"Yes, sire."
"What is the antidote to give a man who may have swallowed the same substance as my dog?"
Réné reflected an instant.
"There are several mineral poisons," said he; "and before answering I should like to know what you mean. Has your Majesty any idea of the way in which your dog was poisoned?"
"Yes," said Charles; "he chewed the leaf of a book."
"The leaf of a book?"
"Yes."
"Has your Majesty this book?"
"Here it is," said Charles, and, taking the volume from the shelf where he had placed it, he handed it to Réné.
The latter gave a start of surprise which did not escape the King.
"He ate a leaf of this book?" stammered Réné.
"Yes, this one," and Charles pointed to the torn page.
"Will you allow me to tear out another, sire?"
"Do so."
Réné tore out a leaf and held it over the candle. The paper caught fire, filling the room with a strong smell of garlic.
"He has been poisoned with a preparation of arsenic," said he.
"You are sure?"
"As sure as if I had prepared it myself."
"And the antidote?"
Réné shook his head.
"What!" said Charles in a hoarse voice, "you know no remedy?"
"The best and most efficacious is the white of eggs beaten in milk; but"--
"But what?"
"It must be administered at once; otherwise"--
"Otherwise?"
"Sire, it is a terrible poison," said Réné, again.
"Yet it does not kill immediately," said Charles.
"No, but it kills surely, no matter how long the time, though even this may sometimes be calculated."
Charles leaned against the marble table.
"Now," said he, putting his hand on Réné's shoulder, "you know this book?"
"I, sire?" said Réné, turning pale.
"Yes, you; on seeing it you betrayed yourself."
"Sire, I swear to you"--
"Réné," said Charles, "listen to me. You poisoned the Queen of Navarre with gloves; you poisoned the Prince of Porcion with the smoke from a lamp; you tried to poison Monsieur de Condé with a scented apple. Réné, I will have your skin removed with red-hot pincers, bit by bit, if you do not tell me to whom this book belongs."
The Florentine saw that he could not dally with the anger of Charles IX., and resolved to be bold.
"If I tell the truth, sire, who will guarantee that I shall not be more cruelly punished than if I keep silent?"
"I will."
"Will you give me your royal word?"
"On my honor as a gentleman your life shall be spared," said the King.
"The book belongs to me, then," said Réné.
"To you!" cried Charles, starting back and looking at the poisoner with haggard eyes.
"Yes, to me."
"How did it leave your possession?"
"Her majesty the queen mother took it from my house."
"The queen mother!" exclaimed Charles.
"Yes."
"With what object?"
"With the intention, I think, of having it sent to the King of Navarre, who had asked the Duc d'Alençon for a book of the kind in order to study the art of hawking."
"Ah!" cried Charles, "that is it. I see it all. The book indeed was in Henriot's room. There is a destiny about this and I submit to it."
At that moment Charles was seized with a violent fit of coughing, followed by fresh pain in the bowels. He gave two or three stifled cries, and fell back in his chair.
"What is the matter, sire?" asked Réné in a frightened voice.
"Nothing," said Charles, "except that I am thirsty. Give me something to drink."
Réné filled a glass with water and with trembling hand gave it to Charles, who swallowed it at a draught.
"Now," said he, taking a pen and dipping it into the ink, "write in this book."
"What must I write?"
"What I am going to dictate to you:
"'This book on hawking was given by me to the queen mother, Catharine de Médicis.'"
Réné took the pen and wrote.
"Now sign your name."
The Florentine obeyed.
"You promised to save my life."
"I will keep my promise."
"But," said Réné, "the queen mother?"
"Oh!" said Charles, "I have nothing to do with her; if you are attacked defend yourself."
"Sire, may I leave France, where I feel that my life is in danger?"
"I will reply to that in a fortnight."
"But, in the meantime"--
Charles frowned and placed his finger on his livid lips.
"You need not be afraid of me, sire."
And happy to have escaped so easily the Florentine bowed and withdrew.
Behind him the nurse appeared at the door of her room.
"What is the matter, my Charlot?" said she.
"Nurse, I have been walking in the dew, and have taken cold."
"You are very pale, Charlot."
"It is because I am so weak. Give me your arm, nurse, as far as my bed."
The nurse hastily came forward.
Charles leaned on her and reached his room.
"Now," said Charles, "I will put myself to bed."
"If Maître Ambroise Paré comes?"
"Tell him that I am better and that I do not need him."
"But, meanwhile, what will you take?"
"Oh! a very simple medicine," said Charles, "the whites of eggs beaten in milk. By the way, nurse," he continued, "my poor Actéon is dead. To-morrow morning he must be buried in a corner of the garden of the Louvre. He was one of my best friends. I will have a tomb made for him--if I have time."