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THE immortal Dumas wrote few books more enthralling than "Marguerite de Valois."
Like all books of this dynamic quality it has in the past suffered in
translation some eclipse of its higher lights. Mr. Fowler Wright has rendered it
into the English Dumas would himself have used, had English been his language.
Himself a master-craftsman amongst story-tellers (his book "Deluge" alone sold a
million copies) Mr. Fowler Wright has captured here the authentic atmosphere of
Dumas' France, and brought out alive from the withering ordeal of translation
the genuine spirit of the original.
Chapter


I        A HUSBAND SHE DOES NOT WANT
II        OF HENRY AND MARGUERITE
III        THE KING IS A POET
IV        THE EVE OF ST. BARTHOLOMEW
V        AT THE LOUVRE
VI        CATHERINE DE MEDICI SEES THE KING
VII        MASSACRE
VIII        THE SLAYERS AND THE SLAIN
IX        HOW COCONNAS PAID HIS DEBT
X        DEATH OR THE MASS
XI        FOREWARNED IS FOREARMED
XII        THE FRIENDS CONFIDE
XIII        A KEY TO MORE DOORS THAN ONE
XIV        BETWEEN MOTHER AND DAUGHTER
XV        WHAT WOMAN WILLS, HEAVEN DECREES
XVI        SWEET IS THE BODY OF A DEAD FOE
XVII        THE DRAUGHT OF AN UNKNOWN DOCTOR
XVIII        A CALL ON THE EXECUTIONER
XIX        INTERVIEW WITH THE QUEEN-MOTHER'S PERFUMIER
XX        THE QUEEN-MOTHER READS THE FUTURE
XXI        POISON
XXII        YOU WILL BE KING
XXIII        A NEW CONVERT
XXIV        CONCERNING A HOUSE IN TWO STREETS
XXV        THE WEARER OF THE RED CLOAK
XXVI        MARGUERITE MAKES A PROMISE
XXVII        CATHERINE'S PLAN FAILS
XXVIII        A LETTER FROM ROME
XXIX        A WARRANT OF ARREST
XXX        MAUREVEL'S ORDERS
XXXI        THE BOAR HUNT
XXXII        CONCERNING BROTHERLY LOVE
XXXIII        THE GRATITUDE OF THE KING
XXXIV        MAN PROPOSES BUT GOD DISPOSES
XXXV        THE SIEGE
XXXVI        MARIE TOUCHET AND THE KING
XXXVII        BACK IN THE LOUVRE
XXXVIII        SUGGESTION OF THE QUEEN-MOTHER
XXIX        PLANS FOR REVENGE
XL        THE ATRIDES
XLI        THE HOROSCOPE OF THE KING
XLII        CONFIDENCES
XLIII        THE POLES ASK FOR ANJOU
XLIV        THE INSEPARABLES
XLV        DEATH OF A PAGE
XLVI        AT LA BELLE ETOILE
XLVII        DE MOUY CAN EXPLAIN
XLVIII        TWO HEADS: ONE CROWN
XLIX        THE BOOK OF VENERIE
L        THE HAWKING PARTY
LI        THE PAVILION OF FRANCIS I
LII        CHARLES SEEKS THE TRUTH
LIII        DEATH OF A HOUND
LIV        VINCENNES
LV        THE WAXEN IMAGE
LVI        THE INVISIBLE BUCKLERS
LVII        THE JUDGES
LVIII        THE TORTURE OF THE BOOT
LIX        THE CHAPEL
LX        THE PLACE SAINT-JEAN-EN-GREVE
LXI        THE TOWER OF THE PILLORY
LXII        VENGEANCE OF GOD?
LXIII        THE BATTLEMENT OF VINCENNES
LXIV        THE REGENCY?
LXV        THE KING IS DEAD - LONG LIVE THE KING! LXVI        FINAL?

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CHAPTER I
A HUSBAND SHE DOES NOT WANT
THE midnight of Monday, the 18th of August, 1572, was already past but the
windows of the royal residence of the Louvre were still brilliantly alight, as
were those of the Hotel de Bourbon on the opposite side of the way, and in the
squares and streets below the crowds still surged, a dark, threatening,
turbulent sea, the waves of which beat against the palace walls with more of
menace than festivity in their tone.
        It was the night of the marriage of the French King's sister, Marguerite
de Valois, to Henry, King of Navarre.
        The marriage of a princess is most often a matter of state policy. It
may be welcome or not to the one who is most concerned, but reasons which have
led to its arrangement are usually easy to see. Yet this marriage had been an
astonishment to the world.
        It was a union of Protestant and Catholic, at a time when the political
enmity of the two religions was intense and bitter.
        How, it was asked, was reconciliation possible? Would the young prince,
de Condé, forget his father's assassination at Jarnac? Would the young Duke of
Guise forgive his father's assassination at Orleans? And had not the
bridegroom's mother, Jeanne of Navarre, died only two months ago, under such
circumstances that the whisper of poison was almost audible through the
corridors of the Louvre?
        But it was said that the young King, Charles IX, had set his heart on
this marriage, which was not merely to re-establish peace throughout the
kingdom, but would draw to Paris the scattered I Huguenot chiefs who had been
causing trouble in many parts of the land.
        As the betrothed were of different faiths, the marriage had been delayed
until a dispensation could be obtained from Rome; and this had been slow to
arrive.
        Jeanne of Navarre (before her sudden surprising death) had expressed to
the young French King her uneasiness at this delay, and Charles had been heard
to reply: "Dear aunt, don't have any such foolish doubt. I honour you more than
the Pope, and my regard for my sister is more than any fear of him. Because I am
not a Huguenot, it doesn't follow that I'm a fool. If Gregory should try to
upset our plans, I'd celebrate the marriage myself, in my own way. You needn't
worry about that."
        Widely repeated, they were words that made the Protestants glad. But
Catholics looked at one another with uncertain eyes. Did the king intend their
betrayal, or (as they had the more confident hope) was he leading the hated
Huguenots on to some end which they did not guess?
        It was in regard to the venerated Admiral de Coligny that wonder and
speculation were most deeply stirred. It was not long since Charles had offered
the huge reward of a hundred and fifty thousand crowns to anyone who would bring
his head. Now he called him his father, and declared openly that the Flanders
war should be entrusted in future to him alone. Even the king's mother,
Catherine de Medici, who was reputed to rule his policy, was said to have shown
some uneasiness over this, which was not surprising, for Coligny, despite all
his wisdom, had been indiscreet enough to let it become known that the king had
warned him against Catherine. "The queen, my mother," he had said, "must hear
nothing of this, for she will meddle, and ruin all."
        Coligny had come to Paris, at the royal invitation, with suspicion
alert. When he had left Chatillon, a peasant woman had thrown herself at his
feet, imploring him not to go: "For, if you do, you will die - you will die,"
she had cried, and he had felt that her words were too probably true. But now
these suspicions were lulled to rest.
        To his son-in-law, Teligny, also, the king had been kind, calling him
brother, as he called Coligny father, and treating him as one of his closest
friends.
        A mood of optimism had become general among the Huguenots, which only a
few of the more morose and suspicious among them refused to share. It was a
pleurisy which had been fatal to the Queen of Navarre. They filled the spacious
apartments of the Louvre, seeing in the marriage of their young chief, Henry of
Navarre, to the king's sister, assurance of peaceful days.
        Now they were fêted and praised by those, the highest in the land, who
had been their most bitter foes. The King, the Queen-Mother, the King's two
younger brothers, Dukes of Anjou and Alençon, even the de Guises, were gracious
to the reputed enemies of their House and cause. They congratulated the young
prince, Henry de Condé, on his recent marriage. The Duke of Mayenne engaged in
friendly discussion with the Admiral and M. de Tavanne on the probability of an
outbreak of war with Spain.
        Among these various groups, moving quickly, observing all, was a young
man of no more than nineteen years, with his black, close-cropped head carried a
little on one side, having thick eyebrows, and a nose that curved like an
eagle's beak. He had already won a name for himself at the battle of
Arnay-le-Duc. He was the dearly beloved pupil of Coligny. Three months earlier,
he had been Prince of Béarn. Then his mother had died, and he had become King of
Navarre.
        Did he think now that they who spoke to him, who were so gracious in
congratulating him on his royal bride, might be those who were responsible for
his mother's death?. . . If he had cares, they were cares which he did not show.

        Some paces distant, with a brow as gloomy as that of Navarre was clear
stood the young Duke of Guise. Three years older than the Béarnais, he had
already attained a reputation which almost rivalled that of his father François,
the elder Duke of Guise. He was taller than most of those around him, and with a
haughtiness of aspect, a natural majesty, which caused it to be said that
princes in his company seemed to be no more than the common herd.
        He had become known as the Prince de Joinville, until his father had
died in his arms at the siege of Orleans, denouncing Admiral Coligny as his
assassin. The young prince had taken then a fierce oath to have revenge for his
father's death. He had gone beyond that. He had sworn to pursue the foes of his
faith without respite of mercy, until the last heretic should be dead.
        Now, to the general astonishment, he who had sworn such oaths, and who
was regarded by the Catholics as their natural leader since his father was dead,
had held out the hand of fellowship, and entered into familiar conversation with
Teligny - the son-in-law of the man he had sworn to kill.
        But it was an evening of wonder. . .
        It was amid an atmosphere of smiles, and a murmur softer and more
flattering than had been heard before, that the young bride, who had withdrawn
to lay aside her toilette of ceremony, her long mantle and flowing veil,
returned to the ballroom, with her inseparable friend, the lovely Duchess de
Nevers, at her side, and led by her brother, King Charles IX, who presented his
"dear sister Margot," as he would affectionately call her, to the principal
guests.
        Marguerite was scarcely twenty. She had black hair, a fine complexion,
voluptuous eyes which long lashes veiled, a red and lovely mouth, a graceful
neck, an enchanting figure, and a foot which, in its satin slipper, was of
scarcely more than an infant's size. Amid the loveliest women of the time and
land, which Catherine had assembled in the French court, she was commonly
admitted to be the first. The court poets compared her to Aurora or Cytheria.
Never was there a more flattering reception, never one more fully deserved, than
that which awaited the new Queen of Navarre.
        She was not merely a lovely girl. Foreigners who had the privilege of
meeting her said that she was equally conspicuous both for learning and wit. It
had been said: "To see the court without seeing Marguerite of Valois is to have
seen neither the court nor France."
        It may be supposed that, as Charles introduced her to the Huguenots,
whose chief she had married, compliments were not wanting now. The Huguenots had
the reputation of being adroit with them. But Charles, with a dissembling smile
on his pale lips, had the same answer for all: "In giving my sister to Henry of
Navarre, I give her to every Protestant in the land."
        They were ambiguous words, by which some were pleased, and at which
others smiled, for they could be construed in a way which was injurious alike to
the bride, her husband, and him from whose lips they came. For there had been
scandalous rumours about the conduct of the young princess, which, whether false
or true, had not been hard to believe of one who had been reared in the
dissolute court which Catherine of Medici ruled. . .
        The young Duke de Guise might be conversing with M. Teligny, but he was
not too fully occupied to glance frequently at the group of ladies in the midst
of whom stood the glittering Queen of Navarre. Once her eyes met his, and a
shadow of disquieting thought passed over a brow crowned by the tremulous starry
light of the diamond circlet she wore, and was confirmed by the restless
impatient gesture which followed.
        Her eldest sister, the Princess Claude, now married to the Duke of
Lorraine, noticed this sign of disquiet, and would have reached her side to
enquire its cause, but was deterred by the approach of the Queen-Mother, who was
leaning, with apparent affection, upon the arm of the Prince de Condé.
        As the group gave way before Catherine, the Duke de Guise took advantage
of the general movement to approach the bride. As he passed her he murmured:
Ipse atulli (I have brought it), and was answered in the same tongue: Noctu pro
more (Tonight, as usual), in a tone as low as his own.
        The Duchess of Lorraine, whose eyes were still on her sister, was not
close enough to observe that any words had passed between them, but she saw the
sudden blush that came to Marguerite's cheek, and that, while she remained as
one preoccupied by her own thoughts, the duke had moved away with the aspect of
one whose mind was somewhat relieved.
        The King of Navarre, who might be thought to have been most concerned in
this episode, had not observed it at all. His eyes were not on Marguerite, but
on one of Catherine's ladies-in-waiting, Charlotte de Beaune-Semblançay, the
young and lovely wife of the Baron de Sauve.
        Henry's infatuation for Madame de Sauve had been evident for several
weeks. That his feelings had met any favourable return was less clear to the
watchful, curious court. Delicately beautiful, vivacious or melancholy in
quick-changing moods, ever ready for love or intrigue, a woman in every use of
the word, and every attraction that it can hold, she had so completely occupied
the thoughts of the youthful King of Navarre that it had been evident to all
that he had no admiration to spare for the royal beauty of the bride he had won.
It was an additional bewilderment that, while Catherine de Medici had been
pressing forward the union of her daughter with Henry, she had appeared to
encourage, almost openly, his infatuation for Madame de Sauve.
        But despite this powerful support, and the licentious habit of the
French court of that period, it was correctly supposed that Charlotte had
resisted all his advances, and it was evident that this sustained attitude had
roused an unrestrained passion, which had overcome both caution and pride, and
the customary attitude, half indolence and half philosophy, which was the basis
of the character of the young King of Navarre.
        Madame de Sauve, whether from mere petulance or a stronger feeling, had
absented herself from the marriage ceremony at which the Baron (who was a
secretary of state) had appeared alone, saying that his wife was unwell. But a
note from Catherine de Medici had reached her room, and its contents were such
that she rose at once, and had appeared in the gallery a few minutes earlier.
        Henry may have felt some relief amidst his disappointment when he had
first observed her absence, which gave him freedom to pay attention to the
lovely girl whom he was condemned, if not to love, least to treat as his wife;
but now that, after having ceased to expect her, he saw her rise, as it were,
from the far end of the gallery, his wife was, in a moment, forgotten, and he
advanced toward her, as though oblivious of all besides. As he did so, a
movement of complaisant courtesy among those around gave him a clear space, so
that no one could overhear the low-voiced conversation that followed.
        "Ma mie," Henry began, speaking in French, but with something of he
accent of Gascony, "you come after I had been told that you were unwell, and
when hope was gone."
        "Your majesty wishes me to believe that it was a disappointment?"
        "It was more than that. To me you are the noonday's sun, and the
midnight's star. I was in darkness until you came."
        "Then I should have done you a better service to stay away, as I had
first meant. He who has just won the loveliest bride in France can wish for
nothing more than that the light should go, and the happiness of the darkness
come."
        "You know that my happiness is in the hands of the one woman who mocks
me now."
        "On the contrary, I have supposed that she has been the jest of the King
of Navarre."
        "You are unjust. I did not expect to hear such cruel words from so sweet
a mouth. It is not Marguerite I marry. You know that well."
        "Perhaps you will say next that you marry me!"
        "You pretend that you will not see ! It is not Henry of Navarre who
marries Marguerite de Valois. It is the Reformed Religion that marries the
Pope."
        "But you must love her? Surely she is lovely enough!"
        Henry paused. He looked at her thoughtfully, and a smile came to his
lips. He said deliberately: "Baroness, you are seeking to quarrel with me
without a cause. What have you offered me which should have hindered my marriage
to her? You have rejected everything I have offered. I have only married her
because you have driven me to despair."
        "But you should be glad that I do not love you, for, if I did, I should
be dead in the next hour."
        "May I ask from what cause?"
        "From jealousy. For in an hour you will be alone with her who is now
Queen of Navarre."
        "Ma mie, are you vexed at that?"
        "I have not said so. I said if."
        "And suppose you should have imagined something for which there is no
foundation at all?"
        "It is an incredible suggestion. It is absurd."
        "But if I should give you proof?"
        "It would be impossible."
        "But it would not. There are four Henrys here, but there is only one
Henry of Navarre. You admit that?"
        "Of course. But - "
        "And if Henry of Navarre were in your own room - for the whole night?
Would you believe that he loved you then?"
        Charlotte's eyes fell. It was without raising them that she asked: "You
say you would do that?"
        "On my honour I will." She raised shining eyes, in which there was the
promise of love, and his heart beat fast with joy. "And what," he asked: "do you
say now?"
        "I shall say that your majesty loves me beyond a doubt."
        "You have a waiting-woman whom you can trust?"
        "Yes. Dariole will do anything for me."
        "Then tell her that when I am King of France, as the astrologers
foretell, there will be a fortune for her."
        Charlotte smiled, for the prodigality of his Gascon promises had been
observed already at the court.
        "What," she asked, "do you want her to do?"
        "Very little, though much for me. Your room is above mine?"
        "Yes."
        "Let her wait at the door. I will give three taps."
        Madame de Sauve hesitated for a moment. She looked round. She saw that
the eyes of the Queen-Mother were on her. Their glances met. She looked at Henry
again, and spoke with a siren's tone against which Ulysses himself would have
found resistance vain. "Sire," she said, "I will hold you to your promise for
Dariole when you are King of France."

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CHAPTER II
OF HENRY AND MARGUERITE
THE Duke de Guise left the Louvre for his apartment, but he did not retire to
rest. He changed his dress, putting on a night-cloak, and armed himself with one
of those poniards, short and sharp, which were often carried at the-period, when
swords would have been inconvenient to wear. But as he lifted it from the table
on which it lay he observed a note which had been fastened into the sheath. He
read: "M. de Guise will be wise not to return to the Louvre. But, if he must,
let him take a good sword, and a coat of mail."
        "It is a strange note," he said, "but it sounds like the advice of a
friend."
        He called his valet, and was soon clad in a mail coat of steel rings so
fine that it was scarcely thicker than velvet. Over this he drew a pardessus and
pourpoint of grey and silver, which were his favourite colours, and with a page
following him to carry his sword, he returned to the Louvre, which he reached
without incident.
        A deep fosse surrounded the royal chateau, over which were the windows
of most of the princes who lived in the place. Marguerite's room was on the
first floor, and might have been easily reached but for the ditch which
descended for thirty feet below the level of the ground. But the Duke de Guise
acted as one who saw no difficulty. He had scarcely paused when a window on the
ground floor opened. It was grated with heavy bars, but a hand thrust out
between them dropped a silk cord, which fell at his feet.
        "That you, Gillonne?" he called softly.
        "Yes, monseigneur."
        "And Marguerite?"
        "She is waiting."
        The page took a fine rope ladder from under his coat. It was fastened to
the silk cord, and Gillonne drew it up. The prince ascended it, after buckling
his sword to his side. A bar in the window was moved out of place, and he
entered. A moment later, the bar was replaced, and the window closed. The page
lay down to rest on the grass of the fosse until his master should need him
again.
        The night had become very dark. There had been a few heavy drops of
rain. As Gillonne guided the duke along the dark corridor, vivid flashes of
lightning lit up the dark apartments, and increased the blackness that followed.
So, and still without light, they came to a stair in the wall which ascended to
the floor above. Through a secret and invisible door they entered the
ante-chamber of Marguerite's apartment.
        They were still in darkness, as Gillonne whispered: "Have you brought
what the Queen wants?"
        "Yes, but I can only give it to her."
        Marguerite's voice startled him from the darkness: "Come then, for there
is not a moment to waste."
        As she spoke, she lifted a curtain of violet velvet, embroidered with
fleurs-de-lys. He passed through it, leaving Gillonne in the darkness of the
ante-chamber.
        Marguerite led him on to the bed-chamber. She turned to ask: "Well, are
you content now?"
        "Content with what?"
        "Of the proof I give you that I have married a man who, even on the
night of his marriage, considers me of so small account that he does not even
come to thank me for what I have done, not in selecting, but in accepting him as
my husband?"
        There was a slight note of vexation in her voice, as she said this, to
which he replied with gravity: "If you should wish it, be assured that he would
be here ."
        "I wish it? Henry, can you suggest that? You know the contrary. Had I
such a wish, should I have asked you to come here?"
        "You have asked me to come because you are anxious to destroy every
evidence of the past, and because that past does not live in my memory only, but
in the silver casket I have here."
        "Henry, you are less like a prince than a silly boy! Why should I deny
that I loved you? You can keep the casket I gave you, and all the letters but
one. I asked for that because it is as dangerous for yourself as for me."
        "They are all yours, if you will."
        She took the casket, turning over a dozen letters with no more than a
hasty glance. She was pale as she looked up. "Henry, have you mislaid it? It
isn't here?"
        "Which letter is it you want?"
        "That in which I told you to marry quickly."
        "As an excuse for your own disloyalty?"
        "No. But to save your life. Did I not tell you that the king, when he
learned that I had tried to break your engagement to the Infante of Portugal,
had shown Angoulême two swords, and said: 'You must kill Henry of Guise with one
today, or tomorrow the other will be for you.' Where is that letter?"
        "I have it here," said the duke, drawing it from his breast. She
snatched it eagerly, glanced at it, and with an exclamation of relief held it to
the flame of a candle, by which it was quickly consumed.
        "Well, Marguerite, are you content now?"
        "Yes. Now you are married, my brother will forgive what is past. But he
would never have forgiven, had he known of the warning you had from me."
        "Then it was a proof that you loved me still?"
        "Yes . . . and I still do. And never did I need a true friend as I need
him now. Am I not a wife without a husband? A queen, and have no throne?"
        The young prince shook his head sadly. His eyes expressed a great doubt.

        "Henry, must I repeat it? My husband is not merely indifferent. He
despises - hates. Isn't there proof of his contempt in your presence here?"
        "It is not late yet. At any moment he may be here."
        "And I tell you he will not come."
        Gillonne lifted the curtain. "Madame, the King of Navarre is on his way
here."
        "Ah, I knew it!" exclaimed the duke.
        "Henry, you shall learn whether I speak truth." She seized his hand.
Enter this closet, and you shall hear all."
        "Marguerite, let me go. I warn you if I hear you accepting his love I
shall come out, and you will be responsible for what may occur."
        "Are you mad? Of course I will be responsible. Go in, while there is
time."
        As she closed the door of the closet, Henry of Navarre entered the room.
He looked round with satisfaction. He appeared to be in good spirits, and free
from care.
        "You have not yet retired? Perhaps you were waiting for me?" he asked.
        "No. For it was only yesterday that you told me, as you had done before,
that our alliance is political only, and that you would let me do as I would."
        "That is true. But there is no reason that we should not talk together.
Gillonne, shut the door and leave us."
        Marguerite rose, as though disconcerted by this suggestion.
        Henry smiled at her reaction. "Do you mean that you would prefer to have
your women here?" he asked. "I will call them, if you will. But I should have
preferred to talk to you alone."
        The King of Navarre advanced toward the closet as he spoke, and
Marguerite hastily barred his way. "No," she said, "there is no occasion to call
anyone. I will hear what you have to say."
        He had learned what he wished to know. His gaze was on the cabinet as
though it sought to penetrate the thick curtain, and explore its secrets. Then
he looked again at his lovely wife, from whose face all colour had gone. He said
quietly: "Then let us talk for a few minutes."
        He sat down beside her. "Marguerite," he said, "I call our marriage
good, whatever others may say. I stand well with you, as you do with me. It
follows that w e should be faithful allies, having been allied in the presence
of God. Don't you agree?"
        "Yes."
        "I know how well trained you are to observe the pitfalls which intersect
the grounds of a royal court. Now I am very young, even younger than you, and,
though I have injured no one, I have many enemies. On which side am I to count
one who has pledged me her faith in the sight of God?"
        "Could you think - "
        "I think nothing I hope, and ask. . . It is certain that our marriage is
no more than a pretext - or else a snare."
        Marguerite started at this assertion of an idea which had not been
entirely absent from her own mind. But she said nothing, and he went on: "Which
of the two is it to be? Your brothers hate me. Your mother hated mine too much
not to hate me also."
        "Oh, what are you saying?"
        "No more than the truth, as we both know. And I wish that someone were
present to hear me. I do not wish to be thought the dupe of de Mouy's death, and
my mother's poisoning."
        "Oh, Henry - "
        "Well, ma mie, what is it?" He observed her perturbation with amused
eyes.
        "They are things which, true or not, it is most dangerous to say."
        "Not when we are alone!"
        Her distress had become evident. He saw that she wished to stop him, but
he continued indifferently.
        "I was telling you that I am threatened on every side. By your three
brothers - the king, and the dukes of Anjou and d'Alençon. By your mother. By
the Duke of Guise. By the Duke of Mayenne. By the Cardinal of Lorraine. You may
say, by everyone round me. It is an instinctive perception, which you will
easily understand. And against all these threats, which must become attacks at
no distant day, I can defend myself if I have your help, for you are loved by
all who show their hatred of me."
        "I?"
        "Yes, you are beloved by King Charles, by the Duke d'Alençon, by Queen
Catherine. . . and you are beloved by the Duke of Guise."
        "Sir!"
        "But what could be more natural? They are all brothers or relatives. To
love them is well pleasing to God."
        "What do you wish me to do?"
        "I will not ask you to love me. But if you will be my ally, I can face
whatever may come. If you are my enemy, I am lost."
        "I would not be that."
        "But to love me - never that either?"
        "Perhaps - "
        "But my ally?"
        "Yes. That will be sure."
        As she spoke, she stretched out her hand to the king, who kissed it
gallantly, and continued to hold it, perhaps more from policy than any impulse
of tenderness, as he replied: "I will take your word, and accept the alliance.
They married us without our knowing each other. . . Without our loving. . .
Without asking us what we wished. We owe nothing to each other as man and wife.
. . But we ally ourselves freely, without the constraint of others, as two true
hearts who need the mutual protection such an alliance gives. Do you understand
it so?"
        "Yes," she said, trying to withdraw her hand as she spoke.
        "Then," he said, with his eyes alertly upon the cabinet, "as proof of my
perfect confidence in your word, I will tell you in every detail the plans that
are in my mind, that we may be united in victory." Without appearing to notice
the uneasiness of his wife, he went on: "What I intend - " but she rose quickly,
and caught his arm.
        "I am faint," she said. "It must be the heat. I am overpowered."
        Indeed, she was as white and trembling as though she were about to fall
to the floor.
        Henry made no reply. He went to the window, and opened it, letting in
the night air.
        Marguerite followed him. "Silence," she whispered faintly. "Silence, for
pity's sake,"
        "But did you not say we were alone?"
        "Have you not heard it said that by a tube fixed in ceiling or wall
everything can be heard in the next room?"
        "Well," he replied, keeping his voice low, "you do not love me, but you
are at least honourable."
        "What do you mean by that?"
        "I mean that, if you had been prepared to betray me, you would have let
me betray myself. I mean that you are an unfaithful wife, but may prove a
faithful ally. And, as I am placed, I need fidelity more than love. . . When we
know each other better, there will be more to be said."
        Then, disregarding her confusion and raising his voice, he said: "Well,
are you breathing more freely now?"
        "Yes. . . Oh, yes."
        "Then I will intrude no longer. I owed you my respect, and an
opportunity for better acquaintance, which I now offer without reserve. . .
Goodnight, and happy dreams!"
        Marguerite raised eyes shining with gratitude. She extended her hand.
"It is a bargain," she said.
        "Political alliance only, but frank and loyal?"
        "Frank and loyal.
        The Béarnais turned to go, and Marguerite followed him to the outer
room. As the curtain fell behind them, he raised her hand to his lips. "Thanks,"
he said, "Marguerite, thanks. You are a true daughter of France, and my
apprehensions are gone. I have no hope of your love, but I have your friendship,
and I am sure that it will not fail. I trust you, and you may trust me."
        He went hastily, and in some confusion of mind. "Who is with her," he
asked himself, "in the devil's name? The king? Anjou? d'Alençon? de Guise?
Brothers, lover or both?" He was half sorry that he had committed himself to
Madame de Sauve. "But my word is pledged," he thought, "and Dariole must be
waiting now. . . All the same, I have an adorable wife."
        Meanwhile Marguerite faced the Duke de Guise, whose eyes showed the
bitterness of his thoughts. "You are neutral today. You will be hostile within a
week."
        "You have been listening."
        "What else could I do?"
        "And did I behave otherwise than as Queen of Navarre?"
        "Otherwise than as a mistress of the Duke of Guise."
        "Can you not see that, though I have no love for my husband, it would be
impossible for me to betray him? You have married the Princess de Porcian. How
much love have you for her? Would you betray her secrets to others?"
        "What I see is that you are already changed. You do not love me as you
did when you wrote to warn me of the king's plot."
        "The king was strong and you were weak. Now my husband is weak and his
foes are strong. You see I play a consistent part."
        "Only you pass from one camp to another."
        "It was a right I earned when I wrote to you, saving your life."
        "But when lovers part, they return all the gifts that have passed
between them. I must save your life in turn, and we shall be quits."
        Bowing coldly, he left the room, and she made no effort to restrain him.

        She returned to the open window, beneath which he was now rejoining his
waiting page.
        "What a night!" she thought. "My lover goes, and my husband does not
wish to be here. How can such a marriage endure?" She called Gillonne, and
prepared for her lonely bed.

qu6925

CHAPTER III
THE KING IS A POET
THE days passed in festivities. Catherine de Medici seemed to be too busy with
the supervision of these gaieties to have time to sleep. The pale face of the
young king showed less than its usual melancholy, as though a strange excitement
was in his blood.
        The Huguenots, gaining assurance, began to adopt more of the silken
luxuries of the court.
        The king, following his declared policy of reconciling those who had
been the deadliest enemies, invited Henry of Navarre and Henry of Guise to sup
with him, and when the meal was over he took them into his own room to explain
the mechanism of a wolf-trap of his own invention, for his delight was in
hunting of every kind, and in the excitement of the chase he appeared to
overcome the fits of melancholy and the evidences of ill health which were
apparent at other times.
        Interrupting himself in this occupation, he said suddenly: "I have not
seen Admiral Coligny today, Has he been about?"
        "I can reassure your majesty," Navarre replied, "if you are anxious
about his health. I was with him at six this morning, and again this evening."
        "For a newly-married man," the king said, with a keenly questioning
glance, "you were early out."
        "I had occasion to see him," Henry replied, without appearing to notice
the implication, "because I am expecting some of my gentlemen to arrive in
Paris, and I thought I should hear of them from him."
        "More gentlemen! You had eight hundred here on the day of your wedding,
and more arrive every day. You do not propose the invasion of Paris?"
        The king smiled as he spoke, though with unsmiling eyes, for he had seen
the frown on the face of the Duke of Guise.
        "Sire," the Béarnais replied quietly, "there is a tale of a Flanders
war. I have summoned such of my gentlemen as could be useful to you at such a
time."
        "Then the more the better," the king replied, with the same cold smile.
"I trust they are valiant men?"
        "I would not say they are equal to those of your majesty, or of the Duke
of Guise, but they are men who will do their best."
        "There are many?"
        "Perhaps ten or twelve."
        "Perhaps I should know them, if they were named."
        "I could not recall all. One is De La Mole, whom Teligny has recommended
with particular praise."
        "You mean Serac de la Mole? Is he not a Provençal?"
        "Yes. There are Huguenots even in Provence."
        "And I," the Duke of Guise added, in a tone the sarcasm of which was not
hard to hear, "can recruit Catholics in Piedmont."
        "I care not which they are, if they are brave men," the king said, with
an indifference in his voice at which even the duke was surprised.
        "Your majesty's thoughts are on the coming war." It was Coligny who
spoke. He had entered unannounced, as he was permitted to do, by the special
favour of Charles.
        The young king opened his arms to him, with a gesture of affection such
as he seldom showed to any but those of his own family. "We speak of battles and
brave men, and he comes," he said. "It is as the magnet attracts the iron. My
father, Navarre and my cousin Guise were talking of reinforcements to make us
more ready for war."
        "And I am come to tell you that they are here."
        "You have news?" asked the Béarnais.
        "Yes. In particular, M. de la Mole, of whom you enquired, was at Orleans
yesterday, and may he here by tomorrow."
        "You must be a wizard, M. l'Admiral," the Duke of Guise said smoothly,
but with venom behind the words, "to know what happens so far away. I would give
much to know what has happened at Orleans, even though it were staler news."
        They all knew what he meant by that. It was at Orleans that his father
had died. But the admiral gave no sign that he understood. "My courier," he
replied, "by changing post horses, can cover thirty leagues in a day. M. de la
Mole travels no more than ten. There is no magic in that."
        The king, watching them, interposed.
        "My father misses nothing," he said, "being wise in war, and it is with
him that I must confer. Good councillors make good kings. . . .Gentlemen, we
would be alone."
        At this word, the two young men rose and withdrew together, followed by
the admiral's uneasy eyes. Charles laid an affectionate hand on his arm. "Fear
nothing, my father. I have said that there shall be peace, and they must obey.
You must know that I am really king, and the queen-mother will rule no more."
        "The Queen Catherine - "
        "Is too quarrelsome. To her, peace is impossible. As you know, the
Italian Catholics are bent on the extermination of their opponents. But I look
at it differently. I wish to unite all my subjects." He lowered his voice, as
though to impress Coligny with the confidential nature of what he said, though
they were in his most private room. "I will tell you this. I wish to protect
those of the Reformed Faith. The others are too licentious. I can tolerate
neither their quarrels nor their amours. I distrust all but my new friends. One
is ambitious beyond restraint; another would betray his best friend for a cask
of wine; another lives for his dogs. De Retz is Spanish. The Guises are of
Lorraine.
        "Who is there who thinks first of France except ourselves, and my new
brother Navarre? And I am king. I am held here. I cannot lead my troops in the
field. Navarre is too young. And, like his father, he is too easily drawn by a
woman's eyes. There is only you. I would have your advice beside me, and at the
same time have you in command in the field. If you counsel me, who will command?
If you command, who will advise?"
        "Sire, we must conquer first, and the time for counsel will follow."
        "You are right, as always. On Monday you shall set out for Flanders, and
I will go to Amboise."
        "Your majesty leaves Paris?"
        "Yes. I was not born for bustle and fetes. I am not one for action. I
prefer dreams. I am poet rather than king. . . There are papers that you should
have. A plan of campaign has been drawn up. And there is the correspondence with
Philip of Spain. You should see that. They shall be ready for you in the
morning."
        "Sire, at what hour?"
        "At ten o'clock. I may not be here. I may be making verses. Who knows?
But the papers will be ready for you. They will be in this portfolio, which you
cannot mistake, and which you can take away."
        He indicated a portfolio of red morocco. He parted with the admiral with
affectionate demonstrations. Coligny, a man more than twice his age, for all his
shrewdness, did not doubt his sincerity.
        Left alone, Charles stood still until the sound of the retreating
footsteps had ceased, and then turned aside to enter his armoury - the room he
loved most of all, where his favourite weapons were round him. That very morning
a splendid arquebus had been delivered with a verse of his own composition
inscribed upon it:
    "Pour maintenir la foy
    Je suis belle et fidele,
    Aux enemis du Roi Je suis belle et crulle."
        Now he closed the door by which he had entered, crossed the room, and
drew a tapestry aside which disclosed a passage into a further apartment.
        Noiselessly on a thick carpet he went on to a further chamber The woman
who knelt at prayer did not hear him. She was of about thirty-five, and of a
masculine beauty well set off by her costume, which was that of the peasants of
Caux. On the velvet of the carved oak prie-dieu, a bible lay before her, for she
was of the Reformed Religion.
        "Madelini," said the king.
        She turned her head, and rose with a smile.
        "Yes, my son."
        "Is he here, nurse?"
        "He has been waiting for half an hour."
        "Send him in to me."
        When she had gone, the king returned to the armoury. He went behind a
table on which were scattered arms of various kinds. A large greyhound, which
seldom left him, stood at his side.
        The tapestry was lifted next moment, and a man of about forty entered.
His eyes were treacherous, his cheekbones prominent, his nose was a
screech-owl's beak. He strove to face the king with look of proper respect, but
his face was livid with fear.
        Charles looked at him in silence, laying his hand as he did so on the
butt of a pistol of a new make, which, in place of the usual match, could be
discharged by a flint and a revolving wheel. He began to whistle, with the most
perfect accuracy, a favourite hunting air. Till it was concluded, he kept his
eyes steadily on the man, who grew more evidently troubled before his gaze.
        "You are Maurevel?"
        "Yes, sire."
        "Captain of the musqueteers?"
        "Yes, sire."
        "You know" - with slow emphasis - "that I love all my subjects alike?"
        The man stammered: "Your majesty is the father of your people."
        "Of both Huguenots and Catholics?"
        The man made no reply, but his agitation increased.
        "Hating the Huguenots as you do, you are annoyed when I say that?"
        Maurevel fell on his knees.
        "Sire, believe - "
        "I believe" - and as he spoke his cold glance changed to one of
threatening malignity - "that at Moncontour you would have killed the admiral
who has just left me, had you not missed your aim. I believe that you then
entered the army of my brother, the Duke of Anjou, enlisting in the company of
M. de Mouy de St. Phale, a brave gentleman from Picardy."
        "Oh, sire - "
        "He was a brave soldier," continued Charles, whose expression was now
one of ferocious and gratified cruelty, "who treated you as a son. He fed you -
lodged you - clothed you."
        The wretched man uttered a groan of despair.
        "You called him father, and there was a tender friendship between you
and the young de Mouy, his son."
        Maurevel grovelled lower. The king stood as still as a statue. Only his
lips moved.
        "One day the Sieur de Mouy let his whip fall, and dismounted to pick it
up. You shot him in the back, and escaped on the horse he had given you. Is not
that your own story of what occurred?. . . And, by the way, had you slain the
admiral, was not the Duke of Guise to have paid you ten thousand crowns?"
        The man remained dumb beneath these accusations, for they were precisely
true. The king began to whistle again.
        When he had concluded the tune, he said: "Murderer, do you know that I
have a great fancy that you shall hang?"
        "Sire - "
        "The young de Mouy asked me yesterday for your life. It was no more than
a just request."
        "Sire, my life is yours, but - "
        "So it is, and I would not say it is worth a sou."
        "But sire - is there no way to atone?"
        "I know of none. Yet - were I in your place - as, thank God, I am not -
"
        "Sire, were you in my place?"
        "I think I could find a way."
        Maurevel raised himself on one hand and knee, fixing his eyes on the
king's face.
        "I am fond of de Mouy," Charles went on, "but I am also fond of my
cousin of Guise. It would be awkward if he should ask me to spare one whom the
other would have me hang. But de Mouy, although a brave gentleman, cannot be
compared with a prince of Lorraine. I think I should let the man go."
        Maurevel rose slowly, as one whose life was saved after a great fear.
        "Listen," the king said, "since it is so important to you to gain his
favour. Listen to what he said to me last night. 'Every morning,' he said, 'my
worst enemy passes down the Rue St. Germain. I see him through the barred window
of a room which belonged to my old preceptor, the Canon Pierre Pile, and I pray
the devil to open the earth and swallow him.' Now, Maurevel, if you were the
devil, would not the duke be glad?"
        "But sire, I cannot open the earth."
        "You could for de Mouy. . . Have you that pistol still?"
        "Sire, I am a better shot with an arquebus." The man was quite at ease
now.
        "M. de Guise will not care how it be done."
        "But sire, I must have one on which I can rely, for it will be a long
shot."
        "I have ten in this room, with any of which I can hit a crown-piece at
fifty paces. Will you try one. . . No, not that. Any other you will. That is for
a hunt of my own, which I hope may be at no distant day."
        Maurevel chose his weapon. "Who," he asked, "is this enemy of M. de
Guise?"
        The king shrugged his shoulders. "How should I know? There are questions
which are not asked. It is for those who would avoid hanging to guess."
        "But - "
        "I have told you he passed the Canon's house at ten o'clock."
        "Sire, so many pass."
        "Tomorrow he may carry a red leather portfolio under his arm. . . You
still have the horse on which you fled after killing M. de Mouy?"
        "Sire, my horse is the swiftest in France."
        "That is nothing to me. But I let you know there is a back door."
        "Thanks, sire. Pray heaven for me."
        "It is to the devil that you should pray, if you would be saved from the
rope. . .
        "And remember, Maurevel, if I do not hear of you in the right way, there
is still an oubliette at the Louvre."
        And having said that, Charles began again, with extreme precision, to
whistle his favourite air.
CHAPTER IV
THE EVE OF ST. BARTHOLOMEW
M DE la Mole rode into Paris by St. Marcel's gate on the evening of the 24th of
August, 1572. Disregarding the signs of many less central hostelries, he rode
into the heart of the city, crossed the bridge of Notre Dame, turned along the
quays, and came to the end of the Rue de L'Arbre-Sec.
        It seemed that he was pleased by the name, for he turned up it and
paused beneath the sign of La belle Etoile.
        It was a pleasing sign, representing a fowl roasting against a black
sky, while a man in a red cloak held out hands and purse towards it.
        As he looked up in admiration of its ingenuity and anticipation of that
which it promised, another gentleman, who had approached from the opposite end
of the street, also drew his rein to observe it.
        De la Mole, whose name, at least, we already know, rode a white horse,
and his doublet was black, and ornamented with jet. His cloak was violet velvet:
his boots black leather. The hilts of sword and dagger were of steel, very
finely worked.
        His age was not more than twenty-five. He was blue-eyed, of dark
complexion, with a small moustache shading a beautifully cut mouth. When he
smiled, his whole face would light up with an expression which was both sweet
and sad.
        The other traveller was of a widely different type. Reddish-brown hair
was profuse under his slouched hat. He had large grey eyes which would light up
so fiercely on provocation as to appear black. His complexion was fair: his
moustache tawny over large white teeth. His white skin and fine form gave him an
appearance at which most ladies would look for a second time.
        "Mordi! Monsieur," he said, with the accent of Piedmont, "we are close
to the Louvre, are we not? Anyway, I think your choice is the same as mine,
which is an honour to me."
        "Monsieur, we are close to the Louvre, but I am undecided as to this
inn."
        "It has a good sign."
        "Which I mistrust. For Paris is full of rogues."
        "Mordi! What do I care? The host shall give me a chicken as good as
that, or he shall roast on his own spit."
        "You have decided me," said the Provencal. "If you will lead the way - "

        "Impossible, Monsieur. I am no more than your humble servant, the Count
Annibal de Coconnas."
        "And I am no more than the Count Joseph Boniface de Lerac de la Mole,
equally at your service."
        "Then let us take arms, and go in together."
        The two young men dismounted and threw their bridles to the waiting
ostler. The host stood at the door of the inn but did not observe them, being
engaged in talk with a tall man who was wrapped in a sad coloured cloak, like an
owl buried in its feathers.
        Coconnas impatiently touched his sleeve, at which he closed the
conversation abruptly with: "Well, let me know the hour. . . Pardon, gentlemen,
I did not see you."
        "Mordi! Then you should have done so. And you may say count, not
gentlemen, when you speak to either of us."
        "Well, what is your wish, monsieur le comte?"
        "We wish to sup and sleep here tonight."
        "I am sorry, but I have only one room."
        "Then," said de la Mole, who had left the conversation to Coconnas to
this point, "all is well; for I will find lodging elsewhere."
        "Then I will stop here," said Coconnas, "for my horse is tired."
        "Ah! that is different," said the host coolly, "for then I cannot lodge
you at all."
        "Mordi! Here's a fine fellow. What did you say a moment ago?"
        "Since you take that tone, I will give you a plain answer. I would
prefer not to lodge you at all."
        Coconnas was now pale with anger. "Then," he said, "you will tell me
why."
        "Because you have no servants. I should have one master's room full, and
two others empty, which I might then be unable to let."
        "M. de la Mole, do you not think we should lay a whip on his back?"
        The host retreated a step or two at this suggestion, but did not appear
greatly perturbed.
        "I can see," he said, "that you are from the country. Killing innkeepers
is out of fashion in Paris now. It is the great who are treated thus. My
neighbours would see who would be thrashed, if you should make a disturbance
here."
        "Mordi!" Coconnas cried angrily, "Shall he mock us thus?"
        "Gregoire, fetch my arquebus," the host said as quietly as though he had
said: "Fetch these gentlemen a chair."
        Coconnas had his sword out. "Will you not rouse yourself, M. de la
Mole?"
        "No. For while we get heated our supper cools."
        "What, you think - "
        "I think M. de la belle Etoile is right, only that he does not know how
a gentleman should be addressed. He should have said: 'Gentlemen, come in. But I
must charge you each so much for a servant's room'."
        "Saying this, de la Mole pushed his way past the host, and, followed by
Coconnas, entered the inn.
        "Patience, my friend," he said. "Have you thought that all Paris must be
full of gentlemen who have come to the marriage of the King of Navarre? Suppose
that we might have trouble in finding another room?"
        "Well, you are one who can keep cool! But let him beware. If the meat be
not good, or the bed hard - "
        But the landlord, who was now sharpening his knife, answered easily:
"You need not fear for that. You have come to a land of plenty for those who
pay." And then, in a lower tone, he muttered to himself: "These will be two
Huguenots. How insolent they have grown since the Béarnais has been married to
our Princess. And how strange it will be if I have two of them in my own house
tonight!"
        The last words were said with a sinister smile which it may have been
fortunate for the peace of mind of those whom it concerned that they did not
see.
        "While our room is being prepared, M. de la Mole, may I ask do you find
that Paris has the appearance of a gay city?"
        "Ma foi! no. All the Parisians I have seen have a black look, as though
fearing a storm, and it is true that there is a dark sky, and a heavy air."
        "You will be looking for the Louvre?"
        "Yes. And you?"
        "Yes. So let us do so together."
        "It is getting late."
        "That makes no difference to me. My orders do not allow delay. They
said: You will come to Paris at once, and communicate immediately with the Duke
de Guise."
        "But I think that rascal is listening," he added, without lowering his
voice, and with an angry look at the landlord, who hovered near.
        "Gentlemen, so I was. But it was to do you any service I may. I heard
the name of the great duke."
        "It is magical indeed, if it can make you polite. What is your name?"
        "La Hurière."
        "Well, La Hurière, do you think my arm to be lighter than that of the
Duke of Guise?"
        "It may not be lighter, but it is not so long. . . Besides, the great
Henry is the idol of all Parisians."
        "Which Henry?" asked La Mole.
        "There is only one."
        "On the contrary there are at least three. There is Henry of
Navarre, of whom I must insist that you speak no ill. And Henry of Condé is a
good name."
        "I do not know them."
        "But I do, and as I am accredited to the King of Navarre, I must require
that he be spoken of with respect."
        The landlord continued to direct his talk to Coconnas: "You will see the
great Duke of Guise. It is for - for the fête, he has called you here?"
        "For all the fêtes, I suppose. I hear that Paris has a gay time."
        "There will be a gayer to come."
        La Mole interposed again: "If you do not know the King of Navarre, I may
still suppose that Admiral Coligny is one of whom you have heard? As I have
letters for him, I should be glad to know where he lives."
        "He did live in the Rue de Bethisy," the man replied, with a
satisfaction he made no effort to hide.
        "He did live? You mean he has left?"
        "Yes - this world, at a good guess."
        "What!" the two gentlemen exclaimed together. "Is the admiral dead?"
        "You say you are a friend of M. de Guise, M. de Coconnas, and you did
not know?"
        "Know what?"
        "That the admiral was shot at the day before yesterday."
        "You mean he was killed?" La Mole asked.
        "No. His arm was broken, and he lost two fingers, but it is hoped that
the balls were poisoned."
        "Hoped, you scoundrel?"
        The host winked at Coconnas. "Believed, I should have said. It was a
slip of the tongue."
        "I must go at once to the Louvre," said La Mole.
        "And I," Coconnas echoed.
        "But your supper, gentlemen?"
        "I shall probably sup with the King of Navarre."
        "And I with the Duke of Guise."
        "And I," said the host to himself, as they went out, "shall sharpen my
partisan."

qu6925

CHAPTER V
AT THE LOUVRE
AS the two young men approached the Royal Palace, they saw that it was strongly
guarded, and realised that access might not be easy.
        But Coconnas, who was of a more confident nature than his companion, and
had more reason for expecting a good reception, was undaunted by the gloom of
the great building, whose narrow windows and pointed belfries were now being
lost in the obscurity of a clouded night. He remembered that he had found the
name of the Duke of Guise to act as talisman on all who heard it, and he
approached the drawbridge boldly, to try it upon the sentinel there.
        It appeared to have its usual effect upon the soldier, who no less
required the counter-sign, which Coconnas could not give.
        "Then," he said, "you must stand back."
        But a gentleman who was standing by, in conversation with the officer of
the guard, turned to observe him.
        "What," he asked, "do you want with the Duke of Guise?"
        "I want to see him."
        "That is impossible. He is with the king."
        "But I have a letter for him."
        "Who are you?"
        "The Count Annibal de Coconnas."
        "Will you give me the letter?"
        "I do not know who you are."
        "I am M. de Besme."
        He appealed to the sentinel for confirmation.
        "I will gladly give it to M. de Besme."
        "I also have a letter," said La Mole. "Will you kindly do the same
service for me as for my friend?"
        "And who are you?"
        "The Count Lerac de la Mole."
        "From where do you come?"
        "From Provence."
        "Your letter is also for the Duke of Guise?"
        "No. It is for the King of Navarre."
        "I am not in his service," de Besme answered coldly. Asking Coconnas to
follow him, he led the way into the Louvre, leaving La Mole standing without.
        It was at this moment that about a hundred cavaliers came crowding out
of the Louvre.
        "Here," he heard it said, "are De Mouy and his Huguenots. See in what
high spirits they are! The king must have promised them the execution of the
admiral's assailant. It was the same man who killed De Mouy's father. They will
have two birds with one stone."
        La Mole interposed. "That is really de Mouy?"
        "Surely."
        La Mole approached him. "May I speak with you for a moment?"
        "You are - ?"
        "The Count Lerac de la Mole."
        The two young men bowed to one another.
        "In what way can I serve you?"
        "I am seeking entrance to the Louvre. I wish to see the King of
Navarre."
        "You can enter the Louvre. I cannot say that you will be able to see the
king at this hour. But I will guide you to his rooms, and you can make your
enquiries there."
        Leaving his companions, De Mouy led La Mole over the draw-bridge, past
the sentinel, and through the corridors of the Louvre, until they reached the
door of the apartment of the King of Navarre. Here he saluted, and left him.
        La Mole looked round a deserted ante room. As he hesitated, a door
opened, and two pages appeared, lighting the way for a lady young, beautiful,
and of regal aspect.
        She stopped at the sight of La Mole, and for a long moment the two
looked at each other in silence.
        "What is it you wish?" she said, and the sweetness of her voice added to
the charm by which he was already conquered.
        "Oh, madame, pardon me," he answered, scarcely aware of his own words.
"I seek the King of Navarre."
        "Is it something you cannot say to the queen?"
        "But surely. If I could gain audience."
        "You have it now."
        La Mole was confused. "Oh, madame - "
        "You should speak quickly. The queen-mother is waiting for me."
        "Then it must be left for another time. I can think of nothing now but
the admiration which fills my mind."
        Marguerite was pleased by a compliment so perfect and so sincere. She
smiled on a young man whose aspect she could approve.
        "Recover yourself. I will wait."
        "Pardon me that I did not salute you with the respect which is your
due."
        "You took me for one of my ladies?"
        "Rather for Diana of Poictiers, whose ghost is known to walk the
corridors of the Louvre."
        "You will make your fortune at court! You do not need any letter for
that. But you can give it to me. I will give it to the King of Navarre."
        As he handed it to her, she gave it a glance, and asked: "Your name is
M. de la Mole?"
        "Yes, madame. Can I hope that it is known to you?"
        "I have heard it from the King of Navarre, and from my brother the Duke
d'Alençon. I knew that you were expected. Now you can go below, and wait till
you are sent for. A page will guide you."
        Saying this, she slipped the letter into her corsage, and disappeared
like a dream.
        The page led him to a gallery on a lower floor, which was deserted
except for one gentleman who was pacing its further end. As he turned, and they
approached one another, he exclaimed: "Mordi! Here is M. de la Mole again. Have
you had your audience with the King of Navarre?"
        "No. Have you seen M. de Guise?"
        "No. I was told to wait here. We seem inseperables. We shall be invited
next to some grand supper, and seated together. Are you hungry?"
        As he spoke, M. de Besme entered, and motioned Coconnas to follow him.
Outside the room, he looked cautiously round, and then asked in a low voice: "M.
Coconnas, where are you lodging?"
        "At the Belle Etoile."
        "Return there, and tonight, when you hear the tocsin, come here, with a
white cross in your hat. The password will be Guise."
        It was not much later that a page had come to La Mole with a message
that the King of Navarre would send for him at a later hour, or else would
receive him in the morning, when the countersign of Navarre would secure his
admission.
        He therefore returned to the Belle Etoile, where his first sight was of
Coconnas seated before a large omelette.
        Coconnas greeted him with a laugh. "I see you no more supped with the
King of Navarre than I with the Duke of Guise. Are you hungry now?. . . Then sit
down. This omelette is enough for both. . . Did I not say we are inseparable? Do
you sleep here?"
        "I don't know."
        "Then I prophesy that we shall sleep together."
CHAPTER VI
CATHERINE DE MEDICI SEES THE KING
AT fifty-three, Catherine de Medici, widow of Henry II, and mother of the
present king, still preserved much of her beauty, thanks in part to the
ministrations of her perfumier, René, who was also reputed to be her private
poisoner.
        Now she sat alone, dressed in her habitual mourning, an open prayer-book
before her, and a smile on her lips at her own thoughts, which were disturbed by
the young Duke of Guise, who entered with little ceremony, and a downcast
countenance. As the tapestry fell behind him he said: "It goes ill."
        "How is that?"
        "The king is still infatuated by those accursed Huguenots. If we await
his signal, we may wait for ever."
        "What has happened?" she asked, with undisturbed tranquillity.
        "He has just told me that I am naturally suspected of instigating the
assault on the admiral - his father, he called him! - and that I must defend
myself as I can. After that, he would say no more. He must feed his dogs!. . .
So I came to you."
        "You did rightly."
        "And what are we to do now?"
        "Make another attempt."
        "Who shall do that?"
        "Is the king alone?"
        "Tavannes is with him."
        "Follow me, but not at once."
        Catherine rose, and went to the king's room. His favourite greyhounds
were there, stretched on Turkey carpet and velvet cushions, and on perches along
the wall were two or three falcons, and a small pied hawk which he used for
killing the little birds which built in the palace grounds.
        On her way, the queen-mother had composed her face to an expression of
agony and resignation, and, as she approached him from behind, she spoke in a
shaking voice, so cleverly managed that the king started. "My son - " she said.
        He turned abruptly. "What is it, madame?"
        "I would ask you leave to retire to one of my châteaux - no matter
which, so that it will be furthest from Paris."
        "And why, madame?" he replied fixing on his mother eyes that, on
occasion, could be at once glassy and penetrating.
        "Because each day I am subjected to further insults from men of the new
faith. Because today I hear that they have threatened you, even here in your own
palace. I do not wish to be present where such things are allowed to happen."
        "But, mother," he said, in a tone of sincerity, "has there not been an
attempt to kill their admiral? Has not the good de Mouy died at the hands of a
despicable assassin? Mort de ma vie! Shall there not be justice for all?"
        "Oh, be easy for that, my son! Even should you refuse it, they will take
it in their own way. Today on M. de Guise, tomorrow upon myself, and on you on
the next day."
        "Oh, madame!" Charles answered, allowing himself the first accent of
doubt, "do you really believe that?"
        "Oh, my son!" Catherine exclaimed, speaking now with unrestrained
violence, "do you not see that it is no longer a question of Catholic and
Protestant, but whether you or Navarre shall sit on the throne of France?"
        "I think you exaggerate when you say that."
        "So what would your wisdom do?"
        "I would wait, wait and watch. There is always wisdom in that."
        "You may do as you will, but it is a time of action for me."
        Catherine made a motion of retirement, but stayed at a gesture from the
king.
        "Now, but really, mother," he said, "what is to be done? I wish to be
just, and to give satisfaction to all my subjects."
        "Count," Catherine said to Tavannes, who had been caressing the pied
hawk, while he listened silently, "tell His Majesty what you would do."
        "Sire, may I ask what you do in the hunt if you are assailed by a
wounded boar?"
        "I meet him with a firm foot and a steady hand, till my sword point is
on his throat."
        "To secure your safety?"
        "Yes. . . And for the pleasure it gives." As Charles said this added,
"the Huguenots are my subjects, they are not swine."
        "Then," Catherine said, "they will do as the boar will do if the sword
slip."
        "Pah, mother! Will you say I am in danger from them?"
        "But have you not seen M. Mouy and his supporters today?" '
        "Yes. But for what did he ask which is not just? The death of the man
who shot Coligny, and who was his father's murderer also. Shall I not grant him
that, as a just king?"
        Even Catherine's subtlety was baffled by this attitude. She knew her son
too well to accept his words as of a simple sincerity, but she was unable even
to guess what he aimed to do. Her vexation was plain, as she replied: "Very
well, sire. Your majesty is under direct protection of God, who gives you wisdom
and power. You will take no ill. But a poor woman, whom God forsakes for her
sins, may fear and flee. I will say no more."
        She withdrew, with an appearance of tears, but made a sign, which she
supposed Charles did not see, to the Duke of Guise, who entered as she went out,
to make a final effort.
        As she retired, Charles started to whistle his favourite hunting air,
and it was not till its conclusion that he appeared to notice Guise, and said
affably: "Now has not my mother got a truly royal spirit? It is a cool proposal
to kill some dozens of Huguenots because they ask for a murderer's death!"
        "Some dozens, sire?"
        "So I understand her to mean. Now if someone should come to me, and say:
"Sire, I will kill off all your enemies, so that none should remain to reproach
you with what is done - why then, I do not say - "
        "Why then, sire?"
        The king turned carelessly away. "Tavanne," he said, "put Margot back on
her perch. That she has my sister's name is no reason that all the world should
caress her."
        Guise persisted: "But, sire, if anyone should say that you should be
delivered from all your enemies?"
        "A miracle! What friendly saint would aid me to that?"
        "Today is the 24th. It would be by St. Bartholomew's aid."
        "The worthy saint who was skinned alive?"
        "All the better. The more he suffered, the more brightly the desire for
vengeance should burn in his heart."
        "So it is you, cousin, with that pretty gold-hilted sword, by whom ten
thousand Huguenots will be slain?"
        "Sire, I have eleven hundred gentlemen, and the Swiss guard. There are
the light horse. There are your majesty's own guards. The citizens are on our
side. We should be twenty to one."
        "Then, cousin, since you are so strong, why do you come pestering me?
You can act yourself, if you will act - " and the king's laughter, as it rang
out in the room, had a sinister, scarcely human sound. He turned away to caress
his dogs.
        As he did so, the tapestry moved aside. Catherine appeared. She spoke to
Guise in an urgent whisper: "Go on. Press him, and he will yield."
        She withdrew without Charles having appeared to observe her.
        "But if I act," Guise said, "I must know that your majesty will
approve."
        "Really, cousin, it is as though you put the knife to my throat! But I
refuse to be coerced in this way. Am I not the king?"
        "No, sire. Not on a safe throne. But by tomorrow you may be, if you
will."
        "What can you mean by that? Would you kill Navarre and Condé in my own
palace?. . ." His voice fell to an almost inaudible mutter as he went on; "Even
had it been outside the walls. There would be some difference in that!"
        "Sire, they are both going out tonight."
        Charles turned to Tavannes: "You are annoying Actaeon," he said. "Here,
boy, here." And with the greyhound bounding beside him he left the room.
        The two men who remained looked at one another in doubt. Had they the
king's consent? It was hard to say.
        Meanwhile Catherine had returned to her own apartment, where she had
dismissed her women. Only Marguerite remained, seated, deep in thought, upon a
coffer near the open window.
        Catherine, watching her closely, seemed more than once on the point of
speech, but remained silent until the tapestry was lifted aside, and Henry of
Navarre entered the room.
        "You here, my son?" exclaimed Catherine, starting slightly. "Do you sup
in the Louvre tonight?"
        "No, madame. I am going into the city tonight, with Messieurs d'Alençon
and de Condé. I thought I should have found them here."
        "Ah, you men have freedom to go where you will! Are they not privileged,
Margot, to have such liberty?"
        Margot turned her head, as though roused from her sombre thoughts.
"Liberty," she said, "is a glorious thing."
        Henry smiled on his wife: "Madame, do I restrict yours?"
        "No. I have no complaint for myself. It is for all women I speak."
        "Who is that?" Catherine asked sharply, for the tapestry stirred again,
and, next moment, Madame de Sauve showed her lovely head.
        "Madame, René, whom you sent for, is here."
        Catherine's eyes were on Henry, whose face had flushed and then paled at
the name of the man who, he did not doubt, had supplied the poison from which
his mother had died, but he said nothing, and turned away to look out of the
window, conscious that his face betrayed more than he would often allow it to
do.
        A little greyhound, which he had been caressing, growled, as though
conscious of a changed atmosphere in the room.
        René entered the room, and almost at the same moment another, who had no
need to be announced - Marguerite's eldest sister, the Duchess of Lorraine. She
was pale and trembling as she entered, and appeared to wish to avoid her
mother's attention as she seated herself at her sister's side.
        At this instant, Catherine, who had been examining a box René had
brought, raised her eyes, "Well, Henry," she said, "you can go to amuse yourself
in the city and" (to Marguerite) "you had better go to your own room."
        Claude, who had Marguerite's hand in hers, whispered hurriedly: "Don't
go. Don't go out. Stay here. You saved Henry of Guise, and he wishes to save you
now."
        "Claude, what are you saying?" Catherine asked sharply.
        "Nothing, mother."
        "What were you whispering?"
        "Only a message from the Duchess of Nevers."
        "And where is she?"
        "With M. de Guise."
        "Come here, Claude."
        Claude rose and crossed the room to her mother's side.
        Catherine's fingers closed on her wrist till she could have screamed
with pain. "Foolish girl, what did you say?" Without answering, she burst into
tears.
        Meanwhile Henry had approached his wife, as though to take formal leave.
"Madame, may I kiss your hand?" And then, as he stooped toward it, he whispered:
"What did she say?"
        "Not to go out. . . Nor must you, therefore, in Heaven's name."
        She raised her voice to say: "I have a letter for you here from M. de la
Mole,"
        "Thanks," he said, taking it. With no sign of his thoughts, but having
himself now under full control, he turned away from his wife, and placed his
hand on the shoulder of the Florentine.
        "Well, Master René," he said, "how is business with you?"
        "Fairly good, monseigneur, fairly good," the poisoner replied.
        "I should think it must be. Do you not supply half the crowned heads in
Europe?"
        "Except the King of Navarre," the man answered impudently.
        "Ventre-saint-gris, Master René, you are right. And yet my mother
recommended you to me. You must come to me tomorrow, and bring the best perfumes
you have."
        It was at this point that the sobs of the Duchess of Lorraine could be
heard through the room, but Henry did not appear to notice.
        Marguerite went to her side. "Dearest, what is it?"
        "It is nothing," their mother replied, interposing between them. "We
know she has these nervous attacks. . . Margot, did I not direct you to retire
some minutes ago?"
        Marguerite controlled her voice with difficulty, as she replied with
differential formality: "Excuse me, madame. I wish your majesty a good night."
        "That is what I hope it may be. . . Goodnight. . . Goodnight."
        Henry and Marguerite were both leaving the room, but not together. She
looked in vain for a glance or word from the husband she had warned, but he took
no more notice of her.
        "Good evening, madame," he replied politely to Catherine, and then:
"Well, Phoebe, what is it now?"
        "Phoebe," Catherine called angrily to the little greyhound, "come here
to me."
        "Yes. Call her. She will not let me go out."
        The queen-mother rose, and took the little dog by the collar, and Henry
went out smiling, and with the certainty that he was in deadly peril. He heard
the little dog break into a long mournful howl.
CHAPTER VII
MASSACRE
COCONNAS pushed his chair back from the table, and stretched his legs;
        "I can eat no more, and I cannot go to bed, for I may be required at the
Louvre. Do you play cards?"
        "So I do. But I have little to lose. A hundred golden crowns in my
valise is the whole fortune I have."
        "A hundred crowns! And you complain! Mordi! I have only six."
        "Yet I saw you draw from your pocket a bursting purse."
        "Ah! But that is to settle an old debt which must be repaid to a friend
of my father, who, I believe, is somewhat like yourself of the Huguenot brand.
There are a hundred rose-nobles here," he added, slapping his pocket, "but they
are Master Mercandon's rather than mine."
        "Then how can you afford to play?"
        "Why, is not that the reason I must? Besides, I have an idea. Have we
not both come to Paris on similar business, each having a strong patron, in whom
we trust? Let us play first for money, and then for the first favour that either
of us shall gain, be it from court or mistress."
        La Mole smiled, but showed no disposition to accept a gamble of such a
kind. "Why," he said, "it is an ingenious thought, but the first favour that
would be offered to either might be a lifetime's affair. It is too much to risk
on the way that a die may fall. Let us play till your six crowns be lost or
doubled, and if we go beyond that, you are a gentleman, and your word is good."
        "So it is," Coconnas replied, "especially that of one who has credit at
court. By which argument you would not have risked too much had you accepted the
offer I made."
        "Which there was another reason against. For being on the part of
Navarre, I could not have taken a favour from Guise."
        La Huriére at this time was polishing an old casque. He had seated
himself behind La Mole, near enough to hear the conversation, and in such a
position that he could make signs to Coconnas which La Mole could not see.
        Now he crossed himself, muttering: "Ah, the Huguenot! Did I not smell
him out?"
        Coconnas shuffled the cards. "You are of the new religion?"
        "Why, so I am," La Mole answered, smiling. "Have you anything against
us?"
        "I hate the New Faith; but I do not therefore hate all who profess it. -
And you are in fashion now."
        "As the attempt to kill the admiral shows. But let us play."
        "So we will. If I lose a hundred crowns, I may pay you tomorrow. It is
not for nothing that I am to be received by the Duke of Guise during the night."

        "It is odd that we should both have appointments in the Louvre for this
night. You with Guise and I with Navarre."
        "Have you the counter-sign?"
        "Yes."
        "And a rallying sign?"
        "No. What is that?"
        Coconnas did not reply, for the host had made him a most urgent gesture
for silence. He stopped abruptly, and La Mole looked up in surprise. But not
having seen what occurred, he let it pass. "Had you not better," he said, "give
more regard to the game? You have lost three crowns, which may soon be six."
        "Mordi! That is true. It is almost making me of a mind to turn Huguenot.
I have always heard that they are lucky at cards."
        "Do, and you would be well received. It is a path which is simple and
pure and - "
        "And, you will say, it is in fashion. And it enables you to hold all the
aces. For I have watched that you do not cheat. Unless it is the religion, what
can it be?"
        "Now you owe me six crowns more," La Mole said quietly.
        "How you tempt me!"
        "But you would displease many, including our host. . . What is he doing
now?"
        The man had left his seat to talk to one who had appeared at the door.
        "The devil!" exclaimed Coconnas, who was in the better position to see.
"It is that nightbird with whom he was talking when we arrived. And how earnest
they are!"
        La Hurière came hurriedly back to his seat. He leaned forward to
whisper: "Silence, on your life. And get rid of your friend."
        Coconnas rose. "You must excuse me. I lose too much. I will play no more
for tonight."
        "As you please. And I shall not be sorry to rest. Host, if a messenger
should come from the king of Navarre, will you wake me? I shall be ready dressed
to go out at once."
        "And so shall I," Coconnas replied, "and, to save him, I will get the
sign ready now. Master Hurière, some white paper and scissors!"
        La Mole went up the staircase, and the host followed him.
        The stranger took Coconnas by the arm. "Sir," he said, "you were near to
death a moment ago. Rather than you should have divulged that secret, I would
have shot you without regret."
        "And who are you?"
        "Have you heard of Maurevel?"
        "The man who shot at the admiral?"
        "And who killed de Mouy."
        "Yes."
        "I am he."
        "Oh, you are?"
        The conversation was interrupted by the return of the host. They heard
him bolt a door in the corridor. He sat down with them. "Maurevel," he said,
"all is close. We can talk now."
        Maurevel turned to Coconnas. "You are a good Catholic?"
        "I believe so."
        "You are devoted to King and Faith?"
        "Yes."
        "Will you join us?"
        "For what?"
        "You must not ask, but obey."
        "I have an appointment already. At midnight, at the Louvre."
        "So have we."
        "Mine is with M. de Guise."
        "So are ours."
        "But I have a private password."
        "So have we."
        "And a sign of recognition?"
        Maurevel drew out a handful of white crosses. He handed two to his
companions, and fixed one on his hat. Le Hurière fastened one on his helmet.
        "Then," said Coconnas, "the appointment, the countersign, and the
rallying mark were not for me only, but for everyone."
        "For all faithful Catholics."
        "There is a fête at the Louvre, from which Huguenots are excluded?"
        "Yes. There is a banquet of royal kind. But the Huguenots will not be
shut out! We are inviting them all. And the admiral will be the one on whom we
will call, and you will join us in that."
        "And that," Hurière added, "is why I was mending my helmet, and putting
a good edge to my sword."
        Coconnas turned pale, for he began to understand the dreadful meaning of
what they said.
        "Then this festival - this banquet - " he faltered, and Maurevel
answered impatiently: "You are slow to guess, and it is very easy to see that
you are not as tired of these Huguenots as a good Catholic may be expected to
be. . . Come and look here."
        He drew Coconnas to the window, and pointed to a troop, dimly visible in
the darkness behind the church: "You see them?"
        "Yes."
        "And, like ourselves, every man will have a cross in his hat."
        "They are Toquenot's Swiss - you know they will do anything that the
king commands. . . You see the troop of horse who are now passing along the
quay? Do you recognise their leader?"
        "How can I, having been here for no more than a few hours?"
        "Well, it is the Duke of Guise, and at his side is Jean Choron, the
provost. They are calling out the companies. Do you see that man who goes
knocking from door to door? And that the doors at which he knocks are those on
which is a white cross?"
        "Yes. I see armed men coming out of each door."
        "And now he will knock on ours, and we shall go out."
        "But is all the world afoot for the murder of one man - and he not very
young?"
        "Young man, if you would not kill those who are old, you may choose from
what age you will. There are Huguenots enough, and those who will fight well.
You will find use for a good sword."
        "But would you kill all?"
        "That is what we mean to do."
        "Have you the king's order for that?"
        "Yes. And the Duke of Guise."
        "Then it was for that M. de Besme - "
        "You know him? He is there in the street below."
        Maurevel opened the window. He shouted: "Guise and Lorraine." Besme
looked up.
        "This is the Belle Etoile? Is a Monsieur Coconnas there?" He called to
Maurevel, whom he evidently recognised.
        Coconnas looked out. "I am here, M. de Besme."
        "Are you ready?"
        "For what?"
        "To do what Maurevel will tell you. The hunt is up."
        He went on, and Maurevel closed the window. He turned to Coconnas: "It
is Huguenots whom we hunt tonight. But should you have any private enemy who is
not exactly a Huguenot - well, you could not choose a better time. He would pass
with the rest."
        He drew a paper from his pocket. "Here," he said, "is my list. There are
three hundred names. If all do a tenth as much as I, there will not be a heretic
alive when the dawn breaks."
        As he spoke they heard the first stroke of the bell of St. Germain
l'Auxerrois, proclaiming the hour of midnight
        "It is the signal," Maurevel cried. "Let us set to work."
        "One moment!" Hurière exclaimed. "I do not want to find my wife murdered
when I come back. There is a Huguneot in the house."
        "What!" said Coconnas, who had been standing in a bewildered silence,
"would you murder your guest?"
        "It was for him that I put an extra edge on my sword."
        "Mordi! I dislike that. He had been my friend, though but for a few
hours. We have eaten and gamed together."
        "And he won fifty crowns."
        "But I am sure they were fairly won."
        "Yet you must pay if he live. And if I kill him the score is settled."
        "You are wasting time," Maurevel exclaimed impatiently. "We shall be
late at the admiral's if you dally more."
        "I'll make haste," cried La Hurière. "Wait but a moment."
        He ran to the stairs, and Coconnas, after a moment's hesitation,
followed.
        "Mordi!" he said to himself, "he will half-kill the man, and not know
how to finish him off. And he will certainly rob him of all he has. I can at
least prevent that." So, with this happy thought, he ran up the stairs, and
caught up with La Hurière, whose pace had slackened as it approached La Mole's
door.
        As Coconnas reached his side, there was a discharge of muskets in the
street. "Diable!" muttered the host, "I will wager he is awake now."
        "It is a safe guess," Coconnas answered, "and I should say he is one who
would be quick to defend himself. Now, if he were to kill you? That would be
droll, would it not?"
        La Hurière looked far from happy at this suggestion, but, taking courage
as he remembered the arquebus in his hand, he knocked on the door.
        La Mole was dressed. He crouched behind the bed with a pistol in each
hand, and his drawn sword lying before him.
        "Ah, ah!" Coconnas exclaimed, his excitement rising, and his nostrils
expanding as will those of a wild beast at the scent of blood "this is becoming
interesting. Hurry on, M. Hurière!"
        "So you would murder me, would you?" La Mole cried, watching warily the
two men who had paused in the doorway.
        La Hurière discharged his arquebus in reply, but La Mole sank to the
floor, and the ball passed over his head.
        "You will surely help me, M. Coconnas?" cried La Mole.
        "Help! M, de Maurevel!" the landlord cried.
        "Ma foi!" Coconnas answered. "If I do not aid the attack on you, I do
all I can. The king has ordered that all Huguenots shall be killed tonight. You
must defend yourself if you can."
        "Assassins! Then take this."
        La Mole discharged a pistol. The ball was meant for La Hurière, but the
man had drawn backward as the weapon was raised, and it was Coconnas whose
shoulder was grazed.
        "Mordi!" he said, "I am hit. . . Well, have it your own way," and he
drew his sword, and rushed at La Mole, who, seeing that they were two to one,
and might soon be three, retreated quickly into a small closet at his rear, and
turned the key upon them.
        While Coconnas, now roused to fury, beat at the door, shouting abusive
words, La Hurière reloaded his gun, and fired into the lock.
        The door flew back, disclosing an empty closet, and an open window,
showing where La Mole must have gone.
        "He must be killed," the host exclaimed. "It is the fourth storey. Who
could make such a jump as that?"
        Coconnas put a leg over the sill. "It is by the roof he has gone." It
was plain that he would have followed by that difficult and dangerous way, but
La Hurière and Maurevel united to pull him back.
        "Are you mad? You will kill yourself!"
        "Bah! I am mountain-born. When a man wounds me thus I will follow him,
either to heaven or hell. Let me go."
        "But," said Maurevel, "he is dead or distant by now. Come with us, and
there are a thousand who will be less dangerous prey."
        Coconnas gave way, and the three descended the stairs together. "To the
admiral's!" cried his companions, and Coconnas, now thoroughly roused, echoed
the cry.
        The three now hurried towards the Rue de Bethisy, a bright light, and
the sound of shooting, guiding their way.
        As they did so, a man ran towards them, having neither doublet nor
scarf.
        "Here is one," cried Coconnas, drawing his sword.
        "Let me shoot," cried the host. "Give me time."
        "And he will escape." Coconnas ran after him, calling on him to turn,
for he was not of the kind to strike a man in the back. As he did so a ball
whistled past his ears, and the fugitive fell.
        The Piedmontese turned round, and saw La Hurière brandishing his weapon
wildly, "I have had my first shot!" he shouted in triumph. "I have killed one."
        "And you barely missed making a hole through me."
        "Take care! Look to yourself now."
        Coconnas looked round, and jumped quickly aside.
        The wounded man had struggled to his knee, and was about to stab him
with a dagger which he had drawn.
        "Would you, viper?" Coconnas cried. He thrust at the wounded man,
withdrew his sword, and thrust again.
        He was mad with excitement now, and the hunt of men.

qu6925

CHAPTER VIII
THE SLAYERS AND THE SLAIN
THE hotel of the Admiral Coligny was a large house, with two wings which flanked
a wide court. Now the doors had been beaten in, but the court was crowded with
armed men.
        In their centre was one whom they surrounded respectfully. He stood
leaning on his sword, looking up at a balcony fifteen feet above him, and
stamping with angry impatience.
        "Du Gast," he exclaimed, "we hear nothing. We shall be fooled. He had
been warned, and has fled."
        "Monseigneur, it is impossible. The hotel has been surrounded since he
went in."
        The three companions were now pushing into the crowd. "Look," said
Coconnas. "Is it not the Duke of Guise himself?"
        So it was. Now there was a sound of shots within the hotel, cries, and
the clashing of swords. Silence followed, and the impatient duke seemed disposed
to rush into the house, but Du Gast restrained him respectfully. "Monseigneur,
monseigneur, your dignity requires that you do not go!"
        "Yes. I know. But my anxiety! If he should escape - "
        A man came out on the balcony, his face disfigured with blood.
        "At last, Besme!" the duke cried. "What news?"
        "Here he is," the German answered coolly. As he spoke he lifted a heavy
body. "If you will stand back - "
        The duke withdrew a few paces, as Besme raised, with difficulty, the
heavy body of a man of about fifty, poised it on the balcony for a moment, and
then threw it, with a great effort, at de Guise's feet.
        The torches threw their light on a venerable face with a greying beard.
With the impact of the fall, blood gushed from the mouth of the dying man.
        A murmur of "The Admiral," mingling exultation and awe, passed through
the crowd.
        The young duke looked down upon him. "At last," he said, "my father's
murder has been avenged." He put a foot on his breast.
        The dying man heard. He opened his eyes, which met those of the one who
stood in triumph above him. "Henry of Guise," he said, in a voice strong enough
to be heard by many of those around, "I did not kill your father. But one day an
assassin's foot shall be on your own breast."
        The duke paled at the words. He passed a hand across his eyes, as though
to shut out that which he saw. When he looked again, it was at a dead man. He
made a gesture of resolution, regaining his self-control, and lifted his sword.
        Besme called from the balcony: "Are you satisfied, monseigneur?"
        "Yes. It is - the Catholic religion you have avenged." He turned to the
crowd of soldiers and citizens behind him. "To work, my friends! The night is
only begun."
        As they began to scatter, there were cries from the long gallery which
formed one wing of the hotel, where two men were seen to be fleeing from a body
of assassins. As they came into sight, an arquebus ball killed one, but the
other leapt boldly down to the ground, regardless of the height, or of the
enemies he must meet below.
        As he did so, his sword fell from his hand, but he caught it up, avoided
several soldiers, ran one through the body, and would have escaped from the
court when Coconnas barred his way.
        "Touché," cried the Piedmontese, as his sword caught the arm of the
fleeing man, who was too short of space to use his own in the same way, but,
with a cry of "Coward!" struck him flatly on the face with the blade.
        "Thousand devils! It is La Mole."
        "He warned the admiral!" shouted his pursuers. "Kill him! Kill him!"
        La Mole, bloodstained now, and in the state of desperation which rouses
the last resources of human strength, dashed through the streets with Coconnas,
La Hurière, Maurevel and a dozen others hot in pursuit. More than once a
following arquebus ball gave fresh speed to his feet. His pourpoint seemed to
compress his labouring heart, and he tore it off as he ran. He cast his sword
away to avoid its weight. Blood and sweat blinded his eyes. As some pursuers
were left behind it seemed that there were fresh ones to join the chase.
        Now the Louvre rose, dark and ominous on his right. On the drawbridge,
steel glittered, and soldiers moved. At his left, the black river moved silently
on. Like the hard-pressed stag, he had an instinctive urge to leap in, to avoid
his foes.
        But the Louvre was the better hope. There, he supposed, would be the
King of Navarre. He would seek protection from him, as he had vainly sought it
from Coligny before. . . He ran on to the bridge.
        He broke through the weapons of the sentinels, though not without taking
a wound, and rushed through the vestibule and up two flights of stairs, not
pausing in his breathless race till he came to the suite where his one hope of
protection lay.
        Here he leaned on a door he knew, which did not yield, though he beat on
it with hands and feet.
        "Who is there?" cried a woman's voice.
        In his extremity the password came to his mind. "Navarre - Navarre," he
called, and the door opened at once.
        He scarcely saw Gillonne as he pushed her aside and rushed on along the
corridor, and through empty rooms, till he came to one which was brightly lit by
a lamp which hung from the ceiling, and containing a bed, the occupant of which
raised herself on her elbow and looked at him with frightened eyes.
        He ran forward, and knelt at the bedside. "Madame," he cried, "they are
killing us all - we of the New Religion. You are the queen. You can save me, if
any can."
        Marguerite, troubled by the warning she had received, had lain down
without undressing. Her first reaction, on seeing a man, bloodstained and
dishevelled, rush into her room, had been to call aloud for help.
        "Madame," he protested desperately, "if you cry out, I am lost. My
pursuers were close behind."
        But his protest was too late. Next moment, a body of men, with
arquebuses and naked swords, their faces blackened with powder and smeared with
blood, broke, like a pack of pursuing wolves, into the room.
        Coconnas, his red hair disordered, his face blackened where it had been
struck by La Mole's sword, his eyes glaring with the excitement of his vengeful
chase, was terrible to behold.
        "Mordi!" he cried, "we have got him now."
        Marguerite half rose from the bed, pulling back the blue velvet curtain,
golden with fleur-de-lys. Her eyes were pitiful for the exhausted man at her
feet, and fearless of those she confronted.
        La Mole looked wildly round for a weapon, but there was none in sight,
even had he had time to reach it, and strength for its use. As Coconnas ran
forward, thrusting with his long rapier, he could only shrink aside. The point
pierced his shoulder, and a stream of blood gushed upon the snowy scented sheets
of the royal bed.
        "Quick," Marguerite said. "To this side." She drew him over the bed, to
the recess between it and the wall. It was none too soon, for with a final cry
of "Oh, Madame, save me," he sank unconscious upon the floor.
        Coconnas rushed round the bed, and Marguerite stood in his way. For a
moment it seemed that Coconnas, wild as he was with excitement, and angered by
the wound he had received, would thrust through the unconscious man, and perhaps
the woman who interposed. But Marguerite did not forget that she was the
daughter of kings, even in that moment of deadly peril. She drew herself to her
full height, and gave a cry of such mingled indignation, anger and fear, that
even the rage of Coconnas was checked, and he stood as though petrified, with
his sword drawn back for the thrust.
        And, at that moment, a concealed door opened on the further side of the
room, and a youth of about sixteen or seventeen, clothed in black, and showing
something of the confusion of the night in his disordered hair, entered.
        "What is it, sister?" he cried. "Hold! Stand back. Marguerite, what does
this mean?"
        "It is the Duke d'Alençon," La Hurière, who was now at the side of
Coconnas, his arquebus levelled upon the fallen man, said in a low and urgent
voice.
        "Mordi!" Coconnas said, drawing, back sobered enough at the sound of so
great a name.
        "Save me, Henry," Marguerite cried. "They would have killed me if you
had not come."
        The duke was unarmed, and he was not one whose courage was always easy
to see. But anger at this invasion of his sister's room, and the apparent peril
in which she stood, joined to the confidence which his rank gave, sustained him
to confront the men, who retreated before him.
        His face scarlet with anger, he advanced upon them. "Ha!" he cried, is
it thus? Perhaps you will murder a son of France also?" And then, as they
retreated in consternation, he called more loudly: "Ha! without there! Captain
of the Guard! There are men here who should hang."
        More frightened at this unarmed youth than he would have been at a troop
of horse, the sobered Coconnas had already sprung for the door, the others
pushing and jostling one another as they fought their way through the narrow
space. Meantime Marguerite had thrown the damask covering of her bed over the
unconscious man, and come out of the recess.
        As the room cleared, the duke turned to his sister, "Are you hurt? You
are stained with blood."
        "No, I don't think so. It is nothing much if I am."
        "But the blood - "
        "One of the ruffians may have touched me. It is not mine."
        "Show me the one who dared - "
        "How could I now? You had better go."
        "But you must not be alone. . . Shall I call Gillonne?"
        "No. Leave me, Francis. . . please!"
        D'Alençon went with reluctance, and he had scarcely disappeared before
Marguerite hurriedly bolted the door of the secret passage by which he had
entered, and then secured the outer entrance in the same way.
        Then, by a great effort, she dragged the wounded man into the centre of
the floor, and, seeing that he still breathed, took his head on her knee, and
bathed his face with water. It was only then that she recognised the
good-looking youth, who, full of life and hope, had seen her, only a few hours
before, to solicit the protection of the King of Navarre, and who, while dazzled
by her beauty, had drawn her by his own attraction. As she continued her
ministration of mercy, her thoughts were little for her own husband, and still
less for the Duke of Guise.
        It was more than an impulse of abstract pity that moved her now. It was
concern for one who was no longer a stranger: who was almost a friend.
        La Mole opened his eyes. "Mon Dieu!" he said. "What - where am I?"
        "You are saved," she said. "You are safe."
        As he looked at her, memory faintly returned. "Loveliest," he said,
"loveliest in the world." Then his head sank back, as a new wave of oblivion
submerged his mind.
        Marguerite thought he was dying. "Heaven have pity," she said. And then
a loud knocking was on the door.
        "Madame," cried a woman's voice, "let me in. It is I - Henriette."
        The noise had roused La Mole to a better consciousness than before. The
instinct of self-preservation caused him to raise himself on one arm, looking
desperately round the room for a place of refuge.
        "There is no danger," Marguerite said. "It is the Duchess de Nevers. A
friend."
        Outside there was a rattle of arms. Marguerite called: "Are you alone?"
        "No. I have twelve guards from De Guise."
        "Wait a moment." Marguerite turned to La Mole. "I will try to hide you.
Can you make an effort?"
        With difficulty, she assisted him to the cabinet, turned the key, and
dropped it into her alms-purse. Then she opened the door to her friend.
        "You are unhurt?"
        "Quite."
        Marguerite had caught up a cloak which she now drew more closely round
her, to hide the blood on her dress.
        "I am glad. But I came to leave you six of the guards. Six from M. de
Guise are worth more than a regiment of the king's tonight."
CHAPTER IX
HOW COCONNAS PAID HIS DEBT
LIKE a baffled tiger, Coconnas withdrew from the Louvre, while, La Hurière
slipped away with the speed of a startled wolf. They had not gone far before
they came on Maurevel, who had begged three soldiers from the commander of a
passing troop, and was now hurrying along with the aspect of one who had his
destination clearly in mind.
        "Where the deuce," Coconnas asked, "are you going now?"
        "To the Rue de Chaume."
        "That is near the Temple?"
        "Yes. Why?"
        "That is where a man lives to whom I have to pay a hundred rose nobles."

        "Then," Maurevel replied, "you are in luck. For this is a time at which
such scores can be wiped out in an easy way."
        "Oh!" said Coconnas. "Yes, I see what you mean. But what is that great
building across the way?"
        "That is the Hotel de Guise."
        "It is quiet here."
        "So it is. They are good Catholics for the most part around here. But
there is still one on whom I would call."
        As he said this, he stopped at the corner of the Rue des Quatre-Fils.
        "Sir," said Coconnas, "now I understand. You also have a creditor who
lives near the temple?"
        "It is M. de Mouy. La Hurière, give your arquebus to M. de Coconnas, and
go up to the door. Pretend that you are a Huguenot and that you must see M. de
Mouy. When he hears what is happening, he will come down. He is a brave man."
        "M. de Mouy lives here?"
        "No. But his mistress does, and he know he is here."
        La Hurière had gone up to the door, and was knocking loudly. A window
opened on the first floor, and a man appeared, unarmed, and in night attire. He
called out: "Who's there?"
        Maurevel, Coconnas, and the Swiss had drawn closely against the wall.
        "Ah! M. de Mouy," La Hurière began, in his blandest tone, "do you know
what is happening? They have murdered the admiral. They are hunting all of us of
the New Faith through the streets. Will you not bring your sword to our aid?"
        "Ah!" De Mouy answered. "It is what I have feared. Wait for me a moment,
and I will arm."
        Saying this, he withdrew, and through the open window they heard a
woman's cry of alarm.
        Maurevel took the arquebus from Coconnas, blew on the match, and gave it
back to La Hurière.
        "Be ready," he said. "He will soon appear."
        "It would be more profit for me," Coconnas grumbled, "if Mercandon were
also here."
        "We shall find M. de Mouy enough. He is a brave man. Six may be none too
many for him."
        Saying this, Maurevel crept up to the door, pushing the Swiss on the
other side, that de Mouy might be assailed the moment he should slip out.
        "Ha!" said Coconnas. "This is not quite what I expected to see."
        From a feeling of honour, he stepped back.
        Now they could hear the bar being withdrawn. The door was already half
open when a young woman came out on the balcony. She leaned over, and saw the
little group of would-be assassins round the door. She gave a loud scream. Come
back," she cried. "I can see swords."
        At her cry, the door shut.
        La Hurière raised his arquebus, pointing at the window, where, a moment
later, De Mouy appeared, holding two pistols of such length that the inn-keeper
reflected, even as he was taking aim: "I may kill him, but it is equally likely
that he may kill me," and he withdrew at the thought into an angle of the Rue de
Vrac, where he was too distant for certain aim.
        "Well," cried de Mouy, leaning over the rail of the balcony, "I am here.
What do you say now?"
        "Here," thought Coconnas, "is a brave man." He advanced, raising his
hat. "Sir," he said, "we are seeking a duel, not an assassination. Eh, mordi! M.
de Maurevel, do not turn away. The gentleman will oblige you, I have no doubt."
        "Maurevel!" exclaimed de Mouy. "My father's murderer. Ah, but I will!"
He fired as he spoke, his ball going through the hat of Maurevel, who had turned
away to knock for assistance at the door of the Hotel de Guise. His second
bullet killed a soldier at Maurevel's side, and then, as a group of gentlemen,
followed by their pages, came out of the hotel, he withdrew from the balcony.
        Many windows were opening now, and heads looked out. De Mouy, appearing
again, called to a man of mature age who was leaning from an opposite window:
"Help, Mercandon! They are murdering Protestants. "And, as he spoke, there came
the noise of the discharge of La Hurière's arquebus, and he ducked, just in time
to avoid its bullet.
        "Mercandon!" exclaimed Coconnas. "Rue des Chaume! There it is! It seems
that many scores may be settled tonight!"
        Seizing a paving stone, he began to batter at his creditor's door, while
the gentlemen from the Hotel de Guise broke in that of De Mouy, and Maurevel,
torch in hand, was endeavouring to set it alight.
        Mercandon, ignoring his solitary assailant, had fetched an arquebus, and
was firing for De Mouy's support, when the scene changed, for a group of
Huguenots came running out of the Hotel de Montmorency, and charged so fiercely
that their opponents fled before them, or ran back into the Hotel de Guise.
        Coconnas, who had failed to break down the door, found himself isolated
by this sudden rush. He turned round fiercely, and, with his back to the wall,
began not merely to defend himself, but to bear back his assailants. He thrust,
and drew back a sword that was dripping blood. He shouted defiance, so that his
voice rose above the tumult that filled the street.
        De Mouy, his bare sword in one hand, his mistress, half dressed, and
half fainting, on the other arm, broke out of his burning house. "Maurevel," he
cried. "Where is the murdering dog?" But Maurevel had fled.
        La Hurière, shrinking from De Mouy's sword, came too near to the furious
Coconnas, who did not recognise him. The innkeeper shrieked for mercy between
the two, and drew the attention of Mercandon, who saw, by his white scarf, that
he was one of the assassins.
        He fired, and, with a loud scream, the wretched man staggered, tried
vainly to reach the wall, and fell, face forward, in a pool of his own blood.
        Favoured by the circumstance, De Mouy turned the corner of the Rue de
Paradis and was soon out of sight.
        But Coconnas, now maddened by blood and riot, after the manner of his
southern land, was running blindly across the street when old Mercandon,
followed by his son and two nephews, came running out of their home to support a
victory which was already won, for the Huguenots had, in a momentary and local
triumph, chased their enemies back into the Hotel de Guise.
        "There he is!" they cried, recognising Coconnas as the man who had
battered against their door. Like a chamois of his native hills, the mountaineer
leapt for the wall. With his back secure, he laughed tauntingly: "Ho, ho, Father
Mercandon, don't you remember who I am?"
        "Yes. I know you now, scoundrel! Do you seek the life of your father's
friend?"
        "Are you not his creditor also?"
        "Yes."
        "I came to Paris to pay the debt."
        "Seize him! Bind him!" cried the old man.
        Coconnas laughed in derision. "But wait a minute! You forget. You must
have a writ before you can do that."
        As he spoke his sword shot out against the foremost of the younger men,
who were closing in around him. The point pierced his wrist to the bone, and he
jumped back with a cry of agony.
        "So the four are three," laughed the Piedmontese.
        As he spoke, he heard a window open behind him in the wall of the Hotel
de Guise against which he had taken shelter.
        He looked up, fearing a new foe, but he saw only a lovely girl, who
threw a flower at his feet.
        Foolishly, he stooped to pick it up, and, as he did so, he heard the
warning of the voice above him: "Guard yourself, brave Catholic, guard
yourself!"
        He rose quickly, but not before the dagger of the second nephew had
pierced his cloak and wounded his shoulder.
        There was a sharp cry of fear from the lady who watched above, but
Coconnas, having recovered his poise, engaged the young man so vigorously that
he gave ground, and, his foot slipping as he did so on the bloody pavement, he
lost his balance, and fell as his breast was pierced by his opponent's sword.
        Coconnas had now two opponents only before him - an old man with a
dagger and an empty arquebus, and a slim pale youth of about seventeen years,
whose sword was about half as long as his own. To him, only lightly wounded, and
in the full vigour of twenty-four years, it might well seem that the fight was
done.
        "Hold on, brave cavalier," he heard the voice of the fair friend above
him. "Hold on. I will send you help."
        "Do not trouble for that," he replied. "Watch and see how Count Annibal
de Coconnas will dispose of these Huguenot dogs."
        But at the same moment there came a cry of rage from the window of
Mercandon's home, and a flower-pot shot through the air, and was shattered
against his knee.
        "Thanks, mother, thanks," he cried, looking up at the old woman from
whose hands it came. "Some throw me flower-pots, and others flowers!"
        Intoxicated with the excitement of the moment, and conscious above all
of the vision of loveliness above him who watched the fight, he ran upon the
youth, who was no match for him, either in sword-arm or sword. In two passes the
youth stood weaponless, and Coconnas, conscious both that Mercandon's dagger was
near his throat, and that the old woman was waiting her chance to hurl a marble
ornament at his head, clutched his adversary round the body, and made him a
living buckler against his foes.
        The youth struggled and then collapsed in the powerful, merciless grip.
"Help me, father," he cried. "He is breaking my bones."
        The old man ceased to attack. He began to entreat. "Monsieur de
Coconnas, pity. He is my only son."
        The old mother joined in with the same cry.
        Coconnas laughed: "What would he have done to me? Why did he bring
dagger and sword?"
        "Sir," cried Mercandon, "I will give ten thousand crowns of gold. I will
give jewels. There is nothing I have that shall not be yours."
        "Brave cavalier," said the soft voice above, "have pity and have my
love."
        Coconnas paused. "Are you a Huguenot?"
        "Yes," moaned the youth.
        "Then you must die." He lifted his dagger, but paused at the wild cries
of entreaty that came from both parents.
        The father looked up to the lady who watched above. "Oh, Madame la
duchesse!" he cried, "intercede for us, and you shall be remembered every night
in our prayers."
        "Will they be Catholic prayers?"
        "That is it," Coconnas cried. "win he abjure? Will he die or abjure?"
The dagger was lifted again.
        "Oliver, abjure," entreated his father. His mother screamed the same
words from above.
        "You shall all abjure," Coconnas cried. "It shall be three credos -
three souls and one life!"
        "I will," cried the boy, and the anxious parents echoed the words.
Coconnas loosed him. "Kneel," he said, "and repeat what shall say."
        Father and son now knelt side by side, but, whether by craft or chance,
the boy placed himself so that the sword which had been struck from his grasp
lay very near to his hand.
        As he repeated the words which Coconnas dictated his fingers moved, inch
by inch, toward it.
        Coconnas was aware of this, but gave no sign that he was until the hand
actually grasped the hilt, when, with a movement as swift as that of the other
had been slow, he leapt forward, and drove his dagger into the throat of the
kneeling boy. "Traitor," he cried, "did you think you would kill me thus?"
        "Ruffian," screamed the father, "for a hundred nobles, you kill us all."

        "Mordi, no! Here's proof of that." Coconnas pulled out the bag of
rose-nobles, and cast them at his creditor's feet.
        "And here's your death!". . . "Beware, count, beware." The voices of the
two women came to his ears together, but too late to save him from the falling
masonry which struck him on the head, and prostrated him unconscious on the
pavement.
        It was his salvation now that the door of the Hotel de Guise opened, and
Mercandon, whose dagger was already lifted to kill him, saw the glitter of
swords, and fled hastily to the shelter of his own roof, while the lady whom he
had called duchess leaned from her window, glittering with diamonds and gems,
her beauty lit by the glare of surrounding fires, her hand stretched out to
guide her gentlemen to the one in whom her interest lay: "There, in front of
you. The one in the red doublet. . . Yes, that is he."
CHAPTER X
DEATH OR THE MASS
"OH," Marguerite said, with royal boldness, "how beautiful he is."
        "Yes, madame," Gillonne answered, "but will he live?"
        The unconscious man had shoulders which would not have shamed Adonis,
but Gillonne's eyes were upon the wounds which they had bared.
        "We shall soon know."
        Marguerite, using a silver needle with a round point, probed the wounds
as skilfully and delicately as would have been done by Ambrose Paré himself,
while Gillonne with a cloth dipped in fresh water, wiped away the blood that
flowed from shoulder and breast.
        "It is a dangerous but should not be a mortal wound, acerrimum humeri
vulnus, non autem lethale," said the lovely and learned surgeon, whose command
of the Latin tongue was as renowned as her beauty in Europe's courts. "Hand me
the salve, Gillonne, and have the lint ready."
        La Mole stirred, heaving a sigh. He was deliciously aware of freshness
instead of throbbing heat, and the perfume of Marguerite's applications in place
of the stench of blood.
        He opened his eyes. "Oh, madame," he said, "that you should stain your
hands with my blood! I were better dead."
        "Your blood," Gillonne answered, smiling, "had already stained the bed
and apartment of her majesty."
        Marguerite drew her mantle more closely over her cambric dressing-gown,
which was bespattered with small red spots.
        "Madame," La Mole went on, "could you not put me into a surgeon's care?"

        "Of a Catholic surgeon - yes," she answered significantly. He shuddered
and became silent.
        At that moment there came a sound of loud knocking.
        "I will go," Marguerite said. She left the cabinet, closing the door,
and went through her chamber to the entrance of the secret passage which led to
the king's and queen-mother's apartments, from which the knocking came.
        "Madame de Sauve!" she exclaimed, in astonishment, and with no
friendliness in her eyes, for even a wife who has no love for her husband may
resent the fact that his own preference lies elsewhere.
        Charlotte fell on her knees.
        "Madame, I know - But forgive a fault which is hardly mine. The
queen-mother - " She checked herself, as though she feared she had said too
much.
        "Get up!" Marguerite answered, unmoved either by her beauty or her
distress. "You'd better tell me why you have come. It wasn't to justify what you
have done to me."
        But Charlotte did not rise. "Madame," she said, with terror in her
voice, "I came to ask if he were here."
        "Here? Who?"
        "The King of Navarre."
        "What! Would you follow him to my rooms? You know whether he comes
here."
        "Ah, would to heaven he had."
        "But why?"
        "Mon Dieu! madame. Do you not know that they are murdering the
Huguenots?"
        Marguerite pulled the frightened girl to her feet. "I was forgetting. I
did not think the danger could reach to him. But I warned him not to go out. Has
he done so?"
        "No, madame. But if he is not here - The queen-mother has sworn his
death."
        "It is impossible."
        "Madame, I tell you no one knows where he is now."
        "Where is the queen-mother?"
        "In her own apartment."
        "I will see her, and let you know what I learn. . . And I will thank
you, though I know you act from no kindness to me."
        "Oh, madame, I dare not come with you. But if you can forgive - "
        Marguerite extended her hand. "The King of Navarre is under my
protection. I have promised him my alliance. You will find I shall keep my
word."
        "But if she will not see you?"
        "There is still my brother, the king."
        Marguerite hurried to the queen-mother's apartment. In place of the
eager courtiers whom she would normally have met, greeting her with respect, and
opening the way before her, she saw gentlemen who came and went with garments
reddened and torn. She saw faces-blackened with powder, bloodstained weapons,
excitement, confusion, haste.
        But she went bravely on until she was confronted by the guard at the
entrance to her mother's apartment. They demanded a countersign which she could
not give, and then, respectfully, but firmly, they barred her way.
        Though she could not reach her mother, she saw her at times through the
opening door, excited, active, vivacious as a girl of twenty, with smiles for
all, but most for those whose garments were most disordered by dust and blood.
        As she paused in doubt of what it would be best to do, the Duke de Guise
passed her. "Oh, Henry, where is the King of Navarre?"
        The duke bowed, smiled, and passed the guards without making any reply.
        René, the queen-mother's perfumier, came out, and she put the same
question to him.
        "Madame," he answered, with an evil smile, "I am not in his confidence,
I have even heard that he lays his mother's death at my door."
        "No, my good René, do not believe that. Tell me what I ask."
        "It is no matter what is believed. He and his party are done." He went
on, with a mocking smile.
        Her eyes turned to M. Tavannes.
        "Monsieur, can you tell me where I may find my husband?"
        He answered in a voice that all around them could hear: "Ma foi! He is
in the city with M. d'Alençon, so it is said." And then in a lower tone: "Your
majesty, try the king's armoury."
        "Thanks, Tavannes, thanks."
        She hurried on, thinking: "I gave my promise. He shall not die. And when
de Guise was in my closet, was he not generous to me?"
        There were guards at the entrance to the king's apartment, who refused
admission. Their officer came forward: "No one can see the king."
        "But I - "
        "The order is strict."
        "But I am his sister."
        "No exception is to be made, madame."
        Marguerite thought: "He is to be killed, and it was I who baited the
trap. Though they kill me, I will go in."
        She turned away, seeking another entrance, and as she passed along the
corridors she heard the sound of a Huguenot psalm.
        "It is Charles' nurse," she thought. "Heaven help me now!"
        With new hope she knocked at the door. . .
        After the warning which Marguerite had given him, Henry had retired to
his own apartment, where he had soon been surrounded by a score of Huguenot
gentlemen, vaguely aware of the growing atmosphere of hostility which surrounded
them, and looking to him, as their source of strength. There they had remained
unmolested till the bell of midnight struck, when Tavannes had entered, and said
that the King of France desired that Henry should wait upon him.
        It was a summons which did not admit of denial, and Henry followed
Tavannes to a small gallery close to the king's apartment, where he left him
alone, to the thought of friends he might not be destined to see again, and
apprehension of his own safety that became hard to control.
        He had seen that the corridors had been full of soldiers as he had come
through them, and that Catholic gentlemen moved among them completely armed. Now
he heard a rising commotion outside the walls, with the sound of firearms and
cries of pursuit and fear.
        He had courage enough, but it was moral rather than physical - less of
the body than of the mind. He might smile at open danger, ruling his fear. But
this uncertainty, with no more than surmise of the extent of the dreadful truth,
gave him the most terrible two hours that his life would know.
        Then a captain entered, and led him to the king's armoury, where Charles
was sitting, his hands on the arms of the chair, and his head sunk forward. As
he raised it, Henry saw that his forehead was beaded with sweat.
        "Leave me, Le Chastre," he said harshly, at which the captain retired,
and a deep silence followed.
        Suddenly the king rose. "Mordieu!" he said, wiping his brows, "you are
pleased to see me, Henry? Is it not so?"
        "I am always glad to see your majesty."
        "More than if you were down below?"
        "I do not understand."
        "Then look out, and you will."
        With an abrupt movement, he pulled his brother-in-law to the window,
pointing to the dark river, where men could be seen on a boat's deck, cutting
the throats of victims who were brought to them every minute, and casting them
into the water to drown.
        "In the name of Heaven," Henry exclaimed, "what is happening tonight!"
        "Tonight they are freeing me from the Huguenots. Look over the Hotel de
Bourbon. Do you see the flames of the admiral's house? Do you see the body which
those brave Catholics are bearing along? Is it not Teligny, your friend?"
        "What does it mean?" asked the King of Navarre, feeling vainly at his
side for the hilt of a dagger which was not there.
        "It means," Charles answered, with an outburst of the almost insane
violence to which he was subject, "that I will no longer have Huguenots in the
land. Do you hear me, Henry? Do I rule? Am I king or not?"
        "Your majesty - "
        "My majesty slays all that is not Catholic to my will. Are you Catholic?
Tell me, what are you?"
        "Sire, I would remind you of your own words. 'What matters the religion
of those who serve me well?' "
        Charles burst into a discordant laugh. "Do I remember my words? Verba
volant, as Margot would say. Have not these served me well who are being
butchered below? Were they not loyal, and brave and wise? Are they helped by
that? They are Huguenots. And I tell you I will have Catholic subjects, and none
besides."
        Henry made no answer, and Charles cried angrily: "Henry, do you
understand now?"
        "I understand."
        "Well?"
        "I do not see why the King of Navarre should not go by the same path
that his subjects tread. I suppose the choice has been put to them, and we can
see what their answer has been."
        Charles seized his arm. "Do you think," he asked, with a fierce scowl,
"that I have troubled to offer the choice of the mass to the scum who are being
slaughtered below?"
        Henry threw off the king's grasp. "Sire, will you not die in your
father's faith?"
        "Yes, mordieu! And you?"
        "I will do so too."
        Charles uttered a scream of almost bestial fury at an obstinacy he had
not thought to meet. With a shaking hand, he picked up an arquebus from the
table. Henry looked on with an appearance of unconcern, though his heartbeats
quickened.
        Charles cocked the arquebus. Brandishing it wildly, he cried: "Will you
accept the mass?"
        Henry remained silent and motionless.
        Charles IX shook the vaults of the Louvre with the most terrible oath
which ever came from the lips of man. He took aim at Henry.
        "Speak!" he cried. "Death, the mass, or the Bastille?"
        Henry had the presence of mind to avoid a direct answer, and so probably
saved his life.
        "Oh, sire, would you murder me, your brother-in-law?"
        The fury into which Charles had worked himself had already, through its
very intensity, begun to abate. "But I must kill someone!" he cried: He turned
to the open window, and seeing a fugitive running along the quay, he took
careful aim. The man fell.
        Henry thought: "It will be all over with me when there is no one left
outside at which to take aim." But he stood silently, awaiting the end.
        It came in an unexpected voice behind him, as the king laid down his
weapon: "Well, is it over now?"
        He turned to see Catherine standing in the doorway.
        "No," Charles answered. "It is not! The obstinate fool will not agree."
        Her look seemed to ask: "Then why does he live?"
        And Charles answered it: "He lives because he married Margot. There is
no reason but that."
        Henry saw the smile on the queen-mother's face as she heard the reply,
and he knew who was his most dangerous foe.
        "Madame," he said boldly, "I understand now. It is you who drew me into
this trap, and made your daughter the bait to destroy us all. It is you who have
separated me from Marguerite, that she should not see me slain in her sight."
        "Which you shall not be!" said a breathless and eager voice, and Charles
turned in surprise, and Catherine in fury, to see Marguerite at the door.
        "Marguerite!" Henry exclaimed.
        "Margot!" exclaimed Charles IX.
        "Henry," she said, advancing into the room, "your last words were an
accusation against me, and they were both right and wrong. You were right, for I
was the bait. You were wrong, for I did not know that they meant that you should
die. I may not love you, but I know where my honour lies. If they imprison you,
I shall be there. If they exile you, I will go with you. If they kill you, I
will die, too."
        And she stretched out her hand to her husband, who took it, if not with
love, at least with admiration and gratitude in his eyes.
        "Margot," her brother said, "you would do better to beg him to become a
Catholic."
        Marguerite answered with the dignity which was natural to her: "Sire, he
has become a prince of your own house. Would you have him act as a coward?"
        Charles stood in an obvious indecision, between his mother's implacable
determination and the supplicating glance of a sister whom he loved, and who had
always been able to influence him. But in the end he said: "Faith, madame,
Margot is right. Harry is my brother now."
        Catherine saw that, for the moment, she had been foiled. She withdrew
without further words.

蝶歌

有全的吗？

Sophia

a husband she does not want?
为什么我看的是“吉兹先生的拉丁文”