Marguerite de Valois
by Alexandre Dumas · English · Gutenberg #33609 · 1,155,505 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Marguerite de Valois
Author: Alexandre Dumas
Auguste Maquet
Release date: September 2, 2010 [eBook #33609]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33609
Credits: Produced by Chuck Greif and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARGUERITE DE VALOIS ***
Produced by Chuck Greif and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
MARGUERITE DE
VALOIS BY ALEXANDRE
DUMAS....
NEW YORK, THOMAS Y.
CROWELL & COMPANY,
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1900,
BY THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. MONSIEUR DE GUISE'S LATIN 1
II. THE QUEEN OF NAVARRE'S BEDCHAMBER. 13
III. THE POET-KING 25
IV. THE EVENING OF THE 24TH OF AUGUST, 1572 36
V. OF THE LOUVRE IN PARTICULAR, AND OF VIRTUE IN GENERAL 44
VI. THE DEBT PAID 53
VII. THE NIGHT OF THE 24TH OF AUGUST, 1572 64
VIII. THE MASSACRE 78
IX. THE MURDERERS 89
X. DEATH, MASS, OR THE BASTILLE 102
XI. THE HAWTHORN OF THE CEMETERY OF THE INNOCENTS 114
XII. MUTUAL CONFIDENCES 125
XIII. HOW THERE ARE KEYS WHICH OPEN DOORS THEY ARE NOT MEANT FOR 132
XIV. THE SECOND MARRIAGE NIGHT 142
XV. WHAT WOMAN WILLS, GOD WILLS 150
XVI. A DEAD ENEMY'S BODY ALWAYS SMELLS SWEET 164
XVII. MAÎTRE AMBROISE PARÉ'S CONFRÈRE 176
XVIII. THE GHOSTS 183
XIX. THE ABODE OF MAÎTRE RÉNÉ, PERFUMER TO THE QUEEN MOTHER 193
XX. THE BLACK HENS 204
XXI. MADAME DE SAUVE'S APARTMENT 210
XXII. "SIRE, YOU SHALL BE KING" 219
XXIII. A NEW CONVERT 224
XXIV. THE RUE TIZON AND THE RUE CLOCHE PERCÉE 236
XXV. THE CHERRY-COLORED CLOAK 248
XXVI. MARGARITA 257
XXVII. THE HAND OF GOD 263
XXVIII. THE LETTER FROM ROME 268
XXIX. THE DEPARTURE 274
XXX. MAUREVEL 280
XXXI. THE HUNT 284
XXXII. FRATERNITY 293
XXXIII. THE GRATITUDE OF KING CHARLES IX 300
XXXIV. MAN PROPOSES BUT GOD DISPOSES 306
XXXV. A NIGHT OF KINGS 316
XXXVI. THE ANAGRAM 324
XXXVII. THE RETURN TO THE LOUVRE 329
XXXVIII. THE GIRDLE OF THE QUEEN MOTHER 340
XXXIX. PROJECTS OF REVENGE 348
XL. THE ATRIDES 362
XLI. THE HOROSCOPE 372
XLII. CONFIDENCES 379
XLIII. THE AMBASSADORS 389
XLIV. ORESTES AND PYLADES 395
XLV. ORTHON 404
XLVI. THE INN OF LA BELLE ÉTOILE 415
XLVII. DE MOUY DE SAINT PHALE 423
XLVIII. TWO HEADS FOR ONE CROWN 430
XLIX. THE TREATISE ON HUNTING 441
L. HAWKING 448
LI. THE PAVILION OF FRANÇOIS I 456
LII. THE EXAMINATION 464
LIII. ACTÉON 473
LIV. THE FOREST OF VINCENNES 479
LV. THE FIGURE OF WAX 486
LVI. THE INVISIBLE BUCKLERS 497
LVII. THE JUDGES 503
LVIII. THE TORTURE OF THE BOOT 512
LIX. THE CHAPEL 520
LX. THE PLACE SAINT JEAN EN GRÈVE 525
LXI. THE HEADSMAN'S TOWER 530
LXII. THE SWEAT OF BLOOD 538
LXIII. THE DONJON OF THE PRISON OF VINCENNES 542
LXIV. THE REGENCY 547
LXV. THE KING IS DEAD! LONG LIVE THE KING! 551
LXVI. EPILOGUE 556
MARGUERITE DE VALOIS.
CHAPTER I.
MONSIEUR DE GUISE'S LATIN.
On Monday, the 18th of August, 1572, there was a splendid festival at
the Louvre.
The ordinarily gloomy windows of the ancient royal residence were
brilliantly lighted, and the squares and streets adjacent, usually so
solitary after Saint Germain l'Auxerrois had struck the hour of nine,
were crowded with people, although it was past midnight.
The vast, threatening, eager, turbulent throng resembled, in the
darkness, a black and tumbling sea, each billow of which makes a roaring
breaker; this sea, flowing through the Rue des Fossés Saint Germain and
the Rue de l'Astruce and covering the quay, surged against the base of
the walls of the Louvre, and, in its refluent tide, against the Hôtel de
Bourbon, which faced it on the other side.
In spite of the royal festival, and perhaps even because of the royal
festival, there was something threatening in the appearance of the
people, for no doubt was felt that this imposing ceremony which called
them there as spectators, was only the prelude to another in which they
would participate a week later as invited guests and amuse themselves
with all their hearts.
The court was celebrating the marriage of Madame Marguerite de Valois,
daughter of Henry II. and sister of King Charles IX., with Henry de
Bourbon, King of Navarre. In truth, that very morning, on a stage
erected at the entrance to Notre-Dame, the Cardinal de Bourbon had
united the young couple with the usual ceremonial observed at the
marriages of the royal daughters of France.
This marriage had astonished every one, and occasioned much surmise to
certain persons who saw clearer than others. They found it difficult to
understand the union of two parties who hated each other so thoroughly
as did, at this moment, the Protestant party and the Catholic party; and
they wondered how the young Prince de Condé could forgive the Duc
d'Anjou, the King's brother, for the death of his father, assassinated
at Jarnac by Montesquiou. They asked how the young Duc de Guise could
pardon Admiral de Coligny for the death of his father, assassinated at
Orléans by Poltrot de Méré.
Moreover, Jeanne de Navarre, the weak Antoine de Bourbon's courageous
wife, who had conducted her son Henry to the royal marriage awaiting
him, had died scarcely two months before, and singular reports had been
spread abroad as to her sudden death. It was everywhere whispered, and
in some places said aloud, that she had discovered some terrible secret;
and that Catharine de Médicis, fearing its disclosure, had poisoned her
with perfumed gloves, which had been made by a man named Réné, a
Florentine deeply skilled in such matters. This report was the more
widely spread and believed when, after this great queen's death, at her
son's request, two celebrated physicians, one of whom was the famous
Ambroise Paré, were instructed to open and examine the body, but not the
skull. As Jeanne de Navarre had been poisoned by a perfume, only the
brain could show any trace of the crime (the one part excluded from
dissection). We say crime, for no one doubted that a crime had been
committed.
This was not all. King Charles in particular had, with a persistency
almost approaching obstinacy, urged this marriage, which not only
reëstablished peace in his kingdom, but also attracted to Paris the
principal Huguenots of France. As the two betrothed belonged one to the
Catholic religion and the other to the reformed religion, they had been
obliged to obtain a dispensation from Gregory XIII., who then filled the
papal chair. The dispensation was slow in coming, and the delay had
caused the late Queen of Navarre great uneasiness. She one day expressed
to Charles IX. her fears lest the dispensation should not arrive; to
which the King replied:
"Have no anxiety, my dear aunt. I honor you more than I do the Pope,
and I love my sister more than I fear him. I am not a Huguenot, neither
am I a blockhead; and if the Pope makes a fool of himself, I will myself
take Margot by the hand, and have her married to your son in some
Protestant meeting-house!"
This speech was soon spread from the Louvre through the city, and, while
it greatly rejoiced the Huguenots, had given the Catholics something to
think about; they asked one another, in a whisper, if the King was
really betraying them or was only playing a comedy which some fine
morning or evening might have an unexpected ending.
Charles IX.'s conduct toward Admiral de Coligny, who for five or six
years had been so bitterly opposed to the King, appeared particularly
inexplicable; after having put on his head a price of a hundred and
fifty thousand golden crowns, the King now swore by him, called him his
father, and declared openly that he should in future confide the conduct
of the war to him alone. To such a pitch was this carried that Catharine
de Médicis herself, who until then had controlled the young prince's
actions, will, and even desires, seemed to be growing really uneasy, and
not without reason; for, in a moment of confidence, Charles IX. had said
to the admiral, in reference to the war in Flanders,
"My father, there is one other thing against which we must be on our
guard--that is, that the queen, my mother, who likes to poke her nose
everywhere, as you well know, shall learn nothing of this undertaking;
we must keep it so quiet that she will not have a suspicion of it, or
being such a mischief-maker as I know she is, she would spoil all."
Now, wise and experienced as he was, Coligny had not been able to keep
such an absolute secret; and, though he had come to Paris with great
suspicions, and albeit at his departure from Chatillon a peasant woman
had thrown herself at his feet, crying, "Ah! sir, our good master, do
not go to Paris, for if you do, you will die--you and all who are with
you!"--these suspicions were gradually lulled in his heart, and so it
was with Téligny, his son-in-law, to whom the King was especially kind
and attentive, calling him his brother, as he called the admiral his
father, and addressing him with the familiar "thou," as he did his best
friends.
The Huguenots, excepting some few morose and suspicious spirits, were
therefore completely reassured. The death of the Queen of Navarre passed
as having been caused by pleurisy, and the spacious apartments of the
Louvre were filled with all those gallant Protestants to whom the
marriage of their young chief, Henry, promised an unexpected return of
good fortune. Admiral Coligny, La Rochefoucault, the young Prince de
Condé, Téligny,--in short, all the leaders of the party,--were
triumphant when they saw so powerful at the Louvre and so welcome in
Paris those whom, three months before, King Charles and Queen Catharine
would have hanged on gibbets higher than those of assassins.
The Maréchal de Montmorency was the only one who was missing among all
his brothers, for no promise could move him, no specious appearances
deceive him, and he remained secluded in his château de l'Isle Adam,
offering as his excuse for not appearing the grief which he still felt
for his father, the Constable Anne de Montmorency, who had been killed
at the battle of Saint Denis by a pistol-shot fired by Robert Stuart.
But as this had taken place more than three years before, and as
sensitiveness was a virtue little practised at that time, this unduly
protracted mourning was interpreted just as people cared to interpret
it.
However, everything seemed to show that the Maréchal de Montmorency was
mistaken. The King, the Queen, the Duc d'Anjou, and the Duc d'Alençon
did the honors of the royal festival with all courtesy and kindness.
The Duc d'Anjou received from the Huguenots themselves well-deserved
compliments on the two battles of Jarnac and Montcontour, which he had
gained before he was eighteen years of age, more precocious in that than
either Cæsar or Alexander, to whom they compared him, of course placing
the conquerors of Pharsalia and the Issus as inferior to the living
prince. The Duc d'Alençon looked on, with his bland, false smile, while
Queen Catharine, radiant with joy and overflowing with honeyed phrases,
congratulated Prince Henry de Condé on his recent marriage with Marie de
Clèves; even the Messieurs de Guise themselves smiled on the formidable
enemies of their house, and the Duc de Mayenne discoursed with M. de
Tavannes and the admiral on the impending war, which was now more than
ever threatened against Philippe II.
In the midst of these groups a young man of about nineteen years of age
was walking to and fro, his head a little on one side, his ear open to
all that was said. He had a keen eye, black hair cut very close, thick
eyebrows, a nose hooked like an eagle's, a sneering smile, and a growing
mustache and beard. This young man, who by his reckless daring had first
attracted attention at the battle of Arnay-le-Duc and was the recipient
of numberless compliments, was the dearly beloved pupil of Coligny and
the hero of the day. Three months before--that is to say, when his
mother was still living--he was called the Prince de Béarn, now he was
called the King of Navarre, afterwards he was known as Henry IV.
From time to time a swift and gloomy cloud passed over his brow;
unquestionably it was at the thought that scarce had two months elapsed
since his mother's death, and he, less than any one, doubted that she
had been poisoned. But the cloud was transitory, and disappeared like a
fleeting shadow, for they who spoke to him, they who congratulated him,
they who elbowed him, were the very ones who had assassinated the brave
Jeanne d'Albret.
Some paces distant from the King of Navarre, almost as pensive, almost
as gloomy as the king pretended to be joyous and open-hearted, was the
young Duc de Guise, conversing with Téligny. More fortunate than the
Béarnais, at two-and-twenty he had almost attained the reputation of his
father, François, the great Duc de Guise. He was an elegant gentleman,
very tall, with a noble and haughty look, and gifted with that natural
majesty which caused it to be said that in comparison with him other
princes seemed to belong to the people. Young as he was, the Catholics
looked up to him as the chief of their party, as the Huguenots saw
theirs in Henry of Navarre, whose portrait we have just drawn. At first
he had borne the title of Prince de Joinville, and at the siege of
Orléans had fought his first battle under his father, who died in his
arms, denouncing Admiral Coligny as his assassin. The young duke then,
like Hannibal, took a solemn oath to avenge his father's death on the
admiral and his family, and to pursue the foes to his religion without
truce or respite, promising God to be his destroying angel on earth
until the last heretic should be exterminated. So with deep astonishment
the people saw this prince, usually so faithful to his word, offering
his hand to those whom he had sworn to hold as his eternal enemies, and
talking familiarly with the son-in-law of the man whose death he had
promised to his dying father.
But as we have said, this was an evening of astonishments.
Indeed, an observer privileged to be present at this festival, endowed
with the knowledge of the future which is fortunately hidden from men,
and with that power of reading men's hearts which unfortunately belongs
only to God, would have certainly enjoyed the strangest spectacle to be
found in all the annals of the melancholy human comedy.
But this observer who was absent from the inner courts of the Louvre was
to be found in the streets gazing with flashing eyes and breaking out
into loud threats; this observer was the people, who, with its
marvellous instinct made keener by hatred, watched from afar the shadows
of its implacable enemies and translated the impressions they made with
as great clearness as an inquisitive person can do before the windows of
a hermetically sealed ball-room. The music intoxicates and governs the
dancers, but the inquisitive person sees only the movement and laughs at
the puppet jumping about without reason, because the inquisitive person
hears no music.
The music that intoxicated the Huguenots was the voice of their pride.
The gleams which caught the eyes of the Parisians that midnight were the
lightning flashes of their hatred illuminating the future.
And meantime everything was still festive within, and a murmur softer
and more flattering than ever was at this moment pervading the Louvre,
for the youthful bride, having laid aside her toilet of ceremony, her
long mantle and flowing veil, had just returned to the ball-room,
accompanied by the lovely Duchesse de Nevers, her most intimate friend,
and led by her brother, Charles IX., who presented her to the principal
guests.
The bride was the daughter of Henry II., was the pearl of the crown of
France, was MARGUERITE DE VALOIS, whom in his familiar tenderness for
her King Charles IX. always called "_ma soeur Margot_," "my sister
Margot."
Assuredly never was any welcome, however flattering, more richly
deserved than that which the new Queen of Navarre was at this moment
receiving. Marguerite at this period was scarcely twenty, and she was
already the object of all the poets' eulogies, some of whom compared her
to Aurora, others to Cytherea; she was, in truth, a beauty without rival
in that court in which Catharine de Médicis had assembled the loveliest
women she could find, to make of them her sirens.
Marguerite had black hair and a brilliant complexion; a voluptuous eye,
veiled by long lashes; delicate coral lips; a slender neck; a graceful,
opulent figure, and concealed in a satin slipper a tiny foot. The
French, who possessed her, were proud to see such a lovely flower
flourishing in their soil, and foreigners who passed through France
returned home dazzled with her beauty if they had but seen her, and
amazed at her knowledge if they had discoursed with her; for Marguerite
was not only the loveliest, she was also the most erudite woman of her
time, and every one was quoting the remark of an Italian scholar who had
been presented to her, and who, after having conversed with her for an
hour in Italian, Spanish, Latin, and Greek, had gone away saying:
"To see the court without seeing Marguerite de Valois is to see neither
France nor the court."
Thus addresses to King Charles IX. and the Queen of Navarre were not
wanting. It is well known that the Huguenots were great hands at
addresses. Many allusions to the past, many hints as to the future, were
adroitly slipped into these harangues; but to all such allusions and
speeches the King replied, with his pale lips and artificial smiles:
"In giving my sister Margot to Henry of Navarre, I give my sister to all
the Protestants of the kingdom."
This phrase assured some and made others smile, for it had really a
double sense: the one paternal, with which Charles IX. would not load
his mind; the other insulting to the bride, to her husband, and also to
him who said it, for it recalled some scandalous rumors with which the
chroniclers of the court had already found means to smirch the nuptial
robe of Marguerite de Valois.
However, M. de Guise was conversing, as we have said, with Téligny; but
he did not pay to the conversation such sustained attention but that he
turned away somewhat, from time to time, to cast a glance at the group
of ladies, in the centre of whom glittered the Queen of Navarre. When
the princess's eye thus met that of the young duke, a cloud seemed to
over-spread that lovely brow, around which stars of diamonds formed a
tremulous halo, and some agitating thought might be divined in her
restless and impatient manner.
The Princess Claude, Marguerite's eldest sister, who had been for some
years married to the Duc de Lorraine, had observed this uneasiness, and
was going up to her to inquire the cause, when all stood aside at the
approach of the queen mother, who came forward, leaning on the arm of
the young Prince de Condé, and the princess was thus suddenly separated
from her sister. There was a general movement, by which the Duc de Guise
profited to approach Madame de Nevers, his sister-in-law, and
Marguerite.
Madame de Lorraine, who had not lost sight of her sister, then remarked,
instead of the cloud which she had before observed on her forehead, a
burning blush come into her cheeks. The duke approached still nearer,
and when he was within two steps of Marguerite, she appeared rather to
feel than see his presence, and turned round, making a violent effort
over herself in order to give her features an appearance of calmness and
indifference. The duke, then respectfully bowing, murmured in a low
tone,
"_Ipse attuli._"
That meant: "I have brought it, or brought it myself."
Marguerite returned the young duke's bow, and as she straightened
herself, replied, in the same tone,
"_Noctu pro more._"
That meant: "To-night, as usual."
These soft words, absorbed by the enormous collar which the princess
wore, as in the bell of a speaking-trumpet, were heard only by the
person to whom they were addressed; but brief as had been the
conference, it doubtless composed all the young couple had to say, for
after this exchange of two words for three, they separated, Marguerite
more thoughtful and the duke with his brow less clouded than when they
met. This little scene took place without the person most interested
appearing to remark it, for the King of Navarre had eyes but for one
lady, and she had around her a suite almost as numerous as that which
followed Marguerite de Valois. This was the beautiful Madame de Sauve.
Charlotte de Beaune Semblançay, granddaughter of the unfortunate
Semblançay, and wife of Simon de Fizes, Baron de Sauve, was one of the
ladies-in-waiting to Catharine de Médicis, and one of the most
redoubtable auxiliaries of this queen, who poured forth to her enemies
love-philtres when she dared not pour out Florentine poison. Delicately
fair, and by turns sparkling with vivacity or languishing in melancholy,
always ready for love and intrigue, the two great occupations which for
fifty years employed the court of the three succeeding kings,--a woman
in every acceptation of the word and in all the charm of the idea, from
the blue eye languishing or flashing with fire to the small rebellious
feet arched in their velvet slippers, Madame de Sauve had already for
some months taken complete possession of every faculty of the King of
Navarre, then beginning his career as a lover as well as a politician;
thus it was that Marguerite de Valois, a magnificent and royal beauty,
had not even excited admiration in her husband's heart; and what was
more strange, and astonished all the world, even from a soul so full of
darkness and mystery, Catharine de Médicis, while she prosecuted her
project of union between her daughter and the King of Navarre, had not
ceased to favor almost openly his amour with Madame de Sauve. But
despite this powerful aid, and despite the easy manners of the age, the
lovely Charlotte had hitherto resisted; and this resistance, unheard of,
incredible, unprecedented, even more than the beauty and wit of her who
resisted, had excited in the heart of the Béarnais a passion which,
unable to satisfy itself, had destroyed in the young king's heart all
timidity, pride, and even that carelessness, half philosophic, half
indolent, which formed the basis of his character.
Madame de Sauve had been only a few minutes in the ballroom; from spite
or grief she had at first resolved on not being present at her rival's
triumph, and under the pretext of an indisposition had allowed her
husband, who had been for five years secretary of state, to go alone to
the Louvre; but when Catharine de Médicis saw the baron without his
wife, she asked the cause that kept her dear Charlotte away, and when
she found that the indisposition was but slight, she wrote a few words
to her, which the lady hastened to obey. Henry, sad as he had at first
been at her absence, had yet breathed more freely when he saw M. de
Sauve enter alone; but just as he was about to pay some court to the
charming creature whom he was condemned, if not to love, at least to
treat as his wife, he unexpectedly saw Madame de Sauve arise from the
farther end of the gallery. He remained stationary on the spot, his eyes
fastened on the Circe who enthralled him as if by magic chains, and
instead of proceeding towards his wife, by a movement of hesitation
which betrayed more astonishment than alarm he advanced to meet Madame
de Sauve.
The courtiers, seeing the King of Navarre, whose inflammable heart they
knew, approach the beautiful Charlotte, had not the courage to prevent
their meeting, but drew aside complaisantly; so that at the very moment
when Marguerite de Valois and Monsieur de Guise exchanged the few words
in Latin which we have noted above, Henry, having approached Madame de
Sauve, began, in very intelligible French, although with somewhat of a
Gascon accent, a conversation by no means so mysterious.
"Ah, _ma mie_!" he said, "you have, then, come at the very moment when
they assured me that you were ill, and I had lost all hope of seeing
you."
"Would your majesty perhaps wish me to believe that it had cost you
something to lose this hope?" replied Madame de Sauve.
"By Heaven! I believe it!" replied the Béarnais; "know you not that you
are my sun by day and my star by night? By my faith, I was in deepest
darkness till you appeared and suddenly illumined all."
"Then, monseigneur, I serve you a very ill turn."
"What do you mean, _ma mie_?" inquired Henry.
"I mean that he who is master of the handsomest woman in France should
only have one desire--that the light should disappear and give way to
darkness, for happiness awaits you in the darkness."
"You know, cruel one, that my happiness is in the hands of one woman
only, and that she laughs at poor Henry."
"Oh!" replied the baroness, "I believed, on the contrary, that it was
this person who was the sport and jest of the King of Navarre." Henry
was alarmed at this hostile attitude, and yet he bethought him that it
betrayed jealous spite, and that jealous spite is only the mask of love.
"Indeed, dear Charlotte, you reproach me very unjustly, and I do not
comprehend how so lovely a mouth can be so cruel. Do you suppose for a
moment that it is I who give myself in marriage? No, _ventre saint
gris_, it is not I!"
"It is I, perhaps," said the baroness, sharply,--if ever the voice of
the woman who loves us and reproaches us for not loving her can seem
sharp.
"With your lovely eyes have you not seen farther, baroness? No, no;
Henry of Navarre is not marrying Marguerite de Valois."
"And who, pray, is?"
"Why, by Heaven! it is the reformed religion marrying the pope--that's
all."
"No, no, I cannot be deceived by your jests. Monseigneur loves Madame
Marguerite. And can I blame you? Heaven forbid! She is beautiful enough
to be adored."
Henry reflected for a moment, and, as he reflected, a meaning smile
curled the corner of his lips.
"Baroness," said he, "you seem to be seeking a quarrel with me, but you
have no right to do so. What have you done to prevent me from marrying
Madame Marguerite? Nothing. On the contrary, you have always driven me
to despair."
"And well for me that I have, monseigneur," replied Madame de Sauve.
"How so?"
"Why, of course, because you are marrying another woman!"
"I marry her because you love me not."
"If I had loved you, sire, I must have died in an hour."
"In an hour? What do you mean? And of what death would you have died?"
"Of jealousy!--for in an hour the Queen of Navarre will send away her
women, and your majesty your gentlemen."
"Is that really the thought that is uppermost in your mind, _ma mie_?"
"I did not say so. I only say, that if I loved you it would be uppermost
in my mind most tormentingly."
"Very well," said Henry, at the height of joy on hearing this
confession, the first which she had made to him, "suppose the King of
Navarre should not send away his gentlemen this evening?"
"Sire," replied Madame de Sauve, looking at the king with astonishment
for once unfeigned, "you say things impossible and incredible."
"What must I do to make you believe them?"
"Give me a proof--and that proof you cannot give me."
"Yes, baroness, yes! By Saint Henry, I will give it you!" exclaimed the
king, gazing at the young woman with eyes hot with love.
"Oh, your majesty!" exclaimed the lovely Charlotte in an undertone and
with downcast eyes, "I do not understand--No! no, it is impossible for
you to turn your back on the happiness awaiting you."
"There are four Henrys in this room, my adorable!" replied the king,
"Henry de France, Henry de Condé, Henry de Guise, but there is only one
Henry of Navarre."
"Well?"
"Well; if this Henry of Navarre is with you all night"--
"All night!"
"Yes; will that be a certain proof to you that he is not with any
other?"
"Ah! if you do that, sire," cried Madame Sauve.
"On the honor of a gentleman I will do it!"
Madame de Sauve raised her great eyes dewy with voluptuous promises and
looked at the king, whose heart was filled with an intoxicating joy.
"And then," said Henry, "what will you say?"
"I will say," replied Charlotte, "that your majesty really loves me."
"_Ventre saint gris_! then you shall say it, baroness, for it is true."
"But how can you manage it?" murmured Madame de Sauve.
"Oh! by Heaven! baroness, have you not about you some waiting-woman,
some girl whom you can trust?"
"Yes, Dariole is so devoted to me that she would let herself be cut in
pieces for me; she is a real treasure."
"By Heaven! then say to her that I will make her fortune when I am King
of France, as the astrologers prophesy."
Charlotte smiled, for even at this period the Gascon reputation of the
Béarnais was already established with respect to his promises.
"Well, then, what do you want Dariole to do?"
"Little for her, a great deal for me. Your apartment is over mine?"
"Yes."
"Let her wait behind the door. I will knock gently three times; she will
open the door, and you will have the proof that I have promised you."
Madame de Sauve kept silence for several seconds, and then, as if she
had looked around her to observe if she were overheard, she fastened her
gaze for a moment on the group clustering around the queen mother; brief
as the moment was, it was sufficient for Catharine and her
lady-in-waiting to exchange a look.
"Oh, if I were inclined," said Madame de Sauve, with a siren's accent
that would have melted the wax in Ulysses' ears, "if I were inclined to
make your majesty tell a falsehood"--
"_Ma mie_, try"--
"Ah, _ma foi_! I confess I am tempted to do so."
"Give in! Women are never so strong as after they are defeated."
"Sire, I hold you to your promise for Dariole when you shall be King of
France."
Henry uttered an exclamation of joy.
At the precise moment when this cry escaped the lips of the Béarnais,
the Queen of Navarre was replying to the Duc de Guise:
"_Noctu pro more_--to-night as usual."
Then Henry turned away from Madame de Sauve as happy as the Duc de Guise
had been when he left Marguerite de Valois.
An hour after the double scene we have just related, King Charles and
the queen mother retired to their apartments. Almost immediately the
rooms began to empty; the galleries exhibited the bases of their marble
columns. The admiral and the Prince de Condé were escorted home by four
hundred Huguenot gentlemen through the middle of the crowd, which hooted
as they passed. Then Henry de Guise, with the Lorraine gentlemen and the
Catholics, left in their turn, greeted by cries of joy and plaudits of
the people.
But Marguerite de Valois, Henry de Navarre, and Madame de Sauve lived in
the Louvre.
CHAPTER II.
THE QUEEN OF NAVARRE'S BEDCHAMBER.
The Duc de Guise escorted his sister-in-law, the Duchess de Nevers, to
her hôtel in the Rue du Chaume, facing the Rue de Brac, and after he had
put her into the hands of her women, he went to his own apartment to
change his dress, put on a night cloak, and armed himself with one of
those short, keen poniards which are called "_foi de gentilhomme_," and
were worn without swords; but as he took it off the table on which it
lay, he perceived a small billet between the blade and the scabbard.
He opened it, and read as follows:
"_I hope M. de Guise will not return to the Louvre to-night; or if he
does, that he will at least take the precaution to arm himself with a
good coat of mail and a proved sword._"
"Aha!" said the duke, addressing his valet, "this is a singular warning,
Maître Robin. Now be kind enough to tell me who has been here during my
absence."
"Only one person, monseigneur."
"Who?"
"Monsieur du Gast."
"Aha! In fact, methinks I recognize the handwriting. And you are sure
that Du Gast came? You saw him?"
"More than that, monseigneur; I spoke with him."
"Very good; then I will follow his advice--my steel jacket and my
sword."
The valet, accustomed to these changes of costume, brought both. The
duke put on his jacket, which was made of rings of steel so fine that it
was scarcely thicker than velvet; he then drew on over his coat of mail
his small clothes and a doublet of gray and silver, his favorite colors,
put on a pair of long boots which reached to the middle of his thighs,
covered his head with a velvet toque unadorned with feathers or precious
stones, threw over his shoulders a dark-colored cloak, hung a dagger by
his side, handed his sword to a page, the only attendant he allowed to
accompany him, and took the way to the Louvre.
As he went down the steps of the hôtel, the watchman of Saint Germain
l'Auxerrois had just announced one o'clock in the morning.
Though the night was far gone and the streets at this time were very far
from safe, no accident befell the adventurous prince on the way, and
safe and sound he approached the colossal mass of the ancient Louvre,
all the lights of which had been extinguished one after the other, so
that it rose portentous in its silence and darkness.
In front of the royal château was a deep fosse, looking into which were
the chambers of most of the princes who inhabited the palace.
Marguerite's apartment was on the first floor. But this first floor,
easily accessible but for the fosse, was, in consequence of the depth to
which that was cut, thirty feet from the bottom of the wall, and
consequently out of the reach of robbers or lovers; nevertheless the Duc
de Guise approached it without hesitation.
At the same moment was heard the noise of a window which opened on the
ground floor. This window was grated, but a hand appeared, lifted out
one of the bars which had been loosened, and dropped from it a silken
lace.
"Is that you, Gillonne?" said the duke, in a low voice.
"Yes, monseigneur," replied a woman's voice, in a still lower tone.
"And Marguerite?"
"Is waiting for you."
"'T is well."
Hereupon the duke made a signal to his page, who, opening his cloak,
took out a small rope ladder. The prince fastened one end to the silk
lace, and Gillonne, drawing it up, tied it securely. Then the prince,
after having buckled his sword to his belt, ascended without accident.
When he had entered, the bar was replaced and the window closed, while
the page, having seen his master quietly enter the Louvre, to the
windows of which he had accompanied him twenty times in the same way,
laid himself down in his cloak on the grass of the fosse, beneath the
shadow of the wall.
The night was extremely dark, and large drops of warm rain were falling
from the heavy clouds charged with electric fluid.
The Duc de Guise followed his guide, who was no other than the daughter
of Jacques de Matignon, maréchal of France. She was the especial
confidante of Marguerite, who kept no secret from her; and it was said
that among the number of mysteries entrusted to her incorruptible
fidelity, there were some so terrible as to compel her to keep the
rest.
There was no light left either in the low rooms or in the corridors,
only from time to time a livid glare illuminated the dark apartments
with a vivid flash, which as instantly disappeared.
The duke, still guided by his conductress, who held his hand, reached a
staircase built in the thick wall, and opening by a secret and invisible
door into the antechamber of Marguerite's apartment.
In this antechamber, which like all the other lower rooms was perfectly
dark, Gillonne stopped.
"Have you brought what the queen requested?" she inquired, in a low
voice.
"Yes," replied the Duc de Guise; "but I will give it only to her majesty
in person."
"Come, then, and do not lose an instant!" said a voice from the
darkness, which made the duke start, for he recognized it as
Marguerite's.
At the same moment a curtain of violet velvet covered with golden
fleurs-de-lis was raised, and the duke made out the form of the queen,
who in her impatience had come to meet him.
"I am here, madame," he then said; and he passed the curtain, which fell
behind him. So Marguerite de Valois herself now became the prince's
guide, leading him into the room which, however, he knew already, while
Gillonne, standing at the door, had raised her finger to her lips and
reassured her royal mistress.
As if she understood the duke's jealous apprehensions, Marguerite led
him to the bedchamber, and there paused.
"Well," she said, "are you satisfied, duke?"
"Satisfied, madame?" was the reply, "and with what?"
"Of the proof I give you," retorted Marguerite, with a slight tone of
vexation in her voice, "that I belong to a man who, on the very night of
his marriage, makes me of such small importance that he does not even
come to thank me for the honor I have done him, not in selecting, but in
accepting him for my husband."
"Oh! madame," said the duke, sorrowfully, "be assured he will come if
you desire it."
"And do you say that, Henry?" cried Marguerite; "you, who better than
any know the contrary of what you say? If I had that desire, should I
have asked you to come to the Louvre?"
"You have asked me to come to the Louvre, Marguerite, because you are
anxious to destroy every vestige of our past, and because that past
lives not only in my memory, but in this silver casket which I bring to
you."
"Henry, shall I say one thing to you?" replied Marguerite, gazing
earnestly at the duke; "it is that you are more like a schoolboy than a
prince. I deny that I have loved you! I desire to quench a flame which
will die, perhaps, but the reflection of which will never die! For the
loves of persons of my rank illumine and frequently devour the whole
epoch contemporary with them. No, no, duke; you may keep the letters of
your Marguerite, and the casket she has given you. She asks but one of
these letters, and that only because it is as dangerous for you as for
herself."
"It is all yours," said the duke. "Take the one that you wish to
destroy."
Marguerite searched anxiously in the open casket, and with a tremulous
hand took, one after the other, a dozen letters, only the addresses of
which she examined, as if by merely glancing at these she could recall
to her memory what the letters themselves contained; but after a close
scrutiny she looked at the duke, pale and agitated.
"Sir," she said, "what I seek is not here. Can you have lost it, by any
accident? for if it should fall into the hands of"--
"What letter do you seek, madame?"
"That in which I told you to marry without delay."
"As an excuse for your infidelity?"
Marguerite shrugged her shoulders.
"No; but to save your life. The one in which I told you that the king,
seeing our love and my exertions to break off your proposed marriage
with the Infanta of Portugal, had sent for his brother, the Bastard of
Angoulême, and said to him, pointing to two swords, '_With this slay
Henry de Guise this night, or with the other I will slay thee in the
morning._' Where is that letter?"
"Here," said the duke, drawing it from his breast.
Marguerite almost snatched it from his hands, opened it anxiously,
assured herself that it was really the one she desired, uttered an
exclamation of joy, and applying the lighted candle to it, the flames
instantly consumed the paper; then, as if Marguerite feared that her
imprudent words might be read in the very ashes, she trampled them under
foot.
During all this the Duc de Guise had watched his mistress attentively.
"Well, Marguerite," he said, when she had finished, "are you satisfied
now?"
"Yes, for now that you have wedded the Princesse de Porcian, my brother
will forgive me your love; while he would never have pardoned me for
revealing a secret such as that which in my weakness for you I had not
the strength to conceal from you."
"True," replied De Guise, "then you loved me."
"And I love you still, Henry, as much--more than ever!"
"You"--
"I do; for never more than at this moment did I need a sincere and
devoted friend. Queen, I have no throne; wife, I have no husband!"
The young prince shook his head sorrowfully.
"I tell you, I repeat to you, Henri, that my husband not only does not
love me, but hates--despises me; indeed, it seems to me that your
presence in the chamber in which he ought to be is proof of this hatred,
this contempt."
"It is not yet late, Madame, and the King of Navarre requires time to
dismiss his gentlemen; if he has not already come, he will come soon."
"And I tell you," cried Marguerite, with increasing vexation,--"I tell
you that he will not come!"
"Madame!" exclaimed Gillonne, suddenly entering, "the King of Navarre is
just leaving his apartments!"
"Oh, I knew he would come!" exclaimed the Duc de Guise.
"Henri," said Marguerite, in a quick tone, and seizing the duke's
hand,--"Henri, you shall see if I am a woman of my word, and if I may be
relied on. Henri, enter that closet."
"Madame, allow me to go while there is yet time, for reflect that the
first mark of love you bestow on him, I shall quit the cabinet, and then
woe to him!"
"Are you mad? Go in--go in, I say, and I will be responsible for all;"
and she pushed the duke into the closet.
It was time. The door was scarcely closed behind the prince when the
King of Navarre, escorted by two pages, who carried eight torches of
yellow wax in two candelabra, appeared, smiling, on the threshold of the
chamber. Marguerite concealed her trouble, and made a low bow.
"You are not yet in bed, Madame," observed the Béarnais, with his frank
and joyous look. "Were you by chance waiting for me?"
"No, Monsieur," replied Marguerite; "for yesterday you repeated to me
that our marriage was a political alliance, and that you would never
thwart my wishes."
"Assuredly; but that is no reason why we should not confer a little
together. Gillonne, close the door, and leave us."
Marguerite, who was sitting, then rose and extended her hand, as if to
desire the pages to remain.
"Must I call your women?" inquired the king. "I will do so if such be
your desire, although I confess that for what I have to say to you I
should prefer our being alone;" and the King of Navarre advanced towards
the closet.
"No!" exclaimed Marguerite, hastily going before him,--"no! there is no
occasion for that; I am ready to hear you."
The Béarnais had learned what he desired to know; he threw a rapid and
penetrating glance towards the cabinet, as if in spite of the thick
curtain which hung before it, he would dive into its obscurity, and
then, turning his looks to his lovely wife, pale with terror, he said
with the utmost composure, "In that case, Madame, let us confer for a
few moments."
"As your Majesty pleases," said the young wife, falling into, rather
than sitting upon the seat which her husband pointed out to her.
The Béarnais placed himself beside her. "Madame," he continued,
"whatever many persons may have said, I think our marriage is a good
marriage. I stand well with you; you stand well with me."
"But--" said Marguerite, alarmed.
"Consequently, we ought," observed the King of Navarre, without seeming
to notice Marguerite's hesitation, "to act towards each other like good
allies, since we have to-day sworn alliance in the presence of God.
Don't you think so?"
"Unquestionably, Monsieur."
"I know, Madame, how great your penetration is; I know how the ground at
court is intersected with dangerous abysses. Now, I am young, and
although I never injured any one, I have a great many enemies. In which
camp, Madame, ought I to range her who bears my name, and who has vowed
her affection to me at the foot of the altar?"
"Monsieur, could you think--"
"I think nothing, Madame; I hope, and I am anxious to know that my hope
is well founded. It is quite certain that our marriage is merely a
pretext or a snare."
Marguerite started, for perhaps the same thought had occurred to her own
mind.
"Now, then, which of the two?" continued Henri de Navarre. "The king
hates me; the Duc d'Anjou hates me; the Duc d'Alençon hates me;
Catherine de Médicis hated my mother too much not to hate me."
"Oh, Monsieur, what are you saying?"
"The truth, madame," replied the king; "and in order that it may not be
supposed that I am deceived as to Monsieur de Mouy's assassination and
the poisoning of my mother, I wish that some one were here who could
hear me."
"Oh, sire," replied Marguerite, with an air as calm and smiling as she
could assume, "you know very well that there is no person here but you
and myself."
"It is for that very reason that I thus give vent to my thoughts; this
it is that emboldens me to declare that I am not deceived by the
caresses showered on me by the House of France or the House of
Lorraine."
"Sire, sire!" exclaimed Marguerite.
"Well, what is it, _ma mie_?" inquired Henry, smiling in his turn.
"Why, sire, such remarks are very dangerous."
"Not when we are alone," observed the king. "I was saying"--
Marguerite was evidently distressed; she desired to stop every word the
king uttered, but he continued, with his apparent good nature:
"I was telling you that I was threatened on all sides: threatened by the
King, threatened by the Duc d'Alençon, threatened by the Duc d'Anjou,
threatened by the queen mother, threatened by the Duc de Guise, by the
Duc de Mayenne, by the Cardinal de Lorraine--threatened, in fact, by
every one. One feels that instinctively, as you know, madame. Well,
against all these threats, which must soon become attacks, I can defend
myself by your aid, for you are beloved by all the persons who detest
me."
"I?" said Marguerite.
"Yes, you," replied Henry, with the utmost ease of manner; "yes, you are
beloved by King Charles, you are beloved" (he laid strong emphasis on
the word) "by the Duc d'Alençon, you are beloved by Queen Catharine, and
you are beloved by the Duc de Guise."
"Sire!" murmured Marguerite.
"Yes; and what is there astonishing in the fact that every one loves
you? All I have mentioned are your brothers or relatives. To love one's
brothers and relatives is to live according to God's heart."
"But what, then," asked Marguerite, greatly overcome, "what do you
mean?"
"What I have just said, that if you will be--I do not mean my love--but
my ally, I can brave everything; while, on the other hand, if you become
my enemy, I am lost."
"Oh, your enemy!--never, sir!" exclaimed Marguerite.
"And my love--never either?"
"Perhaps"--
"And my ally?"
"Most decidedly."
And Marguerite turned round and offered her hand to the king.
Henry took it, kissed it gallantly, and retaining it in his own, more
from a desire of investigation than from any sentiment of tenderness,
said:
"Very well, I believe you, madame, and accept the alliance. They married
us without our knowing each other--without our loving each other; they
married us without consulting us--us whom they united. We therefore owe
nothing to each other as man and wife; you see that I even go beyond
your wishes and confirm this evening what I said to you yesterday; but
we ally ourselves freely and without any compulsion. We ally ourselves,
as two loyal hearts who owe each other mutual protection should ally
themselves; 't is as such you understand it?"
"Yes, sir," said Marguerite, endeavoring to withdraw her hand.
"Well, then," continued the Béarnais, with his eyes fastened on the door
of the cabinet, "as the first proof of a frank alliance is the most
perfect confidence, I will now relate to you, madame, in all its
details, the plan I have formed in order that we may victoriously meet
and overcome all these enmities."
"Sire"--said Marguerite, in spite of herself turning her eyes toward the
closet, whilst the Béarnais, seeing his trick succeed, laughed in his
sleeve.
"This is what I mean to do," he continued, without appearing to remark
his young wife's nervousness, "I intend"--
"Sire," said Marguerite, rising hastily, and seizing the king's arm,
"allow me a little breath; my emotion--the heat--overpowers me."
And, in truth, Marguerite was as pale and trembling as if she was about
to fall on the carpet.
Henry went straight to a window some distance off, and opened it. This
window looked out on the river.
Marguerite followed him.
"Silence, sire,--silence, for your own sake!" she murmured.
"What, madame," said the Béarnais, with his peculiar smile, "did you not
tell me we were alone?"
"Yes, sire; but did you not hear me say that by the aid of a tube
introduced into the ceiling or the wall everything could be heard?"
"Well, madame, well," said the Béarnais, earnestly and in a low voice,
"it is true you do not love me, but you are, at least, honorable."
"What do you mean, sire?"
"I mean that if you were capable of betraying me, you would have allowed
me to go on, as I was betraying myself. You stopped me--I now know that
some one is concealed here--that you are an unfaithful wife, but a
faithful ally; and just now, I confess, I have more need of fidelity in
politics than in love."
"Sire!" replied Marguerite, confused.
"Good, good; we will talk of this hereafter," said Henry, "when we know
each other better."
Then, raising his voice--"Well," he continued, "do you breathe more
freely now, madame?"
"Yes, sire,--yes!"
"Well, then," said the Béarnais, "I will no longer intrude on you. I
owed you my respects, and some advances toward better acquaintance;
deign, then, to accept them, as they are offered, with all my heart.
Good-night, and happy slumbers!"
Marguerite raised her eyes, shining with gratitude, and offered her
husband her hand.
"It is agreed," she said.
"Political alliance, frank and loyal?" asked Henry.
"Frank and loyal," was the reply.
And the Béarnais went toward the door, followed by Marguerite's look as
if she were fascinated. Then, when the curtain had fallen between them
and the bedchamber:
"Thanks, Marguerite," he said, in a quick low tone, "thanks! You are a
true daughter of France. I leave you quite tranquil: lacking your love,
your friendship will not fail me. I rely on you, as you, on your side,
may rely on me. Adieu, madame."
And Henry kissed his wife's hand, and pressed it gently. Then with a
quick step he returned to his own apartment, saying to himself, in a low
voice, in the corridor:
"Who the devil is with her? Is it the King, or the Duc d'Anjou, or the
Duc d'Alençon, or the Duc de Guise? is it a brother or a lover? is it
both? I' faith, I am almost sorry now I asked the baroness for this
rendezvous; but, as my word is pledged, and Dariole is waiting for
me--no matter. Yet, _ventre saint gris_! this Margot, as my
brother-in-law, King Charles, calls her, is an adorable creature."
And with a step which betrayed a slight hesitation, Henry of Navarre
ascended the staircase which led to Madame de Sauve's apartments.
Marguerite had followed him with her eyes until he disappeared. Then
she returned to her chamber, and found the duke at the door of the
cabinet. The sight of him almost touched her with remorse.
The duke was grave, and his knitted brow bespoke bitter reflection.
"Marguerite is neutral to-day," he said; "in a week Marguerite will be
hostile."
"Ah! you have been listening?" said Marguerite.
"What else could I do in the cabinet?"
"And did you find that I behaved otherwise than the Queen of Navarre
should behave?"
"No; but differently from the way in which the mistress of the Duc de
Guise should behave."
"Sir," replied the queen, "I may not love my husband, but no one has the
right to require me to betray him. Tell me honestly: would you reveal
the secrets of the Princesse de Porcian, your wife?"
"Come, come, madame," answered the duke, shaking his head, "this is very
well; I see that you do not love me as in those days when you disclosed
to me the plot of the King against me and my party."
"The King was strong and you were weak; Henry is weak and you are
strong. You see I always play a consistent part."
"Only you pass from one camp to another."
"That was a right I acquired, sir, in saving your life."
"Good, madame; and as when lovers separate, they return all the gifts
that have passed between them, I will save your life, in my turn, if
ever the need arises, and we shall be quits."
And the duke bowed and left the room, nor did Marguerite attempt to
retain him.
In the antechamber he found Gillonne, who guided him to the window on
the ground floor, and in the fosse he found his page, with whom he
returned to the Hôtel de Guise.
Marguerite, in a dreamy mood, went to the opened window.
"What a marriage night!" she murmured to herself; "the husband flees
from me--the lover forsakes me!"
At that moment, coming from the Tour de Bois, and going up toward the
Moulin de la Monnaie, on the other side of the fosse passed a student,
his hand on his hip, and singing:
"SONG.
"Tell me why, O maiden fair,
When I burn to bite thy hair,
And to kiss thy rosy lips,
And to touch thy lovely breast,
Like a nun thou feign'st thee blest
In the cloister's sad eclipse?
"Who will win the precious prize
Of thy brow, thy mouth, thine eyes--
Of thy bosom sweet--what lover?
Wilt thou all thy charms devote
To grim Pluton when the boat
Charon rows shall take thee over?
"After thou hast sailed across,
Loveliest, then wilt find but loss--
All thy beauty will decay.
When I die and meet thee there
In the shades I'll never swear
Thou wert once my mistress gay!
"Therefore, darling, while we live,
Change thy mind and tokens give--
Kisses from thy honey mouth!
Else when thou art like to die
Thou 'lt repent thy cruelty,
Filling all my life with drouth!"
Marguerite listened with a melancholy smile; then when the student's
voice was lost in the distance, she shut the window, and called Gillonne
to help her to prepare for bed.
CHAPTER III.
THE POET-KING.
The next day and those that followed were devoted to festivals, balls,
and tournaments.
The same amalgamation continued to take place between the two parties.
The caresses and compliments lavished were enough to turn the heads of
the most bigoted Huguenots. Père Cotton was to be seen dining and
carousing with the Baron de Courtaumer; the Duc de Guise went boating on
the Seine with the Prince de Condé. King Charles seemed to have laid
aside his usual melancholy, and could not get enough of the society of
his new brother-in-law, Henry. Moreover, the queen mother was so gay,
and so occupied with embroidery, ornaments, and plumes, that she could
not sleep.
The Huguenots, to some degree contaminated by this new Capua, began to
assume silken pourpoints, wear devices, and parade before certain
balconies, as if they were Catholics.
On every side there was such a reaction in favor of the Protestants that
it seemed as if the whole court was about to become Protestant; even the
admiral, in spite of his experience, was deceived, and was so carried
away that one evening he forgot for two whole hours to chew on his
toothpick, which he always used from two o'clock, at which time he
finished his dinner, until eight o'clock at night, when he sat down to
supper.
The evening on which the admiral thus unaccountably deviated from his
usual habit, King Charles IX. had invited Henry of Navarre and the Duc
de Guise to sup with him. After the repast he took them into his
chamber, and was busily explaining to them the ingenious mechanism of a
wolf-trap he had invented, when, interrupting himself,--
"Isn't the admiral coming to-night?" he asked. "Who has seen him to-day
and can tell me anything about him?"
"I have," said the King of Navarre; "and if your Majesty is anxious
about his health, I can reassure you, for I saw him this morning at six,
and this evening at seven o'clock."
"Aha!" replied the King, whose eyes were instantly fixed with a
searching expression on his brother-in-law; "for a new-married man,
Harry, you are very early."
"Yes, sire," answered the King of Navarre, "I wished to inquire of the
admiral, who knows everything, whether some gentlemen I am expecting are
on their way hither."
"More gentlemen! why, you had eight hundred on the day of your wedding,
and fresh ones join you every day. You are surely not going to invade
us?" said Charles IX., smiling.
The Duc de Guise frowned.
"Sire," returned the Béarnais, "a war with Flanders is spoken of, and I
am collecting round me all those gentlemen of my country and its
neighborhood whom I think can be useful to your Majesty."
The duke, calling to mind the pretended project Henry had mentioned to
Marguerite the day of their marriage, listened still more attentively.
"Well, well," replied the King, with his sinister smile, "the more the
better; let them all come, Henry. But who are these gentlemen?--brave
ones, I trust."
"I know not, sire, if my gentlemen will ever equal those of your
Majesty, or the Duc d'Anjou's, or the Duc de Guise's, but I know that
they will do their best."
"Do you expect many?"
"Ten or a dozen more."
"What are their names?"
"Sire, their names escape me, and with the exception of one, whom
Téligny recommended to me as a most accomplished gentleman, and whose
name is De la Mole, I cannot tell."
"De la Mole!" exclaimed the King, who was deeply skilled in the science
of genealogy; "is he not a Lerac de la Mole, a Provençal?"
"Exactly so, sire; you see I recruit even in Provence."
"And I," added the Duc de Guise, with a sarcastic smile, "go even
further than his majesty the King of Navarre, for I seek even in
Piedmont all the trusty Catholics I can find."
"Catholic or Huguenot," interrupted the King, "it little matters to me,
so they are brave."
The King's face while he uttered these words, which thus united
Catholics and Huguenots in his thoughts, bore such an expression of
indifference that the duke himself was surprised.
"Your Majesty is occupied with the Flemings," said the admiral, to whom
Charles had some days previously accorded the favor of entering without
being announced, and who had overheard the King's last words.
"Ah! here is my father the admiral!" cried Charles, opening his arms.
"We were speaking of war, of gentlemen, of brave men--and _he_ comes. It
is like the lodestone which attracts the iron. My brother-in-law of
Navarre and my cousin of Guise are expecting reinforcements for your
army. That was what we were talking about."
"And these reinforcements are on their way," said the admiral.
"Have you had news of them?" asked the Béarnais.
"Yes, my son, and particularly of M. de la Mole; he was at Orléans
yesterday, and will be in Paris to-morrow or the day after."
"The devil! You must be a sorcerer, admiral," said the Duc de Guise, "to
know what is taking place at thirty or forty leagues' distance. I should
like to know for a certainty what happened or is happening before
Orléans."
Coligny remained unmoved at this savage onslaught, which evidently
alluded to the death of François de Guise, the duke's father, killed
before Orléans by Poltrot de Méré, and not without a suspicion that the
admiral had advised the crime.
"Sir," replied he, coldly and with dignity, "I am a sorcerer whenever I
wish to know anything positively that concerns my own affairs or the
King's. My courier arrived an hour ago from Orléans, having travelled,
thanks to the post, thirty-two leagues in a day. As M. de la Mole has
only his own horse, he rides but ten leagues a day, and will not arrive
in Paris before the 24th. Here is all my magic."
"Bravo, my father, a clever answer!" cried Charles IX.; "teach these
young men that wisdom as well as age has whitened your hair and beard;
so now we will send them to talk of their tournaments and their
love-affairs and you and I will stay and talk of our wars. Good
councillors make good kings, my father. Leave us, gentlemen. I wish to
talk with the admiral."
The two young men took their departure; the King of Navarre first, then
the Duc de Guise; but outside the door they separated, after a formal
salute.
Coligny followed them with his eyes, not without anxiety, for he never
saw those two personified hatreds meet without a dread that some new
lightning flash would leap forth. Charles IX. saw what was passing in
his mind, and, going to him, laid his hand on his arm:
"Have no fear, my father; I am here to preserve peace and obedience. I
am really a king, now that my mother is no longer queen, and she is no
longer queen now that Coligny is my father."
"Oh, sire!" said the admiral, "Queen Catharine"--
"Is a marplot. Peace is impossible with her. These Italian Catholics are
furious, and will hear of nothing but extermination; now, for my part, I
not only wish to pacify, but I wish to put power into the hands of those
that profess the reformed religion. The others are too dissolute, and
scandalize me by their love affairs and their quarrels. Shall I speak
frankly to you?" continued Charles, redoubling in energy. "I mistrust
every one about me except my new friends. I suspect Tavannes's ambition.
Vieilleville cares only for good wine, and would betray his king for a
cask of Malvoisie; Montmorency thinks only of the chase, and spends all
his time among his dogs and falcons; the Comte de Retz is a Spaniard;
the De Guises are Lorraines. I think there are no true Frenchmen in
France, except myself, my brother-in-law of Navarre, and you; but I am
chained to the throne, and cannot command armies; it is as much as I can
do to hunt at my ease at Saint Germain or Rambouillet. My brother-in-law
of Navarre is too young and too inexperienced; besides, he seems to me
exactly like his father Antoine, ruined by women. There is but you, my
father, who can be called, at the same time, as brave as Cæsar and as
wise as Plato; so that I scarcely know what to do--keep you near me, as
my adviser, or send you to the army, as its general. If you act as my
counsellor, who will command? If you command, who will be my
counsellor?"
"Sire," said Coligny, "we must conquer first, and then take counsel
after the victory."
"That is your advice--so be it; Monday you shall leave for Flanders, and
I for Amboise."
"Your Majesty leaves Paris, then?"
"Yes; I am weary of this confusion, and of these fêtes. I am not a man
of action; I am a dreamer. I was not born to be a king; I was born to be
a poet. You shall form a council which shall govern while you are at
war, and provided my mother is not in it, all will go well. I have
already sent word to Ronsard to join me; and yonder, we two together,
far from all tumult, far from the world, far from evil men, under our
mighty trees on the banks of the river, with the murmur of brooks in
our ears, will talk about divine things, the only compensation which
there is in the world for the affairs of men. Wait! Hear these lines in
which I invite him to join me; I wrote them this morning."
Coligny smiled. Charles IX. rubbed his hand over his brow, yellow and
shining like ivory, and repeated in a kind of sing-song the following
couplets:
"Ronsard, I am full sure that if you see me not,
Your great King's voice by you will shortly be forgot.
But as a slight reminder--know I still persevere
In making skill of poesy my sole endeavor.
And that is why I send to you this warm appeal,
To fill your mind with new, enthusiastic zeal.
"No longer then amuse yourself with home distractions;
Past is the time for gardening and its attractions.
Come, follow with your King, who loves you most of all,
For that the sweet strong verses from your lips do fall.
And if Ardoise shall not behold you shortly present,
A mighty quarrel will break out and prove unpleasant!"
"Bravo! sire, bravo!" cried Coligny, "I am better versed in matters of
war than in matters of poetry, but it seems to me that those lines are
equal to the best, even written by Ronsard, or Dorat, or even Michel de
l'Hôpital, Chancellor of France."
"Ah! my father!" exclaimed Charles IX.; "would what you said were true!
For the title of poet, you see, is what I am ambitious, above all
things, to gain; and as I said a few days ago to my master in poetry:
"'The art of making verse, if one were criticised,
Should ever be above the art of reigning prized.
The crowns that you and I upon our brows are wearing,
I as the King receive, as poet you are sharing.
Your lofty soul, enkindled by celestial beams,
Flames of itself, while mine with borrowed glory gleams.
If 'mid the gods I ask which has the better showing,
Ronsard is their delight: I, but their image glowing.
Your lyre, which ravishes with sounds so sweet and bold,
Subdues men's minds, while I their bodies only hold!
It makes you master, lifts you into lofty regions,
Where even the haughty tyrant ne'er dared claim allegiance.'"
"Sire," said Coligny, "I was well aware that your Majesty conversed with
the Muses, but I did not know that you were their chief counsellor."
"After you, my father, after you. And in order that I may not be
disturbed in my relations with them, I wish to put you at the head of
everything. So listen: I must now go and reply to a new madrigal my dear
and illustrious poet has sent me. I cannot, therefore, give you the
documents necessary to make you acquainted with the question now
debating between Philip II. and myself. There is, besides, a plan of the
campaign drawn up by my ministers. I will find it all for you, and give
it to you to-morrow."
"At what time, sire?"
"At ten o'clock; and if by chance I am busy making verses, or in my
cabinet writing, well--you will come in just the same, and take all the
papers which you will find on the table in this red portfolio. The color
is remarkable, and you cannot mistake it. I am now going to write to
Ronsard."
"Adieu, sire!"
"Adieu, my father!"
"Your hand?"
"What, my hand? In my arms, in my heart, there is your place! Come, my
old soldier, come!"
And Charles IX., drawing Coligny toward him as he bowed, pressed his
lips to his white hair.
The admiral left the room, wiping away a tear.
Charles IX. followed him with his eyes as long as he could see, and
listened as long as he could catch a sound; then, when he could no
longer hear or see anything, he bent his head over toward his shoulder,
as his custom was, and slowly entered his armory.
This armory was the king's favorite apartment; there he took his
fencing-lessons with Pompée, and his poetry lessons with Ronsard. He had
gathered there a great collection of the most costly weapons he had been
able to find. The walls were hung with axes, shields, spears, halberds,
pistols, and muskets, and that day a famous armorer had brought him a
magnificent arquebuse, on the barrel of which were inlaid in silver
these four lines, composed by the royal poet himself:
"_Pour maintenir la foy,_
_Je suis belle et fidèle._
_Aux ennemis du Roi,_
_Je suis belle et cruelle._"[1]
Charles, as we have said, entered this room, and after having shut the
door by which he had entered, he raised the tapestry that masked a
passage leading into a little chamber, where a woman kneeling before a
_priedieu_ was saying her prayers.
As this movement was executed noiselessly, and the footsteps of the
king, deadened by the thick carpet, made no more noise than a phantom's,
the kneeling woman heard no sound, and continued to pray. Charles stood
for a moment pensively looking at her.
She was a woman of thirty-four or thirty-five years of age, whose
vigorous beauty was set off by the costume of the peasants of Caux. She
wore the high cap so much the fashion at the court of France during the
time of Isabel of Bavaria, and her red bodice was embroidered with gold,
like those of the _contadine_ of Nettuno and Sora. The apartment which
she had for nearly twenty years occupied was close to the King's
bed-chamber and presented a singular mixture of elegance and rusticity.
In equal measure the palace had encroached upon the cottage, and the
cottage upon the palace, so that the room combined the simplicity of the
peasant woman and the luxury of the court lady.
The _priedieu_ on which she knelt was of oak, marvellously carved,
covered with velvet and with gold fringes, while the Bible from which
she was reading (for she was of the reformed religion) was very old and
torn, like those found in the poorest cottages; now everything in the
room was typified by the _priedieu_ and the Bible.
"Eh, Madelon!" said the King.
The kneeling woman lifted her head smilingly at the well-known voice,
and rising from her knees,--
"Ah! it is you, my son," said she.
"Yes, nurse; come here."
Charles IX. let fall the curtain, and sat down on the arm of an
easy-chair. The nurse appeared.
"What do you want with me, Charlot?"
"Come near, and answer in a low tone."
The nurse approached him with a familiarity such as might come from that
maternal affection felt by a woman for her nursling, but attributed by
the pamphlets of the time to a source infinitely less pure.
"Here I am," said she; "speak!"
"Is the man I sent for come?"
"He has been here half an hour."
Charles rose, approached the window, looked to assure himself there were
no eavesdroppers, went to the door and looked out there also, shook the
dust from his trophies of arms, patted a large greyhound which followed
him wherever he went, stopping when he stopped and moving when he
moved,--then returning to his nurse:
"Very well, nurse, let him come in," said he.
The worthy woman disappeared by the same passage by which she had
entered, while the king went and leaned against a table on which were
scattered arms of every kind.
Scarcely had he done so when the portière was again lifted, and the
person whom he expected entered.
He was a man of about forty, his eyes gray and false, his nose curved
like the beak of a screech-owl, his cheek-bones prominent. His face
tried to look respectful, but all that he could do was to wear a
hypocritical smile on his lips blanched with fear.
Charles gently put his hand behind him, and grasped the butt of a
pistol of a new construction, that was discharged, not by a match, as
formerly, but by a flint brought in contact with a wheel of steel. He
fixed his dull eyes steadily on the newcomer; meantime he whistled, with
perfect precision and with remarkable sweetness, one of his favorite
hunting-airs.
After a pause of some minutes, during which the expression of the
stranger's face grew more and more discomposed,
"You are the person," said the King, "called François de Louvièrs
Maurevel?"
"Yes, sire."
"Captain of petardeers?"
"Yes, sire."
"I wanted to see you."
Maurevel made a low bow.
"You know," continued Charles, laying a stress on each word, "that I
love all my subjects equally?"
"I know," stammered Maurevel, "that your Majesty is the father of your
people."
"And that the Huguenots and Catholics are equally my children?"
Maurevel remained silent, but his agitation was manifest to the King's
piercing eyes, although the person whom he was addressing was almost
concealed in the darkness.
"Does this displease you," said the King, "you who have waged such a
bitter war on the Huguenots?"
Maurevel fell on his knees.
"Sire," stammered he, "believe that"--
"I believe," continued Charles, looking more and more keenly at
Maurevel, while his eyes, which at first had seemed like glass, now
became almost fiery, "I believe that you had a great desire at
Moncontour to kill the admiral, who has just left me; I believe you
missed your aim, and that then you entered the army of my brother, the
Duc d'Anjou; I believe that then you went for a second time over to the
prince's and there took service in the company of M. de Mouy de Saint
Phale"--
"Oh, sire!"
"A brave gentleman from Picardy"--
"Sire, sire!" cried Maurevel, "do not overwhelm me."
"He was a brave officer," continued Charles, whose features assumed an
aspect of almost ferocious cruelty, "who received you as if you had been
his son; fed you, lodged you, and clothed you."
Maurevel uttered a despairing sigh.
"You called him your father, I believe," continued the King, pitilessly,
"and a tender friendship existed between you and the young De Mouy, his
son."
Maurevel, still on his knees, bowed low, more and more crushed under the
indignation of the King, who stood immovable, like a statue whose lips
only are endowed with vitality.
"By the way," continued the King, "M. de Guise was to give you ten
thousand crowns if you killed the admiral--was he not?"
The assassin in consternation struck his forehead against the floor.
"As regards your worthy father, the Sieur de Mouy, you were one day
acting as his escort in a reconnaissance toward Chevreux. He dropped his
whip and dismounted to pick it up. You were alone with him; you took a
pistol from your holster, and while he was bending over, you shot him in
the back; then seeing he was dead--for you killed him on the spot--you
escaped on the horse he had given you. This is your history, I believe?"
And as Maurevel remained mute under this accusation, every circumstance
of which was true, Charles IX. began to whistle again, with the same
precision and melody, the same hunting-air.
"Now, then, murderer!" said he after a little, "do you know I have a
great mind to have you hanged?"
"Oh, your Majesty!" cried Maurevel.
"Young De Mouy entreated me to do so only yesterday, and I scarcely knew
what answer to make him, for his demand was perfectly just."
Maurevel clasped his hands.
"All the more just, because I am, as you say, the father of my people;
and because, as I answered you, now that I am reconciled to the
Huguenots, they are as much my children as the Catholics."
"Sire," said Maurevel, in despair, "my life is in your hands; do with it
what you will."
"You are quite right, and I would not give a groat for it."
"But, sire," asked the assassin, "is there no means of redeeming my
crime?"
"None that I know of; only if I were in your place--but thank God I am
not"--
"Well, sire, if you were in my place?" murmured Maurevel, his eyes fixed
on the King's lips.
"I think I could extricate myself," said the King.
Maurevel raised himself on one knee and one hand, fixing his eyes upon
Charles to make certain that he was not jesting.
"I am very fond of young De Mouy," said the King; "but I am equally fond
of my cousin De Guise; and if my cousin asked me to spare a man that the
other wanted me to hang, I confess I should be embarrassed; but for
policy as well as religion's sake I should comply with my cousin De
Guise's request, for De Mouy, brave captain though he be, is but a petty
personage compared with a prince of Lorraine."
During these words, Maurevel slowly rose, like a man whose life is
saved.
"In your critical situation it would be a very important thing to gain
my cousin De Guise's favor. So I am going to tell you what he said to me
last night."
Maurevel drew nearer.
"'Imagine, sire,' said he to me, 'that every morning, at ten o'clock, my
deadliest enemy passes down the Rue Saint Germain l'Auxerrois, on his
return from the Louvre. I see him from a barred window in the room of my
old preceptor, the Canon Pierre Piles, and I pray the devil to open the
earth and swallow him in its abysses.' Now, Maître Maurevel," continued
the King, "perhaps if you were the devil, or if for an instant you
should take his place, that would perhaps please my cousin De Guise."
Maurevel's infernal smile came back to his lips, though they were still
bloodless with terror, and he stammered out these words:
"But, sire, I cannot make the earth open."
"Yet you made it open wide enough for the worthy De Mouy, if I remember
correctly. After this you will tell me how with a pistol--have you not
that pistol still?"
"Forgive me, sire, I am a still better marksman with an arquebuse than a
pistol," replied Maurevel, now quite reassured.
"Pistol or arquebuse makes no difference," said the King; "I am sure my
cousin De Guise will not cavil over the choice of methods."
"But," said Maurevel, "I must have a weapon I can rely on, as, perhaps,
I shall have to fire from a long distance."
"I have ten arquebuses in this room," replied Charles IX., "with which I
can hit a crown-piece at a hundred and fifty paces--will you try one?"
"Most willingly, sire!" cried Maurevel, with the greatest joy, going in
the direction of one which was standing in a corner of the room. It was
the one which that day had been brought to the King.
"No, not that one," said the King, "not that one; I reserve that for
myself. Some day I am going to have a grand hunt and then I hope to use
it. Take any other you like."
Maurevel took one down from a trophy.
"And who is this enemy, sire?" asked the assassin.
"How should I know," replied Charles, withering the wretch with his
contemptuous look.
"I must ask M. de Guise, then," faltered Maurevel.
The King shrugged his shoulders.
"Do not ask," said he; "for M. de Guise will not answer. Do people
generally answer such questions? Those that do not wish to be hanged
must guess them."
"But how shall I know him?"
"I tell you he passes the Canon's house every morning at ten o'clock."
"But many pass that house. Would your Majesty deign to give me any
certain sign?"
"Oh, that is easy enough; to-morrow, for example, he will carry a red
morocco portfolio under his arm."
"That is sufficient, sire."
"You still have the fast horse M. de Mouy gave you?"
"Sire, I have one of the fleetest of horses."
"Oh, I am not in the least anxious about you; only it is as well to let
you know the monastery has a back door."
"Thanks, sire; pray Heaven for me!"
"Oh, a thousand devils! pray to Satan rather; for only by his aid can
you escape a halter."
"Adieu, sire."
"Adieu! By the way, M. de Maurevel, remember that if you are heard of
before ten to-morrow, or are _not_ heard of afterward, there is a
dungeon at the Louvre."
And Charles IX. calmly began to whistle, with more than usual precision,
his favorite air.
CHAPTER IV.
THE EVENING OF THE 24TH OF AUGUST, 1572.
Our readers have not forgotten that in the previous chapter we mentioned
a gentleman named De la Mole whom Henry of Navarre was anxiously
expecting.
This young gentleman, as the admiral had announced, entered Paris by the
gate of Saint Marcel the evening of the 24th of August, 1572; and
bestowing a contemptuous glance on the numerous hostelries that
displayed their picturesque signs on either side of him, he spurred his
steaming horse on into the heart of the city, and after having crossed
the Place Maubert, Le Petit Pont, the Pont Notre-Dame, and skirted the
quays, he stopped at the end of the Rue de Bresec, which we have since
corrupted into the Rue de l'Arbre Sec, and for the greater convenience
of our readers we will call by its modern name.
The name pleased him, no doubt, for he entered the street, and finding
on his left a large sheet-iron plate swinging, creaking on its hinges,
with an accompaniment of little bells, he stopped and read these words,
"_La Belle Étoile_," written on a scroll beneath the sign, which was a
most attractive one for a famished traveller, as it represented a fowl
roasting in the midst of a black sky, while a man in a red cloak held
out his hands and his purse toward this new-fangled constellation.
"Here," said the gentleman to himself, "is an inn that promises well,
and the landlord must be a most ingenious fellow. I have always heard
that the Rue de l'Arbre Sec was near the Louvre; and, provided that the
interior answers to the exterior, I shall be admirably lodged."
While the newcomer was thus indulging in this monologue another horseman
who had entered the street at the other end, that is to say, by the Rue
Saint-Honoré, stopped also to admire the sign of _La Belle Étoile_.
The gentleman whom we already know, at least by name, rode a white steed
of Spanish lineage and wore a black doublet ornamented with jet; his
cloak was of dark violet velvet; his boots were of black leather, and he
had a sword and poniard with hilts of chased steel.
Now if we pass from his costume to his features we shall conclude that
he was twenty-four or twenty-five years of age. His complexion was dark;
his eyes were blue; he had a delicate mustache and brilliant teeth which
seemed to light up his whole face when his exquisitely modelled lips
parted in a sweet and melancholy smile.
The contrast between him and the second traveller was very striking.
Beneath his cocked hat escaped a profusion of frizzled hair, red rather
than brown; beneath this mop of hair sparkled a pair of gray eyes which
at the slightest opposition grew so fierce that they seemed black; a
fair complexion, thin lips, a tawny mustache, and admirable teeth
completed the description of his face. Taken all in all, with his white
skin, lofty stature, and broad shoulders, he was indeed a _beau
cavalier_ in the ordinary acceptation of the term, and during the last
hour which he had employed in staring up at all the windows, under the
pretext of looking for signs, he had attracted the general attention of
women, while the men, though they may have felt inclined to laugh at his
scanty cloak, his tight-fitting small-clothes, and his old-fashioned
boots, checked their rising mirth with a most cordial _Dieu vous garde_,
after they had more attentively studied his face, which every moment
assumed a dozen different expressions, but never that good-natured one
characteristic of a bewildered provincial.
He it was who first addressed the other gentleman who, as I have said,
was gazing at the hostelry of _La Belle Étoile_.
"By Heaven! monsieur," said he, with that horrible mountain accent which
would instantly distinguish a native of Piedmont among a hundred
strangers, "we are close to the Louvre, are we not? At all events, I
think your choice is the same as mine, and I am highly flattered by it."
"Monsieur," replied the other, with a Provençal accent which rivalled
that of his companion, "I believe this inn is near the Louvre. However,
I am still deliberating whether or not I shall have the honor of sharing
your opinion. I am in a quandary."
"You have not yet decided, sir? Nevertheless, the house is attractive.
But perhaps, after all, I have been won over to it by your presence. Yet
you will grant that is a pretty painting?"
"Very! and it is for that very reason I mistrust it. Paris, I am told,
is full of sharpers, and you may be just as well tricked by a sign as by
anything else."
"By Heaven!" replied the Piedmontese, "I don't care a fig for their
tricks; and if the host does not serve me a chicken as well roasted as
the one on his sign, I will put him on the spit, nor will I let him off
till I have done him to a turn. Come, let us go in."
"You have decided me," said the Provençal, laughing; "precede me, I
beg."
"Oh, sir, on my soul I could not think of it, for I am only your most
obedient servant, the Comte Annibal de Coconnas."
"And I, monsieur, but the Comte Joseph Hyacinthe Boniface de Lerac de la
Mole, equally at your service."
"Since that is the case, let us go in together, arm in arm."
The result of this conciliatory proposition was that the two young men
got off their horses, threw the bridles to the ostler, linked arms,
adjusted their swords, and approached the door of the inn, where the
landlord was standing. But contrary to the custom of men of his
profession, the worthy proprietor seemed not to notice them, so busy was
he talking with a tall, sallow man, wrapped in a drab-colored cloak like
an owl buried in his feathers.
The two gentlemen were so near the landlord and his friend in the
drab-colored cloak that Coconnas, indignant that he and his companion
should be treated with such lack of consideration, touched the
landlord's sleeve.
He appeared suddenly to perceive them, and dismissed his friend with an
"_Au revoir!_ come soon and let me know the hour appointed."
"Well, _monsieur le drole_," said Coconnas, "do not you see we have
business with you?"
"I beg pardon, gentlemen," said the host; "I did not see you."
"Eh, by Heaven! then you ought to have seen us; and now that you do see
us, say, 'Monsieur le Comte,' and not merely 'Monsieur,' if you please."
La Mole stood by, leaving Coconnas, who seemed to have undertaken the
affair, to speak; but by the scowling on his face it was evident that he
was ready to come to his assistance when the moment of action should
present itself.
"Well, what is your pleasure, Monsieur le Comte?" asked the landlord, in
a quiet tone.
"Ah, that's better; is it not?" said Coconnas, turning to La Mole, who
nodded affirmatively. "Monsieur le Comte and myself, attracted by the
sign of your establishment, wish to sup and sleep here to-night."
"Gentlemen," said the host, "I am very sorry, but I have only one
chamber, and I am afraid that would not suit you."
"So much the better," said La Mole; "we will go and lodge somewhere
else."
"By no means," said Coconnas, "I shall stay here; my horse is tired. I
will have the room, since you will not."
"Ah! that is quite different," replied the host, with the same cool tone
of impertinence. "If there is only one of you I cannot lodge you at all,
then."
"By Heaven!" cried Coconnas, "here's a witty animal! Just now you could
not lodge us because we were two, and now you have not room for one. You
will not lodge us at all, then?"
"Since you take this high tone, gentlemen, I will answer you frankly."
"Answer, then; only answer quickly."
"Well, then, I should prefer not to have the honor of lodging you at
all."
"For what reason?" asked Coconnas, growing white with rage.
"Because you have no servants, and for one master's room full, I should
have two servants' rooms empty; so that, if I let you have the master's
room, I run the risk of not letting the others."
"Monsieur de la Mole," said Coconnas, "do you not think we ought to
massacre this fellow?"
"Decidedly," said La Mole, preparing himself, together with Coconnas, to
lay his whip over the landlord's back.
But the landlord contented himself with retreating a step or two,
despite this two-fold demonstration, which was not particularly
reassuring, considering that the two gentlemen appeared so full of
determination.
"It is easy to see," said he, in a tone of raillery, "that these
gentlemen are just from the provinces. At Paris it is no longer the
fashion to massacre innkeepers who refuse to let them rooms--only great
men are massacred nowadays and not the common people; and if you make
any disturbance, I will call my neighbors, and you shall be beaten
yourselves, and that would be an indignity for two such gentlemen."
"Why! he is laughing at us," cried Coconnas, in a rage.
"Grégoire, my arquebuse," said the host, with the same voice with which
he would have said, "Give these gentleman a chair."
"_Trippe del papa!_" cried Coconnas, drawing his sword; "warm up,
Monsieur de la Mole."
"No, no; for while we warm up, our supper will get cold."
"What, you think"--cried Coconnas.
"That Monsieur de la Belle Étoile is right; only he does not know how to
treat his guests, especially when they are gentlemen, for instead of
brutally saying, 'Gentlemen, I do not want you,' it would have been
better if he had said, 'Enter, gentlemen'--at the same time reserving to
himself the right to charge in his bill, master's room, so much;
servants' room, so much."
With these words, La Mole gently pushed by the landlord, who was just on
the point of taking his arquebuse, and entered with Coconnas.
"Well," said Coconnas, "I am sorry to sheathe my sword before I have
ascertained that it is as sharp as that rascal's larding-needle."
"Patience, my dear friend, patience," said La Mole. "All the inns in
Paris are full of gentlemen come to attend the King of Navarre's
marriage or attracted by the approaching war with Flanders; we should
not find another lodging; besides, perhaps it is the custom at Paris to
receive strangers in this manner."
"By Heaven! how patient you are, Monsieur de la Mole!" muttered
Coconnas, curling his red mustache with rage and hurling the lightning
of his eyes on the landlord. "But let the scoundrel take care; for if
his cooking be bad, if his bed be hard, his wine less than three years
in bottle, and his waiter be not as pliant as a reed"--
"There! there! my dear gentleman!" said the landlord, whetting his knife
on a strap, "you may make yourself easy; you are in the land of
Cocagne."
Then in a low tone he added:
"These are some Huguenots; traitors have grown so insolent since the
marriage of their Béarnais with Mademoiselle Margot!"
Then, with a smile that would have made his guests shudder had they seen
it:
"How strange it would be if I were just to have two Huguenots come to my
house, when"--
"Now, then," interrupted Coconnas, pointedly, "are we going to have any
supper?"
"Yes, as soon as you please, monsieur," returned the landlord, softened,
no doubt, by the last reflection.
"Well, then, the sooner the better," said Coconnas; and turning to La
Mole:
"Pray, Monsieur le Comte, while they are putting our room in order, tell
me, do you think Paris seems a gay city?"
"Faith! no," said La Mole. "All the faces I have seen looked scared or
forbidding; perhaps the Parisians also are afraid of the storm; see how
very black the sky is, and the air feels heavy."
"Tell me, count, are you not bound for the Louvre?"
"Yes! and you also, Monsieur de Coconnas."
"Well, let us go together."
"It is rather late to go out, is it not?" said La Mole.
"Early or late, I must go; my orders are peremptory--'Come instantly to
Paris, and report to the Duc de Guise without delay.'"
At the Duc de Guise's name the landlord drew nearer.
"I think the rascal is listening to us," said Coconnas, who, as a true
son of Piedmont, was very truculent, and could not forgive the
proprietor of _La Belle Étoile_ his rude reception of them.
"I am listening, gentlemen," replied he, taking off his cap; "but it is
to serve you. I heard the great duke's name mentioned, and I came
immediately. What can I do for you, gentlemen?"
"Aha! that name is magical, since it renders you so polite. Tell me,
maître,--what's your name?"
"Maître la Hurière," replied the host, bowing.
"Well, Maître la Hurière, do you think my arm is lighter than the Duc de
Guise's, who makes you so civil?"
"No, Monsieur le Comte, but it is not so long," replied La Hurière;
"besides," he added, "I must tell you that the great Henry is the idol
of us Parisians."
"Which Henry?" asked La Mole.
"It seems to me there is only one," replied the landlord.
"You are mistaken; there is another, whom I desire you do not speak ill
of, and that is Henry of Navarre; and then there is Henry de Condé, who
has his share of merit."
"I do not know them," said the landlord.
"But I do; and as I am on my way to the King of Navarre, I desire you
not to speak slightingly of him before me."
The landlord replied by merely touching his cap, and continued to lavish
his assiduities on Coconnas:
"So monsieur is going to see the great Duc de Guise? Monsieur is a very
fortunate gentleman; he has come, no doubt, for"--
"What?" asked Coconnas.
"For the festivity," replied the host, with a singular smile.
"You should say for the festivities," replied Coconnas; "for Paris, I
hear, runs riot with festivals; at least there is nothing talked about
but balls, festivals, and orgies. Does not every one find plenty of
amusement?"
"A moderate amount, but they will have more soon, I hope."
"But the marriage of his majesty the King of Navarre has brought a great
many people to Paris, has it not?" said La Mole.
"A great many Huguenots--yes," replied La Hurière, but suddenly changing
his tone:
"Pardon me, gentlemen," said he, "perhaps you are of that religion?"
"I," cried Coconnas, "I am as good a Catholic as the pope himself."
La Hurière looked at La Mole, but La Mole did not or would not
comprehend him.
"If you do not know the King of Navarre, Maître La Hurière," said La
Mole, "perhaps you know the admiral. I have heard he has some influence
at court, and as I have letters for him, perhaps you will tell me where
he lives, if his name does not take the skin off your lips."
"He _did_ live in the Rue de Béthizy down here at the right," replied
the landlord, with an inward satisfaction he could not conceal.
"He _did_ live?" exclaimed La Mole. "Has he changed his residence?"
"Yes--from this world, perhaps."
"What do you mean?" cried both the gentlemen together, "the admiral
removed from this world?"
"What, Monsieur de Coconnas," pursued the landlord, with a shrewd smile,
"are you a friend of the Duc de Guise, and do not know _that_?"
"Know what?"
"That the day before yesterday, as the admiral was passing along the
place Saint Germain l'Auxerrois before the house of the Canon Pierre
Piles, he was fired at"--
"And killed?" said La Mole.
"No; he had his arm broken and two fingers taken off; but it is hoped
the balls were poisoned."
"How, wretch!" cried La Mole; "hoped?"
"Believed, I mean," said the landlord, winking at Coconnas; "do not take
a word too seriously, it was a slip of the tongue."
And Maître La Hurière, turning his back on La Mole, poked out his tongue
at Coconnas in the most insulting way, accompanying this action with a
meaning wink.
"Really!" said Coconnas, joyfully.
"Really!" said La Mole, with sorrowful stupefaction.
"It is just as I have the honor of telling you, gentlemen," said the
landlord.
"In that case," said La Mole, "I must go instantly to the Louvre. Shall
I find the King of Navarre there?"
"Most likely, since he lives there."
"And I," said Coconnas, "must also go to the Louvre. Shall I find the
Duc de Guise there?"
"Most likely; for only a moment ago I saw him pass with two hundred
gentlemen."
"Come, then, Monsieur de Coconnas," said La Mole.
"I will follow you, sir," replied Coconnas.
"But your supper, gentlemen!" cried La Hurière.
"Ah," said La Mole, "I shall most likely sup with the King of Navarre."
"And I," said Coconnas, "with the Duc de Guise."
"And I," said the landlord, after having watched the two gentlemen on
their way to the Louvre, "I will go and burnish my sallet, put a match
to my arquebuse, and sharpen my partisan, for no one knows what may
happen."
CHAPTER V.
OF THE LOUVRE IN PARTICULAR, AND OF VIRTUE IN GENERAL.
The two young men, directed by the first person they met, went down the
Rue d'Averon, the Rue Saint Germain l'Auxerrois, and soon found
themselves before the Louvre, the towers of which were beginning to be
lost in the early shades of the gloaming.
"What is the matter with you?" asked Coconnas of La Mole, who, as they
came in sight of the old château, stopped and gazed, not without awe, on
the drawbridges, the narrow windows, and the pointed belfries, which
suddenly rose before his vision.
"I scarcely know," said La Mole; "my heart beats strangely. I am not
timid, but somehow this old palace seems so gloomy and terrible."
"Well, as for me, I don't know any reason for it," replied Coconnas,
"but I feel in excellent spirits. My dress is somewhat disordered," he
went on to say, glancing at his travelling costume, "but never mind, it
looks as if I had been riding. Besides, my instructions commanded
promptness and I shall be welcome because I shall have obeyed
punctually."
The two young men continued their way, each under the influence of the
feelings he had expressed.
There was a strong guard at the Louvre and the sentinels were doubled.
Our two cavaliers were somewhat embarrassed, therefore, but Coconnas,
who had noticed that the Duc de Guise's name acted like a talisman on
the Parisians, approached a sentinel, and making use of the
all-powerful name, asked if by means of it he might not be allowed to
enter.
The name seemed to produce its ordinary effect upon the soldier;
nevertheless he asked Coconnas if he had the countersign.
Coconnas was forced to confess he had not.
"Stand back, then," said the soldier.
At this moment a person who was talking with the officer of the guard
and who had overheard Coconnas ask leave to enter, broke off his
conversation and came to him.
"Vat do you vant with Monsieur dee Gouise?" asked he.
"I wish to see him," said Coconnas, smiling.
"Imbossible! the duke is mit the King."
"But I have a letter for him."
"Ah, you haf a ledder for him?"
"Yes, and I have come a long distance."
"Ah! you haf gome a long tistance?"
"I have come from Piedmont."
"Vell, vell! dat iss anodder ting. And vat iss your name?"
"The Comte Annibal de Coconnas."
"Goot! goot! kif me the ledder, Monsieur Annibal, kif it to me!"
"On my word," said La Mole to himself, "a very civil man. I hope I may
find one like him to conduct me to the King of Navarre."
"But kif me the ledder," said the German gentleman, holding out his hand
toward Coconnas, who hesitated.
"By Heaven!" replied the Piedmontese, distrustful like a half-Italian,
"I scarcely know whether I ought, as I have not the honor of knowing
you."
"I am Pesme; I'm addached to Monsir le Douque de Gouise."
"Pesme," murmured Coconnas; "I am not acquainted with that name."
"It is Monsieur de Besme, my dear sir," said the sentinel. "His
pronunciation misled you, that is all; you may safely give him your
letter, I'll answer for it."
"Ah! Monsieur de Besme!" cried Coconnas; "of course I know you! with the
greatest pleasure. Here is the letter. Pardon my hesitation; but
fidelity requires one to be careful."
"Goot, goot! dere iss no need of any egscuse," said Besme.
"Perhaps, sir," said La Mole, "you will be so kind as to the same for my
letter that you have done for my friend?"
"And vat iss your name, monsir?"
"The Comte Lerac de la Mole."
"Gount Lerag dee la Mole?"
"Yes."
"I don't know de name."
"It is not strange that I have not the honor of being known to you, sir,
for like the Comte de Coconnas I am only just arrived in Paris."
"Where do you gome from?"
"From Provence."
"Vit a ledder?"
"Yes."
"For Monsir dee Gouise?"
"No; for his majesty the King of Navarre."
"I do not pelong to de King of Navarre," said De Besme coldly, "and
derefore I gannot dake your ledder."
And turning on his heel, he entered the Louvre, bidding Coconnas follow
him.
La Mole was left alone.
At this moment a troop of cavaliers, about a hundred in number, came out
from the Louvre by a gate alongside that of which Besme and Coconnas had
entered.
"Aha!" said the sentinel to his comrade, "there are De Mouy and his
Huguenots! See how joyous they all are! The King has probably promised
them to put to death the assassin of the admiral; and as it was he who
murdered De Mouy's father, the son will kill two birds with one stone."
"Excuse me, my good fellow," interrupted La Mole, "did you not say that
officer is M. de Mouy?"
"Yes, sir."
"And that those with him are"--
"Are heretics--I said so."
"Thank you," said La Mole, affecting not to notice the scornful word
_parpaillots_, employed by the sentinel. "That was all I wished to
know;" and advancing to the chief of the cavaliers:
"Sir," said he, "I am told you are M. de Mouy."
"Yes, sir," returned the officer, courteously.
"Your name, well known among those of our faith, emboldens me to address
you, sir, to ask a special favor."
"What may that be, sir,--but first whom have I the honor of addressing?"
"The Comte Lerac de la Mole."
The young men bowed to each other.
"What can I do for you, sir?" asked De Mouy.
"Sir, I am just arrived from Aix, and bring a letter from M. d'Auriac,
Governor of Provence. This letter is directed to the King of Navarre and
contains important and pressing news. How can I give it to him? How can
I enter the Louvre?"
"Nothing is easier than to enter the Louvre, sir," replied De Mouy; "but
I fear the King of Navarre will be too busy to see you at this hour.
However, if you please, I will take you to his apartments, and then you
must manage for yourself."
"A thousand thanks!"
"Come, then," said De Mouy.
De Mouy dismounted, threw the reins to his lackey, stepped toward the
wicket, passed the sentinel, conducted La Mole into the château, and,
opening the door leading to the king's apartments:
"Enter, and inquire for yourself, sir," said he.
And saluting La Mole, he retired.
La Mole, left alone, looked round.
The ante-room was vacant. One of the inner doors was open. He advanced
a few paces and found himself in a passage.
He knocked and spoke, but no one answered. The profoundest silence
reigned in this part of the Louvre.
"What was told me about the stern etiquette of this place?" said he to
himself. "One may come and go in this palace as if it were a public
place."
Then he called again, but without obtaining any better result than
before.
"Well, let us walk straight on," thought he, "I must meet some one," and
he proceeded down the corridor, which grew darker and darker.
Suddenly the door opposite that by which he had entered opened, and two
pages appeared, lighting a lady of noble bearing and exquisite beauty.
The glare of the torches fell full on La Mole, who stood motionless.
The lady stopped also.
"What do you want, sir?" said she, in a voice which fell upon his ears
like exquisite music.
"Oh, madame," said La Mole, casting down his eyes, "pardon me; I have
just parted from M. de Mouy, who was so good as to conduct me here, and
I wish to see the King of Navarre."
"His majesty is not here, sir; he is with his brother-in-law. But, in
his absence, could you not say to the queen"--
"Oh, yes, madame," returned La Mole, "if I could obtain audience of
her."
"You have it already, sir."
"What?" cried La Mole.
"I am the Queen of Navarre."
La Mole made such a hasty movement of surprise and alarm that it caused
the queen to smile.
"Speak, sir," said Marguerite, "but speak quickly, for the queen mother
is waiting for me."
"Oh, madame, if the queen mother is waiting for you," said La Mole,
"suffer me to leave you, for just now it would be impossible for me to
speak to you. I am incapable of collecting my ideas. The sight of you
has dazzled me. I no longer think, I can only admire."
Marguerite advanced graciously toward the handsome young man, who,
without knowing it, was acting like a finished courtier.
"Recover yourself, sir," said she; "I will wait and they will wait for
me."
"Pardon me, madame," said La Mole, "if I did not salute your majesty at
first with all the respect which you have a right to expect from one of
your humblest servants, but"--
"You took me for one of my ladies?" said Marguerite.
"No, madame; but for the shade of the beautiful Diane de Poitiers, who
is said to haunt the Louvre."
"Come, sir," said Marguerite, "I see you will make your fortune at
court; you said you had a letter for the king, it was not needed, but no
matter! Where is it? I will give it to him--only make haste, I beg of
you."
In a twinkling La Mole threw open his doublet, and drew from his breast
a letter enveloped in silk.
Marguerite took the letter, and glanced at the writing.
"Are you not Monsieur de la Mole?" asked she.
"Yes, madame. Oh, _mon Dieu_! Can I hope my name is known to your
majesty?"
"I have heard the king, my husband, and the Duc d'Alençon, my brother,
speak of you. I know they expect you."
And in her corsage, glittering with embroidery and diamonds, she slipped
the letter which had just come from the young man's doublet and was
still warm from the vital heat of his body. La Mole eagerly watched
Marguerite's every movement.
"Now, sir," said she, "descend to the gallery below, and wait until some
one comes to you from the King of Navarre or the Duc d'Alençon. One of
my pages will show you the way."
And Marguerite, as she said these words, went on her way. La Mole drew
himself up close to the wall. But the passage was so narrow and the
Queen of Navarre's farthingale was so voluminous that her silken gown
brushed against the young man's clothes, while a penetrating perfume
hovered where she passed.
La Mole trembled all over and, feeling that he was in danger of falling,
he tried to find a support against the wall.
Marguerite disappeared like a vision.
"Are you coming, sir?" asked the page who was to conduct La Mole to the
lower gallery.
"Oh, yes--yes!" cried La Mole, joyfully; for as the page led him the
same way by which Marguerite had gone, he hoped that by making haste he
might see her again.
And in truth, as he reached the top of the staircase, he perceived her
below; and whether she heard his step or looked round by chance,
Marguerite raised her head, and La Mole saw her a second time.
"Oh," said he, as he followed the page, "she is not a mortal--she is a
goddess, and as Vergilius Maro says: '_Et vera incessu patuit dea._'"
"Well?" asked the page.
"Here I am," replied La Mole, "excuse me, here I am."
The page, preceding La Mole, descended a story lower, opened one door,
then another, and stopping,
"You are to wait here," said he.
La Mole entered the gallery, the door of which closed after him.
The gallery was vacant except for one gentleman, who was sauntering up
and down, and seemed also waiting for some one.
The evening was by this time beginning to scatter monstrous shadows from
the depths of the vaulted ceiling, and though the two gentlemen were not
twenty paces apart, it was impossible for either to recognize the
other's face.
La Mole drew nearer.
"By Heaven!" muttered he as soon as he was within a few feet of the
other, "here is Monsieur le Comte de Coconnas again!"
At the sound of footsteps Coconnas had already turned, and was staring
at La Mole with no less astonishment than the other showed.
"By Heaven!" cried he. "The devil take me but here is Monsieur de la
Mole! What am I doing? Swearing in the King's palace? Well, never mind;
it seems the King swears in a different way from mine, and even in
churches. Here we are at last, then, in the Louvre!"
"Yes; I suppose Monsieur de Besme introduced you?"
"Oh, he is a charming German. Who brought you in?"
"M. de Mouy--I told you the Huguenots had some interest at court. Have
you seen Monsieur de Guise?"
"No, not yet. Have you obtained your audience with the King of Navarre?"
"No, but I soon shall. I was brought here and told to wait."
"Ah, you will see there is some great supper under way and we shall be
placed side by side. What a strange chance! For two hours fortune has
joined us! But what is the matter? You seem ill at ease."
"I?" exclaimed La Mole, shivering, for in truth he was still dazzled by
the vision which had been vouchsafed him. "Oh, no, but the place in
which we are brings into my mind a throng of reflections."
"Philosophical ones, I suppose. Just the same as it is with me. When you
came in I was just going over in my mind all my tutor's recommendations.
Monsieur le Comte, are you acquainted with Plutarch?"
"Certainly I am!" exclaimed La Mole, smiling, "he is one of my favorite
authors."
"Very well," Coconnas went on gravely, "this great man does not seem to
me so far wrong when he compares the gifts of nature to brilliant but
ephemeral flowers, while he regards virtue as a balsamic plant of
imperishable perfume and sovereign efficacy for the healing of wounds."
"Do you know Greek, Monsieur de Coconnas?" said La Mole, gazing keenly
at his companion.
"No, I do not; but my tutor did, and he strongly advised me when I
should be at court to talk about virtue. 'That looks well,' he said. So
I assure you I am well fortified with it. By the way, are you hungry?"
"No."
"And yet you seemed anxious to taste the broiled fowl of _La Belle
Étoile_. As for me, I am dying of starvation!"
"Well, Monsieur de Coconnas, here is a fine chance for you to make use
of your arguments on virtue and to put your admiration for Plutarch to
the proof, for that great writer says somewhere: 'It is good to accustom
the soul to pain and the stomach to hunger'--'_Prepon esti tên men
psvchên odunê, ton de gastéra semó askeïn._'"
"Ah, indeed! So you know Greek?" exclaimed Coconnas in surprise.
"Faith, yes," replied La Mole, "my tutor taught me."
"By Heaven! count, your fortune is made if that is so; you will compose
poetry with Charles IX. and you will talk Greek with Queen Marguerite!"
"Not to reckon that I can still talk Gascon with the King of Navarre!"
added La Mole, laughing.
At this moment the door communicating with the King's apartment opened,
a step was heard, and a shade was seen approaching in the darkness. This
shade materialized into a body. This body belonged to Monsieur de Besme.
He scrutinized both gentlemen, so as to pick out the one he wanted, and
then motioned Coconnas to follow him.
Coconnas waved his hand to La Mole.
De Besme conducted Coconnas to the end of the gallery, opened a door,
and stood at the head of a staircase.
He looked cautiously round, then up and down.
"Monsir de Gogonnas," said he, "vere are you staying?"
"At _La Belle Étoile_, Rue de l'Arbre Sec."
"Goot, goot! dat is glose by. Go pack to your hodel gwick and
to-nide"--
He looked around him again.
"Well, to-night?"
"Vell, gome here mit a vite gross in your hat. De bassvord is 'Gouise.'
Hush! nod a vord."
"What time am I to come?"
"Ven you hear de dogsin."
"What's the dogsin?" asked Coconnas.
"Ja! de dogsin--pum! pum!"
"Oh! the tocsin!"
"Ja, vot elus tid I zay?"
"Good--I shall be here," said Coconnas.
And, saluting De Besme, he took his departure, asking himself:
"What the devil does he mean and why should the tocsin be rung? No
matter! I persist in my opinion: Monsieur de Besme is a charming
Tedesco--Why not wait for the Comte de la Mole? Ah faith, no! he will
probably be invited to supper with the King of Navarre."
And Coconnas set forth for the Rue de l'Arbre Sec, where the sign of _La
Belle Étoile_ like a lodestone attracted him.
Meantime a gallery door which led to the King of Navarre's apartment
opened, and a page approached Monsieur de la Mole.
"You are the Comte de la Mole?" said he.
"That is my name."
"Where do you lodge?"
"At _La Belle Étoile_, Rue de l'Arbre Sec."
"Good, that is close to the Louvre. Listen--his majesty the King of
Navarre has desired me to inform you that he cannot at present receive
you; perhaps he may send for you to-night; but if to-morrow morning you
have received no word, come to the Louvre."
"But supposing the sentinel refuse me admission."
"True: the countersign is 'Navarre;' that word will open all doors to
you."
"Thanks."
"Wait, my dear sir, I am ordered to escort you to the wicket gate for
fear you should get lost in the Louvre."
"By the way, how about Coconnas?" said La Mole to himself as soon as he
was fairly in the street. "Oh, he will remain to supper with the Duc de
Guise."
But as soon as he entered Maître la Hurière's the first thing La Mole
saw was Coconnas seated before a gigantic omelet.
"Oho!" cried Coconnas, laughing heartily, "I see you have no more dined
with the King of Navarre than I have supped with the Duc de Guise."
"Faith, no."
"Are you hungry now?"
"I believe I am."
"In spite of Plutarch?"
"Count," said La Mole, laughing, "Plutarch says in another place: 'Let
him that hath, share with him that hath not.' Are you willing for the
love of Plutarch to share your omelet with me? Then while we eat we will
converse on virtue!"
"Oh, faith, not on that subject," cried Coconnas. "It is all right when
one is at the Louvre and there is danger of eavesdroppers and one's
stomach is empty. Sit down and have something to eat with me."
"There, now I see that fate has decidedly made us inseparable. Are you
going to sleep here?"
"I have not the least idea."
"Nor I either."
"At any rate, I know where I shall spend the night."
"Where?"
"Wherever you do: that is settled."
And both burst out laughing and then set to work to do honor to Maître
la Hurière's omelet.
CHAPTER VI.
THE DEBT PAID.
Now if the reader is curious to know why Monsieur de la Mole was not
received by the King of Navarre, why Monsieur de Coconnas was not
permitted to see Monsieur de Guise, and lastly, why instead of eating
pheasants, partridges, and venison at the Louvre, both supped at the
hotel of the _Belle Étoile_ on an omelet, he must kindly accompany us to
the old palace of kings, and follow the queen, Marguerite of Navarre,
whom La Mole had lost from sight at the entrance of the grand gallery.
While Marguerite was descending the staircase, the duke, Henry de Guise,
whom she had not seen since the night of her marriage, was in the King's
closet. To this staircase which Marguerite was descending there was an
outlet. To the closet in which Monsieur de Guise was there was a door,
and this door and this outlet both led to a corridor, which corridor led
to the apartments of the queen mother, Catharine de Médicis.
Catharine de Médicis was alone, seated near a table, with her elbow
leaning on a prayer-book half open, and her head leaning on a hand still
remarkably beautiful,--by reason of the cosmetics with which she was
supplied by the Florentine Réné, who united the double duty of perfumer
and poisoner to the queen mother.
The widow of Henry II. was clothed in mourning, which she had not thrown
off since her husband's death. At this period she was about fifty-two or
fifty-three years of age, and owing to her stoutness and fair complexion
she preserved much of her early beauty.
Her rooms, like her dress, paraded her widowhood. Everything in them
bore the impress of bereavement: hangings, walls, and furniture were all
in mourning. Only above a kind of dais covering a throne, where at that
moment lay sleeping the little greyhound presented to the queen mother
by her son-in-law, Henry of Navarre, and bearing the mythological name
of Phoebe, was a painted rainbow surrounded by that Greek motto which
King François I. had given her: "_Phôs pherei ê de kai a'íthzên_;" which
may be translated:
"_He brings light and serenity._"
Suddenly, and at a moment when the queen mother appeared deeply plunged
in some thought which brought a half-hesitating smile to her
carmen-painted lips, a man opened the door, raised the tapestry, and
showed his pale face, saying:
"Everything is going badly."
Catharine raised her head and recognized the Duc de Guise.
"Why do you say 'Everything is going badly'?" she replied. "What do you
mean, Henry?"
"I mean that the King is more than ever taken with the accursed
Huguenots; and if we await his leave to execute the great enterprise, we
shall wait a very long time, and perhaps forever."
"Tell me what has happened," said Catharine, still preserving the
tranquillity of countenance habitual to her, yet to which, when occasion
served, she could give such different expressions.
"Why, just now, for the twentieth time, I asked his Majesty whether he
would still permit all those bravadoes which the gentlemen of the
reformed religion indulge in, since their admiral was wounded."
"And what did my son reply?" asked Catharine.
"He replied, 'Monsieur le Duc, you must necessarily be suspected by the
people as the author of the attempted assassination of my second father,
the admiral; defend yourself from the imputation as best you may. As to
me, I will defend myself properly, if I am insulted;' and then he turned
away to feed his dogs."
"And you made no attempt to retain him?"
"Certainly I did; but he replied to me, in that tone which you so well
know, and looking at me with the gaze peculiar to him, 'Monsieur le Duc,
my dogs are hungry; and they are not men, whom I can keep waiting.'
Whereupon I came straight to you."
"And you have done right," said the queen mother.
"But what is now to be done?"
"Try a last effort."
"And who will try it?"
"I will! Is the King alone?"
"No; M. de Tavannes is with him."
"Await me here; or, rather, follow me at a distance."
Catharine instantly rose and went to the chamber, where on Turkey
carpets and velvet cushions were the King's favorite greyhounds. On
perches ranged along the wall were two or three valuable falcons and a
small shrike, with which Charles IX. amused himself in bringing down the
little birds in the garden of the Louvre, and that of the Tuileries,
which they had just begun building.
On her way the queen mother put on a pale and anguished expression,
while down her cheeks rolled a last or rather a first tear.
She noiselessly approached Charles IX. as he was giving his dogs
fragments of cakes cut into equal portions.
"My son," said the queen, with a trembling in her voice so cleverly
affected that the King started.
"What is it, madame?" said Charles, turning round suddenly.
"My son," replied Catharine, "I would ask your leave to retire to one of
your châteaux, no matter which, so that it be as distant as possible
from Paris."
"And wherefore, madame?" inquired Charles IX., fixing on his mother that
glassy eye which, on certain occasions, became so penetrating.
"Because every day I receive new insults from persons of the new faith;
because to-day I hear that you have been threatened by the Protestants
even in your own Louvre, and I do not desire to be present at such
spectacles."
"But then, madame," replied Charles IX., with an expression full of
conviction, "an attempt has been made to kill their admiral. An infamous
murderer has already assassinated the brave M. de Mouy. _Mort de ma
vie_, mother, there must be justice in a kingdom!"
"Oh, be easy on that head, my son," said Catharine; "they will not fail
justice; for if you should refuse it, they will still have it in their
own way: on M. de Guise to-day, on me to-morrow, and yourself later."
"Oh, madame!" said Charles, allowing a first accent of doubt to show in
his voice, "do you think so?"
"Oh, my son," replied Catharine, giving way entirely to the violence of
her thoughts, "do you not see that it is no longer a question of
François de Guise's death or the admiral's, of the Protestant religion
or the Catholic religion, but simply of the substitution of Antoine de
Bourbon's son for the son of Henry the Second?"
"Come, come, mother, you are falling again into your usual
exaggeration," said the King.
"What, then, have you in mind, my son?"
"To wait, mother,--to wait. All human wisdom is in this single word. The
greatest, the strongest, the most skilful is he who knows how to wait."
"You may wait, then; I will not."
Catharine made a courtesy, and stepping towards the door, was about to
return to her apartment.
Charles IX. stopped her.
"Well, then, really, what is best to be done, mother?" he asked, "for
above all I am just, and I would have every one satisfied with me."
Catharine turned toward him.
"Come, count," she said to Tavannes, who was caressing the King's
shrike, "tell the King your opinion as to what should be done."
"Will your Majesty permit me?" inquired the count.
"Speak, Tavannes!--speak."
"What does your Majesty do when, in the chase, the wounded boar turns on
you?"
"By Heaven! monsieur, I wait for him, with firm foot," replied Charles,
"and stab him in the throat with my boar-spear."
"Simply that he may not hurt you," remarked Catharine.
"And to amuse myself," said the King, with a sigh which indicated
courage easily aroused even to ferocity; "but I should not amuse myself
killing my subjects; for, after all, the Huguenots are my subjects, as
well as the Catholics."
"Then, sire," said Catharine, "your subjects, the Huguenots, will do
like the wild boar who escapes the spear thrust into his throat: they
will bring down the throne."
"Nonsense! Do you really think so, madame?" said Charles IX., with an
air which denoted that he did not place great faith in his mother's
predictions.
"But have you not seen M. de Mouy and his party to-day?"
"Yes; I have seen them, for I have just left them. But what does he ask
for that is not just? He has requested that his father's murderer and
the admiral's assassin be put to death. Did we not punish M. de
Montgommery for the death of my father and your husband, although that
death was a simple accident?"
"Very well, sire," said Catharine, piqued, "let us say no more. Your
majesty is under the protection of that God who gives you strength,
wisdom, and confidence. But I, a poor woman whom God abandons, no doubt
on account of my sins, fear and yield."
And having said this, Catharine again courteseyed and left the room,
making a sign to the Duc de Guise, who had at that moment entered, to
remain in her place, and try a last effort.
Charles IX. followed his mother with his eye, but this time did not
recall her. He then began to caress his dogs, whistling a hunting-air.
He suddenly paused.
"My mother," said he, "is a royal spirit, and has scruples! Really, now,
it is a cool proposal, to kill off some dozens of Huguenots because they
come to demand justice! Is it not their right?"
"Some dozens!" murmured the Duc de Guise.
"Ah! are you here, sir?" said the King, pretending to see him for the
first time. "Yes, some dozens. A tolerable waste of life! Ah! if any one
came to me and said; 'Sire, you shall be rid of all your enemies at
once, and to-morrow there shall not remain one to reproach you with the
death of the others,' why, then, I do not say"--
"Well, sire?"
"Tavannes," said the King, "you will tire Margot; put her back on her
perch. It is no reason, because she bears the name of my sister, the
Queen of Navarre, that every one should caress her."
Tavannes put the hawk on her perch, and amused himself by curling and
uncurling a greyhound's ears.
"But, sire, if any one should say to your Majesty: 'Sire, your Majesty
shall be delivered from all your enemies to-morrow'?"
"And by the intercession of what saint would this miracle be wrought?"
"Sire, to-day is the 24th of August, and therefore it would be by the
interposition of Saint Bartholomew."
"A worthy saint," replied the King, "who allowed himself to be skinned
alive!"
"So much the better; the more he suffered, the more he ought to have
felt a desire for vengeance on his executioners."
"And will you, my cousin," said the King, "will you, with your pretty
little gold-hilted sword, slay ten thousand Huguenots between now and
to-morrow? Ha! ha! ha! _mort de ma vie!_ you are very amusing, Monsieur
de Guise!"
And the King burst into a loud laugh, but a laugh so forced that the
room echoed with its sinister sound.
"Sire, one word--and one only," continued the duke, shuddering in spite
of himself at the sound of that laugh, which had nothing human in
it,--"one signal, and all is ready. I have the Swiss and eleven hundred
gentlemen; I have the light horse and the citizens; your Majesty has
your guards, your friends, the Catholic nobility. We are twenty to one."
"Well, then, cousin, since you are so strong, why the devil do you come
to fill my ears with all this? Act without me--act"--
And the King turned again to his dogs.
Then the portière was raised, and Catharine reappeared.
"All goes well," she said to the duke; "urge him, and he will yield."
And the portière fell on Catharine, without Charles IX. seeing, or at
least appearing to see her.
"But yet," continued De Guise, "I must know if, in acting as I desire, I
shall act agreeably to your Majesty's views."
"Really, cousin Henry, you put the knife to my throat! But I shall live.
By Heaven! am I not the king?"
"No, not yet, sire; but, if you will, you shall be so to-morrow."
"Ah--what!" continued Charles, "you would kill the King of Navarre, the
Prince de Condé--in my Louvre--ah!"
Then he added, in a voice scarcely audible,--"Without the walls, I do
not say"--
"Sire," cried the duke, "they are going out this evening to join in a
revel with your brother, the Duc d'Alençon."
"Tavannes," said the King, with well-affected impatience, "do not you
see that you are teasing the dog? Here, Actéon,--come!"
And Charles IX. went out without waiting to hear more, and Tavannes and
the Duc de Guise were left almost as uncertain as before.
* * * * *
Meantime another scene was passing in Catharine's apartment. After she
had given the Duc de Guise her counsel to remain firm, she returned to
her rooms, where she found assembled the persons who were usually
present when she went to bed.
Her face was now as full of joy as it had been downcast when she set
out. With her most agreeable manner she dismissed her women one by one
and her courtiers, and there remained only Madame Marguerite, who,
seated on a coffer near the open window, was looking at the sky,
absorbed in thought.
Two or three times, when she thus found herself alone with her daughter,
the queen mother opened her mouth to speak, but each time a gloomy
thought withheld the words ready to escape her lips.
Suddenly the portière was raised, and Henry of Navarre appeared.
The little greyhound, which was asleep on the throne, leaped up and
bounded towards him.
"You here, my son!" said Catharine, starting. "Do you sup in the Louvre
to-night?"
"No, madame," replied Henry, "we are going into the city to-night, with
Messieurs d'Alençon and De Condé. I almost expected to find them here
paying their court to you."
Catharine smiled.
"Go, gentlemen, go--men are so fortunate in being able to go about as
they please! Are they not, my daughter?"
"Yes," replied Marguerite, "liberty is so glorious, so sweet a thing."
"Does that imply that I restrict yours, madame?" inquired Henry, bowing
to his wife.
"No, sire; I do not complain for myself, but for women in general."
"Are you going to see the admiral, my son?" asked Catharine.
"Yes, possibly."
"Go, that will set a good example, and to-morrow you will give me news
of him."
"Then, madame, I will go, since you approve of this step."
"Oh," said Catharine, "my approval is nothing--But who goes there? Send
him away, send him away."
Henry started to go to the door to carry out Catharine's order; but at
the same instant the portière was raised and Madame de Sauve showed her
blond head.
"Madame," said she, "it is Réné, the perfumer, whom your majesty sent
for."
Catharine cast a glance as quick as lightning at Henry of Navarre.
The young prince turned slightly red and then fearfully pale. Indeed,
the name of his mother's assassin had been spoken; he felt that his face
betrayed his emotion, and he went and leaned against the bar of the
window.
The little greyhound growled.
At the same moment two persons entered--the one announced, and the other
having no need to be so.
The first was Réné, the perfumer, who approached Catharine with all the
servile obsequiousness of Florentine servants. He held in his hand a
box, which he opened, and all the compartments were seen filled with
powders and flasks.
The second was Madame de Lorraine, Marguerite's eldest sister. She
entered by a small secret door, which led from the King's closet, and,
all pale and trembling, and hoping not to be observed by Catharine, who
was examining, with Madame de Sauve, the contents of the box brought by
René, seated herself beside Marguerite, near whom the King of Navarre
was standing, with his hand on his brow, like one who tries to rouse
himself from some sudden shock.
At this instant Catharine turned round.
"Daughter," she said to Marguerite, "you may retire to your room. My
son, you may go and amuse yourself in the city."
Marguerite rose, and Henry turned half round.
Madame de Lorraine seized Marguerite's hand.
"Sister," she whispered, with great quickness, "in the name of the Duc
de Guise, who now saves you, as you saved him, do not go from here--do
not go to your apartments."
"Eh! what say you, Claude?" inquired Catharine, turning round.
"Nothing, mother."
"You were whispering to Marguerite."
"Simply to wish her good-night, and convey a greeting to her from the
Duchesse de Nevers."
"And where is that fair duchess?"
"At her brother-in-law's, M. de Guise's."
Catharine looked suspiciously at the women and frowning:
"Come here, Claude," said the queen mother.
Claude obeyed, and the queen seized her hand.
"What did you say to her, indiscreet girl that you are?" she murmured,
squeezing her daughter's wrist until she nearly shrieked with pain.
"Madame," said Henry to his wife, having lost nothing of the movements
of the queen, Claude, or Marguerite,--"madame, will you allow me the
honor of kissing your hand?"
Marguerite extended her trembling hand.
"What did she say to you?" whispered Henry, as he stooped to imprint a
kiss on her hand.
"Not to go out. In the name of Heaven, do not you go out either!"
This was like a flash; but by its light, swift as it was, Henry at once
detected a complete plot.
"This is not all," added Marguerite; "here is a letter, which a country
gentleman brought."
"Monsieur de la Mole?"
"Yes."
"Thank you," he said, taking the letter and putting it under his
doublet; and, passing in front of his bewildered wife, he placed his
hand on the shoulder of the Florentine.
"Well, Maître Réné!" he said, "and how go commercial affairs?"
"Pretty well, monseigneur,--pretty well," replied the poisoner, with his
perfidious smile.
"I should think so," said Henry, "with men who, like you, supply all the
crowned heads at home and abroad."
"Except the King of Navarre," replied the Florentine, impudently.
"_Ventre saint gris_, Maître Réné," replied the king, "you are right;
and yet my poor mother, who also bought of you, recommended you to me
with her dying breath. Come to me to-morrow, Maître Réné, or day after
to-morrow, and bring your best perfumes."
"That would not be a bad notion," said Catharine, smiling; "for it is
said"--
"That I need some perfumery," interrupted Henry, laughing; "who told you
that, mother? Was it Margot?"
"No, my son," replied Catharine, "it was Madame de Sauve."
At this moment the Duchesse de Lorraine, who in spite of all her efforts
could no longer contain herself, burst into loud sobs.
Henry did not even turn toward her.
"Sister, what is the matter?" cried Marguerite, darting toward Claude.
"Nothing," said Catharine, passing between the two young women,
"nothing; she has those nervous attacks, for which Mazille prescribes
aromatic preparations."
And again, and with still more force than before, she pressed her eldest
daughter's arm; then, turning toward the youngest:
"There, Margot," she said, "did you not hear me request you to retire to
your room? If that is not sufficient, I command you."
"Excuse me, madame," replied Marguerite, trembling and pale; "I wish
your majesty good-night."
"I hope your wishes may be heard. Good-night--good-night!"
Marguerite withdrew, staggering, and in vain seeking to meet her
husband's eyes, but he did not even turn toward her.
There was a moment's silence, during which Catharine remained with her
eyes fastened on the Duchess of Lorraine, who, without speaking, looked
at her mother with clasped hands.
Henry's back was still turned, but he was watching the scene in a
mirror, while seeming to curl his mustache with a pomade which Réné had
just given to him.
"And you, Henry," said Catharine, "are you still intending to go out?"
"Yes, that's true," exclaimed the king. "Faith, I was forgetting that
the Duc d'Alençon and the Prince de Condé are waiting for me! These are
admirable perfumes; they quite overpower one, and destroy one's memory.
Good evening, madame."
"Good evening! To-morrow you will perhaps bring me tidings of the
admiral."
"Without fail--Well, Phoebe, what is it?"
"Phoebe!" said the queen mother, impatiently.
"Call her, madame," said the Béarnais, "for she will not allow me to go
out."
The queen mother rose, took the little greyhound by the collar, and held
her while Henry left the apartment, with his features as calm and
smiling as if he did not feel in his heart that his life was in imminent
peril.
Behind him the little dog, set free by Catharine de Médicis, rushed to
try and overtake him, but the door was closed, and Phoebe could only
put her long nose under the tapestry and give a long and mournful howl.
"Now, Charlotte," said Catharine to Madame de Sauve, "go and find
Messieurs de Guise and Tavannes, who are in my oratory, and return with
them; then remain with the Duchess of Lorraine, who has the vapors."
CHAPTER VII.
THE NIGHT OF THE 24TH OF AUGUST, 1572.
When La Mole and Coconnas had finished their supper--and it was meagre
enough, for the fowls of _La Belle Étoile_ had their pin feathers singed
only on the sign--Coconnas whirled his chair around on one leg,
stretched out his feet, leaned one elbow on the table, and drinking a
last glass of wine, said:
"Do you mean to go to bed instantly, Monsieur de la Mole?"
"_Ma foi!_ I am very much inclined, for it is possible that I may be
called up in the night."
"And I, too," said Coconnas; "but it appears to me that, under the
circumstances, instead of going to bed and making those wait who are to
come to us, we should do better to call for cards and play a game. They
would then find us quite ready."
"I would willingly accept your proposal, sir, but I have very little
money for play. I have scarce a hundred gold crowns in my valise, for my
whole treasure. I rely on that with which to make my fortune!"
"A hundred gold crowns!" cried Coconnas, "and you complain? By Heaven! I
have but six!"
"Why," replied La Mole, "I saw you draw from your pocket a purse which
appeared not only full, but I should say bloated."
"Ah," said Coconnas, "that is to defray an old debt which I am compelled
to pay to an old friend of my father, whom I suspect to be, like
yourself, somewhat of a Huguenot. Yes, there are here a hundred rose
nobles," he added, slapping his pocket, "but these hundred rose nobles
belong to Maître Mercandon. My personal patrimony, as I tell you, is
limited to six crowns."
"How, then, can you play?"
"Why, it is because of that I wished to play. Besides, an idea occurs to
me."
"What is it?"
"We both came to Paris on the same errand."
"Yes."
"Each of us has a powerful protector."
"Yes."
"You rely on yours, as I rely on mine."
"Yes."
"Well, then, it occurred to me that we should play first for our money,
and afterwards for the first favor which came to us, either from the
court or from our mistress"--
"Really, a very ingenious idea," said La Mole, with a smile, "but I
confess I am not such a gamester as to risk my whole life on a card or a
turn of the dice; for the first favor which may come either to you or to
me will, in all probability, involve our whole life."
"Well, let us drop out of account the first favor from the court and
play for our mistress's first favor."
"I see only one objection to that," said La Mole.
"What objection?"
"I have no mistress!"
"Nor I either. But I expect to have one soon. Thank God! we are not cut
out to want one long!"
"Undoubtedly, as you say, you will have your wish, Monsieur de Coconnas,
but as I have not the same confidence in my love-star, I feel that it
would be robbery, I to pit my fortune against yours. But, if you will,
let us play until your six crowns be lost or doubled, and if lost, and
you desire to continue the game, you are a gentleman, and your word is
as good as gold."
"Well and good!" cried Coconnas, "that's the talk! You are right, sir, a
gentleman's word is as good as gold, especially when he has credit at
court. Thus, believe me, I did not risk too much when I proposed to play
for the first favor we might receive."
"Doubtless, and you might lose it, but I could not gain it; for, as I am
with the King of Navarre, I could not receive anything from the Duc de
Guise."
"Ah, the heretic!" muttered the landlord as he was at work polishing up
his old helmet, "I got on the right scent, did I?" And he stopped his
work long enough to cross himself piously.
"Well, then," continued Coconnas, shuffling the cards which the waiter
had just brought him, "you are of the"--
"Of the what?"
"Of the new religion."
"I?"
"Yes, you."
"Well, say that I am," said La Mole, with a smile, "have you anything
against us?"
"Oh! thank God, no! It is all the same to me. I hate Huguenotry with all
my heart, but I do not hate the Huguenots; besides, they are in fashion
just now."
"Yes," replied La Mole, smiling; "to wit, the shooting at the admiral
with an arquebuse; but supposing we have a game of arquebusades."
"Anything you please," said Coconnas, "provided I get to playing, it is
all the same to me."
"Well, let us play, then," said La Mole, picking up his cards and
arranging them in his hand.
"Yes, play ahead and with all confidence, for even if I were to lose a
hundred crowns of gold against yours I shall have the wherewithal to pay
you to-morrow morning."
"Then your fortune will come while you are asleep."
"No; I am going to find it."
"Where? Tell me and I'll go with you."
"At the Louvre."
"Are you going back there to-night?"
"Yes; to-night I have a private audience with the great Duc de Guise."
As soon as Coconnas began to speak about going to seek his fortune at
the Louvre, La Hurière stopped polishing his sallet and went and stood
behind La Mole's chair, so that Coconnas alone could see him, and made
signs to him, which the Piedmontese, absorbed in his game and the
conversation, did not notice.
"Well, it is miraculous," remarked La Mole; "and you were right when you
said that we were born under the same star. I have also an appointment
at the Louvre to-night, but not with the Duc de Guise; mine is with the
King of Navarre."
"Have you a pass-word?"
"Yes."
"A rallying sign?"
"No."
"Well, I have one, and my pass-word is"--
As the Piedmontese was saying these words, La Hurière made such an
expressive gesture that the indiscreet gentleman, who happened at that
instant to raise his head, paused petrified more by the action than by
the turn of the cards which had just caused him to lose three crowns.
La Mole looked around, but saw only his landlord standing behind him
with folded arms and wearing on his head the sallet which he had seen
him polishing the moment before.
"What is the matter, pray?" inquired La Mole of Coconnas.
Coconnas looked at the landlord and at his companion without answering,
for he could make nothing out of Maître La Hurière's redoubled gestures.
La Hurière saw that he must go to his aid:
"It is only that I am very fond of cards myself," said he, speaking
rapidly, "and I came closer to see the trick which made you gain, and
the gentleman saw me with my war helmet on, and as I am only a poor
bourgeois, it surprised him."
"You make a fine figure, indeed you do!" cried La Mole, with a burst of
laughter.
"Oh, sir," replied La Hurière with admirably pretended good nature and a
shrug of the shoulders expressive of his inferiority, "we poor fellows
are not very valiant and our appearance is not elegant. It is all right
for you fine gentlemen to wear glittering helmets and carry keen
rapiers, and provided we mount guard strictly"--
"Aha!" said La Mole, taking his turn at shuffling the cards. "So you
mount guard, do you?"
"_Eh, mon Dieu, oui, Monsieur le Comte!_ I am sergeant in a company of
citizen militia."
After having said this while La Mole was engaged in dealing the cards,
La Hurière withdrew, putting his finger on his lips as a sign of
discretion for Coconnas, who was more amazed than ever.
This signal for caution was doubtless the reason that he lost almost as
rapidly the second time as the first.
"Well," observed La Mole, "this makes exactly your six crowns. Will you
have your revenge on your future fortune?"
"Willingly," replied Coconnas.
"But before you begin, did you not say you had an appointment with the
Duc de Guise?"
Coconnas looked toward the kitchen, and saw the great eyes of La
Hurière, who was repeating his warning.
"Yes," he replied, "but it is not yet time. But now let us talk a little
about yourself, Monsieur de la Mole."
"We should do better, I think, by talking of the game, my dear Monsieur
de Coconnas; for unless I am very much mistaken, I am in a fair way of
gaining six more crowns."
"By Heaven! that is true! I always heard that the Huguenots had good
luck at cards. Devil take me if I haven't a good mind to turn Huguenot!"
La Hurière's eyes sparkled like two coals; but Coconnas, absorbed in his
game, did not notice them. "Do so, count, do so," said La Mole, "and
though the way in which the change came about is odd, you will be well
received among us."
Coconnas scratched his ear.
"If I were sure that your good luck came from that," he said, "I would;
for I really do not stickle so overwhelmingly for the mass, and as the
King does not think so much of it either"--
"Then it is such a beautiful religion," said La Mole; "so simple, so
pure"--
"And, moreover, it is in fashion," said Coconnas; "and, moreover, it
brings good luck at cards; for the devil take me if you do not hold all
the aces, and yet I have watched you closely, and you play very fairly;
you do not cheat; it must be the religion"--
"You owe me six crowns more," said La Mole, quietly.
"Ah, how you tempt me!" said Coconnas; "and if I am not satisfied with
Monsieur de Guise to-night"--
"Well?"
"Well, to-morrow I will ask you to present me to the King of Navarre
and, be assured, if once I become a Huguenot, I will out-Huguenot
Luther, Calvin, Melanchthon, and all the reformers on earth!"
"Hush!" said La Mole, "you will get into a quarrel with our host."
"Ah, that is true," said Coconnas, looking toward the kitchen; "but--no,
he is not listening; he is too much occupied at this moment."
"What is he doing, pray?" inquired La Mole, who could not see him from
where he was.
"He is talking with--devil take me! it is he!"
"Who?"
"Why, that night-bird with whom he was discoursing when we arrived. The
man in the yellow doublet and drab-colored cloak. By Heaven! how
earnestly he talks. Say, Maître La Hurière, are you engaged in
politics?"
But this time Maître La Hurière's answer was a gesture so energetic and
imperious that in spite of his love for the picture card Coconnas got up
and went to him.
"What is the matter with you?" asked La Mole.
"You wish wine, sir?" said La Hurière, seizing Coconnas' hand eagerly.
"You shall have it. Grégoire, wine for these gentlemen!"
Then he whispered in his ear:
"Silence, if you value your life, silence! And get rid of your
companion."
La Hurière was so pale, the sallow man so lugubrious, that Coconnas felt
a shiver run over him, and turning to La Mole said:
"My dear sir, I must beg you to excuse me. I have lost fifty crowns in
the turn of a hand. I am in bad luck to-night, and I fear I may get into
difficulties."
"Well, sir, as you please," replied La Mole; "besides, I shall not be
sorry to lie down for a time. Maître la Hurière!"
"Monsieur le Comte?"
"If any one comes for me from the King of Navarre, wake me; I shall be
dressed, and consequently ready."
"So shall I," said Coconnas; "and that I may not keep his highness
waiting, I will prepare the sign. Maître la Hurière, some white paper
and scissors!"
"Grégoire!" cried La Hurière, "white paper to write a letter on and
scissors to cut the envelope with."
"Ah!" said the Piedmontese to himself. "Something extraordinary is going
on here!"
"Good-night, Monsieur de Coconnas," said La Mole; "and you, landlord, be
so good as to light me to my room. Good luck, my friend!" and La Mole
disappeared up the winding staircase, followed by La Hurière.
Then the mysterious man, taking Coconnas by the arm, said to him,
speaking very rapidly:
"Sir, you have very nearly betrayed a secret on which depends the fate
of a kingdom. God saw fit to have you close your mouth in time. One word
more, and I should have brought you down with my arquebuse. Now we are
alone, fortunately; listen!"
"But who are you that you address me with this tone of authority?"
"Did you ever hear talk of the Sire de Maurevel?"
"The assassin of the admiral?"
"And of Captain de Mouy."
"Yes."
"Well, I am the Sire de Maurevel."
"Oho!" said Coconnas.
"Now listen to me!"
"By Heaven! I assure you I will listen!"
"Hush!" said Maurevel, putting his finger on his mouth.
Coconnas listened.
At that moment he heard the landlord close the door of a chamber, then
the door of a corridor, and bolt it. Then he rushed down the stairs to
join the two speakers.
He offered a chair to Coconnas, a chair to Maurevel, and took one for
himself.
"All is safe now, Monsieur de Maurevel," said he; "you may speak."
It was striking eleven o'clock at Saint Germain l'Auxerrois. Maurevel
counted each of the hammer-strokes as they sounded clear and melancholy
through the night, and when the last echo had died away in space he
turned to Coconnas, who was greatly mystified at seeing the precautions
taken by the two men. "Sir," he asked, "are you a good Catholic?"
"Why, I think I am," replied Coconnas.
"Sir," continued Maurevel, "are you devoted to the King?"
"Heart and soul! I even feel that you insult me, sir, in asking such a
question."
"We will not quarrel over that; only you are going to follow us."
"Whither?"
"That is of little consequence--put yourself in our hands; your fortune,
and perhaps your life, is at stake."
"I tell you, sir, that at midnight I have an appointment at the Louvre."
"That is where we are going."
"Monsieur de Guise is expecting me there."
"And us also."
"But I have a private pass-word," continued Coconnas, somewhat mortified
at sharing with the Sire de Maurevel and Maître La Hurière the honor of
his audience.
"So have we."
"But I have a sign of recognition."
Maurevel smiled.
Then he drew from beneath his doublet a handful of crosses in white
stuff, gave one to La Hurière, one to Coconnas, and took another for
himself. La Hurière fastened his to his helmet. Maurevel attached his to
the side of his hat.
"Ah," said Coconnas, amazed, "the appointment and the rallying pass-word
were for every one?"
"Yes, sir,--that is to say, for all good Catholics."
"Then there is a festival at the Louvre--some royal banquet, is there
not?" said Coconnas; "and it is desired to exclude those hounds of
Huguenots,--good, capital, excellent! They have been showing off too
long."
"Yes, there is to be a festival at the Louvre--a royal banquet; and the
Huguenots are invited; and moreover, they will be the heroes of the
festival, and will pay for the banquet, and if you will be one of us, we
will begin by going to invite their principal champion--their Gideon, as
they call him."
"The admiral!" cried Coconnas.
"Yes, the old Gaspard, whom I missed, like a fool, though I aimed at
him with the King's arquebuse."
"And this, my gentleman, is why I was polishing my sallet, sharpening my
sword, and putting an edge on my knives," said La Hurière, in a harsh
voice consonant with war.
At these words Coconnas shuddered and turned very pale, for he began to
understand.
"What, really," he exclaimed, "this festival--this banquet is a--you are
going"--
"You have been a long time guessing, sir," said Maurevel, "and it is
easy to see that you are not so weary of these insolent heretics as we
are."
"And you take on yourself," he said, "to go to the admiral's and to"--
Maurevel smiled, and drawing Coconnas to the window he said:
"Look there!--do you see, in the small square at the end of the street,
behind the church, a troop drawn up noiselessly in the shadow?"
"Yes."
"The men forming that troop have, like Maître la Hurière, and myself,
and yourself, a cross in their hats."
"Well?"
"Well, these men are a company of Swiss, from the smaller cantons,
commanded by Toquenot,--you know the men from the smaller cantons are
the King's cronies."
"Oho!" said Coconnas.
"Now look at that troop of horse passing along the Quay--do you
recognize their leader?"
"How can I recognize him?" asked Coconnas, with a shudder; "I reached
Paris only this evening."
"Well, then, he is the one with whom you have a rendezvous at the Louvre
at midnight. See, he is going to wait for you!"
"The Duc de Guise?"
"Himself! His escorts are Marcel, the ex-provost of the tradesmen, and
Jean Choron, the present provost. These two are going to summon their
companies, and here, down this street comes the captain of the quarter.
See what he will do!"
"He knocks at each door; but what is there on the doors at which he
knocks?"
"A white cross, young man, such as that which we have in our hats. In
days gone by they let God bear the burden of distinguishing his own;
now we have grown more civilized and we save him the bother."
"But at each house at which he knocks the door opens and from each house
armed citizens come out."
"He will knock here in turn, and we shall in turn go out."
"What," said Coconnas, "every one called out to go and kill one old
Huguenot? By Heaven! it is shameful! It is an affair of cut-throats, and
not of soldiers."
"Young man," replied Maurevel, "if the old are objectionable to you, you
may choose young ones--you will find plenty for all tastes. If you
despise daggers, use your sword, for the Huguenots are not the men to
allow their throats to be cut without defending themselves, and you know
that Huguenots, young or old, are tough."
"But are they all going to be killed, then?" cried Coconnas.
"All!"
"By the King's order?"
"By order of the King and Monsieur de Guise."
"And when?"
"When you hear the bell of Saint Germain l'Auxerrois."
"Oh! so that was why that amiable German attached to the Duc de
Guise--what is his name?"
"Monsieur de Besme."
"That is it. That is why Monsieur de Besme told me to hasten at the
first sound of the tocsin."
"So then you have seen Monsieur de Besme?"
"I have seen him and spoken to him."
"Where?"
"At the Louvre. He admitted me, gave me the pass-word, gave me"--
"Look there!"
"By Heaven!--there he is himself."
"Would you speak with him?"
"Why, really, I should not object."
Maurevel carefully opened the window; Besme was passing at the moment
with twenty soldiers.
"_Guise and Lorraine!_" said Maurevel.
Besme turned round, and perceiving that he himself was addressed, came
under the window.
"Oh, is it you, Monsir de Maurefel?"
"Yes, 'tis I; what are you looking for?"
"I am looking for de hostelry of de _Belle Étoile_, to find a Monsir
Gogonnas."
"Here I am, Monsieur de Besme," said the young man.
"Goot, goot; are you ready?"
"Yes--to do what?"
"Vatefer Monsieur de Maurefel may dell you, for he is a goot Gatolic."
"Do you hear?" inquired Maurevel.
"Yes," replied Coconnas, "but, Monsieur de Besme, where are you going?"
"I?" asked Monsieur de Besme, with a laugh.
"Yes, you."
"I am going to fire off a leedle wort at the admiral."
"Fire off two, if need be," said Maurevel, "and this time, if he gets up
at the first, do not let him get up at the second."
"Haf no vear, Monsir de Maurefel, haf no vear, und meanvile get dis
yoong mahn on de right drack."
"Don't worry about me: the Coconnas are regular bloodhounds, and I am a
chip off the old block."[2]
"Atieu."
"Go on!"
"Unt you?"
"Begin the hunt; we shall be at the death."
De Besme went on, and Maurevel closed the window.
"Did you hear, young man?" said Maurevel; "if you have any private
enemy, even if he is not altogether a Huguenot, you can put him on your
list, and he will pass with the others."
Coconnas, more bewildered than ever with what he saw and heard, looked
first at his landlord, who was assuming formidable attitudes, and then
at Maurevel, who quietly drew a paper from his pocket.
"Here's my list," said he; "three hundred. Let each good Catholic do
this night one-tenth part of the business I shall do, and to-morrow
there will not remain one single heretic in the kingdom."
"Hush!" said La Hurière.
"What is it?" inquired Coconnas and Maurevel together.
They heard the first pulsation from the bell in Saint Germain
l'Auxerrois.
"The signal!" exclaimed Maurevel. "The time is set forward! I was told
it was appointed at midnight--so much the better. When it concerns the
interest of God and the King, it is better for clocks to be fast than
slow!"
In reality they heard the church bell mournfully tolling.
Then a shot was fired, and almost instantly the light of several torches
blazed up like flashes of lightning in the Rue de l'Arbre Sec.
Coconnas passed his hand over his brow, which was damp with
perspiration.
"It has begun!" cried Maurevel. "Now to work--away!"
"One moment, one moment!" said the landlord. "Before we begin, let us
protect the camp, as we say in the army. I do not wish to have my wife
and children's throats cut while I am out. There is a Huguenot here."
"Monsieur de la Mole!" said Coconnas, starting.
"Yes, the heretic has thrown himself into the wolf's throat."
"What!" said Coconnas, "would you attack your guest?"
"I gave an extra edge to my rapier for his special benefit."
"Oho!" said the Piedmontese, frowning.
"I never yet killed anything but my rabbits, ducks, and chickens,"
replied the worthy inn-keeper, "and I do not know very well how to go to
work to kill a man; well, I will practise on him, and if I am clumsy, no
one will be there to laugh at me."
"By Heaven! it is hard," said Coconnas. "Monsieur de la Mole is my
companion; Monsieur de la Mole has supped with me; Monsieur de la Mole
has played with me"--
"Yes; but Monsieur de la Mole is a heretic," said Maurevel. "Monsieur de
la Mole is doomed; and if we do not kill him, others will."
"Not to say," added the host, "that he has won fifty crowns from you."
"True," said Coconnas; "but fairly, I am sure."
"Fairly or not, you must pay them, while, if I kill him, you are quits."
"Come, come!" cried Maurevel; "make haste, gentlemen, an arquebuse-shot,
a rapier-thrust, a blow with a mallet, a stroke with any weapon you
please; but get done with it if you wish to reach the admiral's in time
to help Monsieur de Guise as we promised."
Coconnas sighed.
"I'll make haste!" cried La Hurière, "wait for me."
"By Heaven!" cried Coconnas, "he will put the poor fellow to great
pain, and, perhaps, rob him. I must be present to finish him, if
requisite, and to prevent any one from touching his money."
And impelled by this happy thought, Coconnas followed La Hurière
upstairs, and soon overtook him, for according as the landlord went up,
doubtless as the effect of reflection, he slackened his pace.
As he reached the door, Coconnas still following, many gunshots were
discharged in the street. Instantly La Mole was heard to leap out of bed
and the flooring creaked under his feet.
"_Diable!_" muttered La Hurière, somewhat disconcerted; "that has
awakened him, I think."
"It looks like it," observed Coconnas.
"And he will defend himself."
"He is capable of it. Suppose, now, Maître la Hurière, he were to kill
you; that would be droll!"
"Hum, hum!" responded the landlord, but knowing himself to be armed with
a good arquebuse, he took courage and dashed the door in with a vigorous
kick.
La Mole, without his hat, but dressed, was entrenched behind his bed,
his sword between his teeth, and his pistols in his hands.
"Oho!" said Coconnas, his nostrils expanding as if he had been a wild
beast smelling blood, "this grows interesting, Maître la Hurière.
Forward!"
"Ah, you would assassinate me, it seems!" cried La Mole, with glaring
eyes; "and it is you, wretch!"
Maître la Hurière's reply to this was to take aim at the young man with
his arquebuse; but La Mole was on his guard, and as he fired, fell on
his knees, and the ball flew over his head.
"Help!" cried La Mole; "help, Monsieur de Coconnas!"
"Help, Monsieur de Maurevel!--help!" cried La Hurière.
"_Ma foi!_ Monsieur de la Mole," replied Coconnas, "all I can do in this
affair is not to join the attack against you. It seems all the Huguenots
are to be put to death to-night, in the King's name. Get out of it as
well as you can."
"Ah, traitors! assassins!--is it so? Well, then, take this!" and La
Mole, aiming in his turn, fired one of his pistols. La Hurière, who had
kept his eye on him, dodged to one side; but Coconnas, not anticipating
such a reply, stayed where he was, and the bullet grazed his shoulder.
"By Heaven!" he exclaimed, grinding his teeth; "I have it. Well, then,
let it be we two, since you will have it so!"
And drawing his rapier, he rushed on La Mole.
Had he been alone La Mole would, doubtless, have awaited his attack; but
Coconnas had La Hurière to aid him, who was reloading his gun, and
Maurevel, who, responding to the innkeeper's invitation, was rushing
up-stairs four steps at a time.
La Mole, therefore, dashed into a small closet, which he bolted inside.
"Ah, coward!" cried Coconnas, furious, and striking at the door with the
pommel of his sword; "wait! wait! and I will make as many holes in your
body as you have gained crowns of me to-night. I came up to prevent you
from suffering! Oh, I came up to prevent you from being robbed and you
pay me back by putting a bullet into my shoulder! Wait for me, coward,
wait!"
While this was going on, Maître la Hurière came up and with one blow
with the butt-end of his arquebuse smashed in the door.
Coconnas darted into the closet, but only bare walls met him. The closet
was empty and the window was open.
"He must have jumped out," said the landlord, "and as we are on the
fourth story, he is surely dead."
"Or he has escaped by the roof of the next house," said Coconnas,
putting his leg on the window-sill and preparing to follow him over this
narrow and slippery route; but Maurevel and La Hurière seized him and
drew him back into the room.
"Are you mad?" they both exclaimed at once; "you will kill yourself!"
"Bah!" said Coconnas, "I am a mountaineer, and used to climbing
glaciers; besides, when a man has once offended me, I would go up to
heaven or descend to hell with him, by whatever route he pleases. Let me
do as I wish."
"Well," said Maurevel, "he is either dead or a long way off by this
time. Come with us; and if he escape you, you will find a thousand
others to take his place."
"You are right," cried Coconnas. "Death to the Huguenots! I want
revenge, and the sooner the better."
And the three rushed down the staircase, like an avalanche.
"To the admiral's!" shouted Maurevel.
"To the admiral's!" echoed La Hurière.
"To the admiral's, then, if it must be so!" cried Coconnas in his turn.
And all three, leaving the _Belle Étoile_ in charge of Grégoire and the
other waiters, hastened toward the admiral's hôtel in the Rue de
Béthizy; a bright light and the report of fire-arms guided them in that
direction.
"Ah, who comes here?" cried Coconnas. "A man without his doublet or
scarf!"
"It is some one escaping," said Maurevel.
"Fire! fire!" said Coconnas; "you who have arquebuses."
"Faith, not I," replied Maurevel. "I keep my powder for better game."
"You, then, La Hurière!"
"Wait, wait!" said the innkeeper, taking aim.
"Oh, yes, wait," cried Coconnas, "and meantime he will escape."
And he rushed after the unhappy wretch, whom he soon overtook, as he was
wounded; but at the moment when, in order that he might not strike him
behind, he exclaimed, "Turn, will you! turn!" the report of an arquebuse
was heard, a bullet whistled by Coconnas's ears, and the fugitive rolled
over, like a hare in its swiftest flight struck by the shot of the
sportsman.
A cry of triumph was heard behind Coconnas. The Piedmontese turned round
and saw La Hurière brandishing his weapon.
"Ah," he exclaimed, "I have handselled this time at any rate."
"And only just missed making a hole quite through me."
"Be on your guard!--be on your guard!" cried La Hurière.
Coconnas sprung back. The wounded man had risen on his knee, and, eager
for revenge, was just on the point of stabbing him with his poniard,
when the landlord's warning put the Piedmontese on his guard.
"Ah, viper!" shouted Coconnas; and rushing at the wounded man, he thrust
his sword through him three times up to the hilt.
"And now," cried he, leaving the Huguenot in the agonies of death, "to
the admiral's!--to the admiral's!"
"Aha! my gentlemen," said Maurevel, "it seems to work."
"Faith! yes," replied Coconnas. "I do not know if it is the smell of
gunpowder makes me drunk, or the sight of blood excites me, but by
Heaven! I am thirsty for slaughter. It is like a battue of men. I have
as yet only had battues of bears and wolves, and on my honor, a battue
of men seems more amusing."
And the three went on their way.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE MASSACRE.
The hôtel occupied by the admiral, as we have said, was situated in the
Rue de Béthizy. It was a great mansion at the rear of a court and had
two wings giving on the street. A wall furnished with a large gate and
two small grilled doors stretched from wing to wing.
When our three Guisards reached the end of the Rue de Béthizy, which is
a continuation of the Rue des Fossés Saint Germain l'Auxerrois, they saw
the hôtel surrounded by Swiss, by soldiers, and by armed citizens; every
one had in his right hand either a sword or a pike or an arquebuse, and
some held in their left hands torches, shedding over the scene a fitful
and melancholy glare which, according as the throng moved, shifted along
the street, climbed the walls; or spread over that living sea where
every weapon cast its answering flash.
All around the hôtel and in the Rues Tirechappe, Étienne, and Bertin
Poirée the terrible work was proceeding. Long shouts were heard, there
was an incessant rattle of musketry, and from time to time some wretch,
half naked, pale, and drenched in blood, leaped like a hunted stag into
the circle of lugubrious light where a host of fiends seemed to be at
work.
In an instant Coconnas, Maurevel, and La Hurière, accredited by their
white crosses, and received with cries of welcome, were in the thickest
of this struggling, panting mob. Doubtless they would not have been able
to advance had not some of the throng recognized Maurevel and made way
for him. Coconnas and La Hurière followed him closely and the three
therefore contrived to get into the court-yard.
In the centre of this court-yard, the three doors of which had been
burst open, a man, around whom the assassins formed a respectful circle,
stood leaning on his drawn rapier, and eagerly looking up at a balcony
about fifteen feet above him, and extending in front of the principal
window of the hôtel.
This man stamped impatiently on the ground, and from time to time
questioned those that were nearest to him.
"Nothing yet!" murmured he. "No one!--he must have been warned and has
escaped. What do you think, Du Gast?"
"Impossible, monseigneur."
"Why? Did you not tell me that just before we arrived a man,
bare-headed, a drawn sword in his hand, came running, as if pursued,
knocked at the door, and was admitted?"
"Yes, monseigneur; but M. de Besme came up immediately, the gates were
shattered, and the hôtel was surrounded."
"The man went in sure enough, but he has not gone out."
"Why," said Coconnas to La Hurière, "if my eyes do not deceive me, I
see Monsieur de Guise."
"You do see him, sir. Yes; the great Henry de Guise is come in person to
watch for the admiral and serve him as he served the duke's father.
Every one has his day, and it is our turn now."
"Holà, Besme, holà!" cried the duke, in his powerful voice, "have you
not finished yet?"
And he struck his sword so forcibly against the stones that sparks flew
out.
At this instant shouts were heard in the hôtel--then several shots--then
a great shuffling of feet and a clashing of swords, and then all was
again silent.
The duke was about to rush into the house.
"Monseigneur, monseigneur!" said Du Gast, detaining him, "your dignity
commands you to wait here."
"You are right, Du Gast. I must stay here; but I am dying with
impatience and anxiety. If he were to escape me!"
Suddenly the noise of feet came nearer--the windows of the first floor
were lighted up with what seemed the reflection of a conflagration.
The window, to which the duke's eyes had been so many times lifted,
opened, or, rather, was shattered to pieces, and a man, his pale face
and white neck stained with blood, appeared on the balcony.
"Ah! at last, Besme!" cried the duke; "speak! speak!"
"Louk! louk!" replied the German coldly, and stooping down he lifted up
something which seemed like a heavy body.
"But where are the others?" asked the duke, impatiently, "where are the
others?"
"De udders are vinishing de udders!"
"And what have you done?"
"Vait! You shall peholt! Shtant pack a liddle."
The duke fell back a step.
At that instant the object Besme was dragging toward him with such
effort became visible.
It was the body of an old man.
He lifted it above the balcony, held it suspended an instant, and then
flung it down at his master's feet.
The heavy thud, the billows of blood spurting from the body and
spattering the pavement all around, filled even the duke himself with
horror; but this feeling lasted only an instant, and curiosity caused
every one to crowd forward, so that the glare of the torches flickered
on the victim's body.
They could see a white beard, a venerable face, and limbs contracted by
death.
"The admiral!" cried twenty voices, as instantaneously hushed.
"Yes, the admiral, here he is!" said the duke, approaching the corpse,
and contemplating it with silent ecstasy.
"The admiral! the admiral!" repeated the witnesses of this terrible
scene, crowding together and timidly approaching the old man, majestic
even in death.
"Ah, at last, Gaspard!" said the Duke de Guise, triumphantly. "Murderer
of my father! thus do I avenge him!"
And the duke dared to plant his foot on the breast of the Protestant
hero.
But instantly the dying warrior opened his eyes, his bleeding and
mutilated hand was clinched for the last time, and the admiral, though
without stirring, said to the duke in a sepulchral voice:
"Henry de Guise, some day the assassin's foot shall be felt on your
breast. I did not kill your father. A curse upon you."
The duke, pale, and trembling in spite of himself, felt a cold shudder
come over him. He passed his hand across his brow, as if to dispel the
fearful vision; when he dared again to glance at the admiral his eyes
were closed, his hand unclinched, and a stream of black blood was
flowing from the mouth which had just pronounced such terrible words.
The duke raised his sword with a gesture of desperate resolution.
"Vell, monsir, are you gondent?"
"Yes, my worthy friend, yes, for you have revenged"--
"The Dugue François, haf I not?"
"Our religion," replied Henry, in a solemn voice. "And now," he went on,
addressing the Swiss, the soldiers, and citizens who filled the court
and street, "to work, my friends, to work!"
"Good evening, M. de Besme," said Coconnas with a sort of admiration,
approaching the German, who still stood on the balcony, calmly wiping
his sword.
"So you settled him, did you?" cried La Hurière; "how did you manage
it?"
"Oh, zimbly, zimbly; he haf heerd de gommotion, he haf oben de door unt
I joost brick my rabier troo his potty. But I tink dey am gilling
Téligny now. I hear his gries!"
At that instant, in fact, several shrieks, apparently uttered by a woman
in distress, were heard; the windows of the long gallery which formed a
wing of the hotel were lighted up with a red glare; two men were seen
fleeing, pursued by a long line of assassins. An arquebuse-shot killed
one; the other, finding an open window directly in his way, without
stopping to look at the distance from the ground, sprang boldly into the
courtyard below, heeding not the enemies who awaited him there.
"Kill! kill!" cried the assassins, seeing their prey about to escape
them.
The fugitive picked up his sword, which as he stumbled had fallen from
his hand, dashed headlong through the soldiers, upset three or four, ran
one through the body, and amid the pistol-shots and curses of the
soldiers, rendered furious because they had missed him, darted like
lightning in front of Coconnas, who was waiting for him at the gate with
his poniard in his hand.
"Touched!" cried the Piedmontese, piercing his arm with his keen,
delicate blade.
"Coward!" replied the fugitive, striking his enemy in the face with the
flat of his weapon, for want of room to thrust at him with its point.
"A thousand devils!" cried Coconnas; "it's Monsieur de la Mole!"
"Monsieur de la Mole!" reëchoed La Hurière and Maurevel.
"He is the one who warned the admiral!" cried several soldiers.
"Kill him--kill him!" was shouted on all sides.
Coconnas, La Hurière, and a dozen soldiers rushed in pursuit of La Mole,
who, covered with blood, and having attained that state of exaltation
which is the last resource of human strength, dashed through the
streets, with no other guide than instinct. Behind him, the footsteps
and shouts of his enemies spurred him on and seemed to give him wings.
Occasionally a bullet would whistle by his ears and suddenly add new
swiftness to his flight just as it was beginning to slacken. He no
longer breathed; it was not breath, but a dull rattle, a hoarse panting,
that came from his chest. Perspiration and blood wet his locks and ran
together down his face.
His doublet soon became too oppressive for the beating of his heart and
he tore it off. Soon his sword became too heavy for his hand and he
flung it far away. Sometimes it seemed to him that the footsteps of his
pursuers were farther off and that he was about to escape them; but in
response to their shouts, other murderers who were along his path and
nearer to him left off their bloody occupations and started in pursuit
of him.
Suddenly he caught sight of the river flowing silently at his left; it
seemed to him that he should feel, like a stag at bay, an ineffable
pleasure in plunging into it, and only the supreme power of reason could
restrain him.
On his right was the Louvre, dark and motionless, but full of strange
and ominous sounds; soldiers on the drawbridge came and went, and
helmets and cuirasses glittered in the moonlight. La Mole thought of the
King of Navarre, as he had before thought of Coligny; they were his only
protectors. He collected all his strength, and inwardly vowing to abjure
his faith should he escape the massacre, by making a detour of a score
or two of yards he misled the mob pursuing him, darted straight for the
Louvre, leaped upon the drawbridge among the soldiers, received another
poniard stab which grazed his side, and despite the cries of
"Kill--kill!" which resounded on all sides, and the opposing weapons of
the sentinels, darted like an arrow through the court, into the
vestibule, mounted the staircase, then up two stories higher, recognized
a door, and leaning against it, struck it violently with his hands and
feet.
"Who is there?" asked a woman's voice.
"Oh, my God!" murmured La Mole; "they are coming, I hear them; 'tis
I--'tis I!"
"Who are you?" said the voice.
La Mole recollected the pass-word.
"Navarre--Navarre!" cried he.
The door instantly opened. La Mole, without thanking, without even
seeing Gillonne, dashed into the vestibule, then along a corridor,
through two or three chambers, until at last he entered a room lighted
by a lamp suspended from the ceiling.
Behind curtains of velvet with gold fleurs-de-lis, in a bed of carved
oak, a lady, half naked, leaning on her arm, stared at him with eyes
wide open with terror.
La Mole sprang toward her.
"Madame," cried he, "they are killing, they are butchering my
brothers--they seek to kill me, to butcher me also! Ah! you are the
queen--save me!"
And he threw himself at her feet, leaving on the carpet a large track of
blood.
At the sight of a man pale, exhausted, and bleeding at her feet, the
Queen of Navarre started up in terror, hid her face in her hands, and
called for help.
"Madame," cried La Mole, endeavoring to rise, "in the name of Heaven do
not call, for if you are heard I am lost! Assassins are in my
track--they are rushing up the stairs behind me. I hear them--there they
are! there they are!"
"Help!" cried the queen, beside herself, "help!"
"Ah!" said La Mole, despairingly, "you have killed me. To die by so
sweet a voice, so fair a hand! I did not think it possible."
At the same time the door flew open, and a troop of men, their faces
covered with blood and blackened with powder, their swords drawn, and
their pikes and arquebuses levelled, rushed into the apartment.
Coconnas was at their head--his red hair bristling, his pale blue eyes
extraordinarily dilated, his cheek cut open by La Mole's sword, which
had ploughed its bloody furrow there. Thus disfigured, the Piedmontese
was terrible to behold.
"By Heaven!" he cried, "there he is! there he is! Ah! this time we have
him at last!"
La Mole looked round him for a weapon, but in vain; he glanced at the
queen, and saw the deepest pity depicted in her face; then he felt that
she alone could save him; he threw his arms round her.
Coconnas advanced, and with the point of his long rapier again wounded
his enemy's shoulder, and the crimson drops of warm blood stained the
white and perfumed sheets of Marguerite's couch.
Marguerite saw the blood flow; she felt the shudder that ran through La
Mole's frame; she threw herself with him into the recess between the bed
and the wall. It was time, for La Mole, whose strength was exhausted,
was incapable of flight or resistance; he leaned his pallid head on
Marguerite's shoulder, and his hand convulsively seized and tore the
thin embroidered cambric which enveloped Marguerite's body in a billow
of gauze.
"Oh, madame," murmured he, in a dying voice, "save me."
He could say no more. A mist like the darkness of death came over his
eyes, his head sunk back, his arms fell at his side, his legs gave way,
and he sank on the floor, bathed in his blood, and dragging the queen
with him.
At this moment Coconnas, excited by the shouts, intoxicated by the sight
of blood, and exasperated by the long chase, advanced toward the recess;
in another instant his sword would have pierced La Mole's heart, and
perhaps Marguerite's also.
At the sight of the bare steel, and even more moved at such brutal
insolence, the daughter of kings drew herself up to her full stature and
uttered such a shriek of terror, indignation, and rage that the
Piedmontese stood petrified by an unknown feeling; and yet undoubtedly
had this scene been prolonged and no other actor taken part in it, his
feeling would have vanished like a morning snow under an April sun. But
suddenly a secret door in the wall opened, and a pale young man of
sixteen or seventeen, dressed in black and with his hair in disorder,
rushed in.
"Wait, sister!" he cried; "here I am, here I am!"
"François! François!" cried Marguerite; "help! help!"
"The Duc d'Alençon!" murmured La Hurière, grounding his arquebuse.
"By Heaven! a son of France!" growled Coconnas, drawing back.
The duke glanced round him. He saw Marguerite, dishevelled, more lovely
than ever, leaning against the wall, surrounded by men, fury in their
eyes, sweat on their foreheads, and foam in their mouths.
"Wretches!" cried he.
"Save me, brother!" shrieked Marguerite. "They are going to kill me!"
A flame flashed across the duke's pallid face.
He was unarmed, but sustained, no doubt, by the consciousness of his
rank, he advanced with clinched fists toward Coconnas and his
companions, who retreated, terrified at the lightning darting from his
eyes.
"Ha! and will you murder a son of France, too?" cried the duke. Then, as
they recoiled,--"Ho, there! captain of the guard! Hang every one of
these ruffians!"
More alarmed at the sight of this weaponless young man than he would
have been at the aspect of a regiment of reiters or lansquenets,
Coconnas had already reached the door. La Hurière was leaping downstairs
like a deer, and the soldiers were jostling and pushing one another in
the vestibule in their endeavors to escape, finding the door far too
small for their great desire to be outside it. Meantime Marguerite had
instinctively thrown the damask coverlid of her bed over La Mole, and
withdrawn from him.
When the last murderer had departed the Duc d'Alençon came back:
"Sister," he cried, seeing Marguerite all dabbled with blood, "are you
wounded?" And he sprang toward his sister with a solicitude which would
have done credit to his affection if he had not been charged with
harboring too deep an affection for a brother to entertain for a sister.
"No," said she; "I think not, or, if so, very slightly."
"But this blood," said the duke, running his trembling hands all over
Marguerite's body. "Where does it come from?"
"I know not," replied she; "one of those wretches laid his hand on me,
and perhaps he was wounded."
"What!" cried the duke, "he dared to touch my sister? Oh, if you had
only pointed him out to me, if you had told me which one it was, if I
knew where to find him"--
"Hush!" said Marguerite.
"And why?" asked François.
"Because if you were seen at this time of night in my room"--
"Can't a brother visit his sister, Marguerite?"
The queen gave the duke a look so keen and yet so threatening that the
young man drew back.
"Yes, yes, Marguerite," said he, "you are right, I will go to my room;
but you cannot remain alone this dreadful night. Shall I call Gillonne?"
"No, no! leave me, François--leave me. Go by the way you came!"
The young prince obeyed; and hardly had he disappeared when Marguerite,
hearing a sigh from behind her bed, hurriedly bolted the door of the
secret passage, and then hastening to the other entrance closed it in
the same way, just as a troop of archers and soldiers like a hurricane
dashed by in hot chase of some other Huguenot residents in the Louvre.
After glancing round to assure herself that she was really alone, she
again went to the "ruelle" of her bed, lifted the damask covering which
had concealed La Mole from the Duc d'Alençon, and drawing the apparently
lifeless body, by great exertion, into the middle of the room, and
finding that the victim still breathed, sat down, placed his head on her
knees, and sprinkled his face with water.
Then as the water cleared away the mask of blood, dust, and gunpowder
which had covered his face, Marguerite recognized the handsome cavalier
who, full of life and hope, had three or four hours before come to ask
her to look out for his interests with her protection and that of the
King of Navarre; and had gone away, dazzled by her beauty, leaving her
also impressed by his.
Marguerite uttered a cry of terror, for now what she felt for the
wounded man was more than mere pity--it was interest. He was no longer a
mere stranger: he was almost an acquaintance. By her care La Mole's fine
features soon reappeared, free from stain, but pale and distorted by
pain. A shudder ran through her whole frame as she tremblingly placed
her hand on his heart. It was still beating. Then she took a
smelling-bottle from the table, and applied it to his nostrils.
La Mole opened his eyes.
"Oh! _mon Dieu!_" murmured he; "where am I?"
"Saved!" said Marguerite. "Reassure yourself--you are saved."
La Mole turned his eyes on the queen, gazed earnestly for a moment, and
murmured,
"Oh, how beautiful you are!"
Then as if the vision were too much for him, he closed his lids and drew
a sigh.
Marguerite started. He had become still paler than before, if that were
possible, and for an instant that sigh was his last.
"Oh, my God! my God!" she ejaculated, "have pity on him!"
At this moment a violent knocking was heard at the door. Marguerite half
raised herself, still supporting La Mole.
"Who is there?" she cried.
"Madame, it is I--it is I," replied a woman's voice, "the Duchesse de
Nevers."
"Henriette!" cried Marguerite. "There is no danger; it is a friend of
mine! Do you hear, sir?"
La Mole with some effort got up on one knee.
"Try to support yourself while I go and open the door," said the queen.
La Mole rested his hand on the floor and succeeded in holding himself
upright.
Marguerite took one step toward the door, but suddenly stopped,
shivering with terror.
"Ah, you are not alone!" she said, hearing the clash of arms outside.
"No, I have twelve guards which my brother-in-law, Monsieur de Guise,
assigned me."
"Monsieur de Guise!" murmured La Mole. "The assassin--the assassin!"
"Silence!" said Marguerite. "Not a word!"
And she looked round to see where she could conceal the wounded man.
"A sword! a dagger!" muttered La Mole.
"To defend yourself--useless! Did you not hear? There are twelve of
them, and you are alone."
"Not to defend myself, but that I may not fall alive into their hands."
"No, no!" said Marguerite. "No, I will save you. Ah! this cabinet! Come!
come."
La Mole made an effort, and, supported by Marguerite, dragged himself to
the cabinet. Marguerite locked the door upon him, and hid the key in her
alms-purse.
"Not a cry, not a groan, not a sigh," whispered she, through the
panelling, "and you are saved."
Then hastily throwing a night-robe over her shoulders, she opened the
door for her friend, who tenderly embraced her.
"Ah!" cried Madame Nevers, "then nothing has happened to you, madame!"
"No, nothing at all," replied Marguerite, wrapping the mantle still more
closely round her to conceal the spots of blood on her peignoir.
"'Tis well. However, as Monsieur de Guise has given me twelve of his
guards to escort me to his hôtel, and as I do not need such a large
company, I am going to leave six with your majesty. Six of the duke's
guards are worth a regiment of the King's to-night."
Marguerite dared not refuse; she placed the soldiers in the corridor,
and embraced the duchess, who then returned to the Hôtel de Guise, where
she resided in her husband's absence.
CHAPTER IX.
THE MURDERERS.
Coconnas had not fled, he had retreated; La Hurière had not fled, he had
flown. The one had disappeared like a tiger, the other like a wolf.
The consequence was that La Hurière had already reached the Place Saint
Germain l'Auxerrois when Coconnas was only just leaving the Louvre.
La Hurière, finding himself alone with his arquebuse, while around him
men were running, bullets were whistling, and bodies were falling from
windows,--some whole, others dismembered,--began to be afraid and was
prudently thinking of returning to his tavern, but as he turned into the
Rue de l'Arbre Sec from the Rue d'Averon he fell in with a troop of
Swiss and light cavalry: it was the one commanded by Maurevel.
"Well," cried Maurevel, who had christened himself with the nickname of
King's Killer, "have you finished so soon? Are you going back to your
tavern, worthy landlord? And what the devil have you done with our
Piedmontese gentleman? No misfortune has happened to him? That would be
a shame, for he started out well."
"No, I think not," replied La Hurière; "I hope he will rejoin us!"
"Where have you been?"
"At the Louvre, and I must say we were very rudely treated there."
"By whom?"
"Monsieur le Duc d'Alençon. Isn't he interested in this affair?"
"Monseigneur le Duc d'Alençon is not interested in anything which does
not concern himself personally. Propose to treat his two older brothers
as Huguenots and he would be in it--provided only that the work should
be done without compromising him. But won't you go with these worthy
fellows, Maître La Hurière?"
"And where are they going?"
"Oh, _mon Dieu_! Rue Montorguen; there is a Huguenot minister there whom
I know; he has a wife and six children. These heretics are enormous
breeders; it will be interesting."
"And where are you going?"
"Oh, I have a little private business."
"Say, there! don't go off without me," said a voice which made Maurevel
start, "you know all the good places and I want to have my share."
"Ah! it is our Piedmontese," said Maurevel.
"Yes, it is Monsieur de Coconnas," said La Hurière; "I thought you were
following me."
"Hang it! you made off too swiftly for that; and besides I turned a
little to one side so as to fling into the river a frightful child who
was screaming, 'Down with the Papists! Long live the admiral!'
Unfortunately, I believe the little rascal knew how to swim. These
miserable heretics must be flung into the water like cats before their
eyes are opened if they are to be drowned at all."
"Ah! you say you are just from the Louvre; so your Huguenot took refuge
there, did he?" asked Maurevel.
"_Mon Dieu!_ yes."
"I gave him a pistol-shot at the moment when he was picking up his
sword in the admiral's court-yard, but I somehow or other missed him."
"Well, I did not miss him," added Coconnas; "I gave him such a thrust in
the back that my sword was wet five inches up the blade. Besides, I saw
him fall into the arms of Madame Marguerite, a pretty woman, by Heaven!
yet I confess I should not be sorry to hear he was really dead; the
vagabond is infernally spiteful, and capable of bearing me a grudge all
his life. But didn't you say you were bound somewhere?"
"Why, do you mean to go with me?"
"I do not like standing still, by Heaven! I have killed only three or
four as yet, and when I get cold my shoulder pains me. Forward!
forward!"
"Captain," said Maurevel to the commander of the troop, "give me three
men, and go and despatch your parson with the rest."
Three Swiss stepped forward and joined Maurevel. Nevertheless, the two
companies proceeded side by side till they reached the top of the Rue
Tirechappe; there the light horse and the Swiss took the Rue de la
Tonnellerie, while Maurevel, Coconnas, La Hurière, and his three men
were proceeding down the Rue Trousse Vache and entering the Rue Sainte
Avoye. "Where the devil are you taking us?" asked Coconnas, who was
beginning to be bored by this long march from which he could see no
results.
"I am taking you on an expedition at once brilliant and useful. Next to
the admiral, next to Téligny, next to the Huguenot princes, I could
offer you nothing better. So have patience, our business calls us to the
Rue du Chaume, and we shall be there in a second."
"Tell me," said Coconnas, "is not the Rue du Chaume near the Temple?"
"Yes, why?"
"Because an old creditor of our family lives there, one Lambert
Mercandon, to whom my father wished me to hand over a hundred rose
nobles I have in my pocket for that purpose."
"Well," replied Maurevel, "this is a good opportunity for paying it.
This is the day for settling old accounts. Is your Mercandon a
Huguenot?"
"Oho, I understand!" said Coconnas; "he must be"--
"Hush! here we are."
"What is that large hôtel, with its entrance in the street?"
"The Hôtel de Guise."
"Truly," returned Coconnas, "I should not have failed to come here, as I
am under the patronage of the great Henry. But, by Heaven! all is so
very quiet in this quarter, we scarcely hear any firing, and we might
fancy ourselves in the country. The devil fetch me but every one is
asleep!"
And indeed the Hôtel de Guise seemed as quiet as in ordinary times. All
the windows were closed, and a solitary light was burning behind the
blind of the principal window over the entrance which had attracted
Coconnas's attention as soon as they entered the street.
Just beyond the Hôtel de Guise, in other words, at the corner of the Rue
du Petit Chantier and the Rue des Quatre Fils, Maurevel halted.
"Here is the house of the man we want," said he.
"Of the man you want--that is to say"--observed La Hurière.
"Since you are with me we want him."
"What! that house which seems so sound asleep"--
"Exactly! La Hurière, now go and make practical use of the plausible
face which heaven, by some blunder, gave you, and knock at that house.
Hand your arquebuse to M. de Coconnas, who has been ogling it this last
half hour. If you are admitted, you must ask to speak to Seigneur de
Mouy."
"Aha!" exclaimed Coconnas, "now I understand--you also have a creditor
in the quarter of the Temple, it would seem."
"Exactly so!" responded Maurevel. "You will go up to him pretending to
be a Huguenot, and inform De Mouy of all that has taken place; he is
brave, and will come down."
"And once down?" asked La Hurière.
"Once down, I will beg of him to cross swords with me."
"On my soul, 'tis a fine gentleman's," said Coconnas, "and I propose to
do exactly the same thing with Lambert Mercandon; and if he is too old
to respond, I will try it with one of his sons or nephews."
La Hurière, without making any reply, went and knocked at the door, and
the sounds echoing in the silence of the night caused the doors of the
Hôtel de Guise to open, and several heads to make their appearance from
out them; it was evident that the hôtel was quiet after the manner of
citadels, that is to say, because it was filled with soldiers.
The heads were almost instantly withdrawn, as doubtless an inkling of
the matter in hand was divined.
"Does your Monsieur de Mouy live here?" inquired Coconnas, pointing to
the house at which La Hurière was still knocking.
"No, but his mistress does."
"By Heaven! how gallant you are, to give him an occasion to draw sword
in the presence of his lady-love! We shall be the judges of the field.
However, I should like very well to fight myself--my shoulder burns."
"And your face," added Maurevel, "is considerably damaged."
Coconnas uttered a kind of growl.
"By Heaven!" he said, "I hope he is dead; if I thought not, I would
return to the Louvre and finish him."
La Hurière still kept knocking.
Soon the window on the first floor opened, and a man appeared in the
balcony, in a nightcap and drawers, and unarmed.
"Who's there?" cried he.
Maurevel made a sign to the Swiss, who retreated into a corner, whilst
Coconnas stood close against the wall.
"Ah! Monsieur de Mouy!" said the innkeeper, in his blandest tones, "is
that you?"
"Yes; what then?"
"It is he!" said Maurevel, with a thrill of joy.
"Why, sir," continued La Hurière, "do you not know what is going on?
They are murdering the admiral, and massacring all of our religion.
Hasten to their assistance; come!"
"Ah!" exclaimed De Mouy, "I feared something was plotted for this night.
I ought not to have deserted my worthy comrades. I will come, my
friend,--wait for me."
And without closing the window, through which a frightened woman could
be heard uttering lamentations and tender entreaties, Monsieur de Mouy
got his doublet, his mantle, and his weapons.
"He is coming down! He is coming down!" muttered Maurevel, pale with
joy. "Attention, the rest of you!" he whispered to the Swiss.
Then taking the arquebuse from Coconnas he blew on the tinder to make
sure that it was still alight.
"Here, La Hurière," he added, addressing the innkeeper, who had rejoined
the main body of the company, "here, take your arquebuse!"
"By Heaven!" exclaimed Coconnas, "the moon is coming out of the clouds
to witness this beautiful fight. I would give a great deal if Lambert
Mercandon were here, to serve as Monsieur de Mouy's second."
"Wait, wait!" said Maurevel; "Monsieur de Mouy alone is equal to a dozen
men, and it is likely that we six shall have enough to do to despatch
him. Forward, my men!" continued Maurevel, making a sign to the Swiss to
stand by the door, in order to strike De Mouy as he came forth.
"Oho!" said Coconnas, as he watched these arrangements; "it appears that
this will not come off quite as I expected."
Already the noise made by De Mouy in withdrawing the bar was heard. The
Swiss had left their hiding-place to arrange themselves near the door,
Maurevel and La Hurière were going forward on tiptoe, and Coconnas with
a dying gleam of gentlemanly feeling was standing where he was, when the
young woman who had been for the moment utterly forgotten suddenly
appeared on the balcony and uttered a terrible shriek at the sight of
the Swiss, Maurevel, and La Hurière.
De Mouy, who had already half opened the door, paused.
"Come back! come back!" cried the young woman. "I see swords glitter,
and the match of an arquebuse--there is treachery!"
"Oho!" said the young man; "let us see, then, what all this means."
And he closed the door, replaced the bar, and went upstairs again.
Maurevel's order of battle was changed as soon as he saw that De Mouy
was not going to come out. The Swiss went and posted themselves at the
other corner of the street, and La Hurière, with his arquebuse in his
hand, waited till the enemy reappeared at the window.
He did not wait long. De Mouy came forward holding before him two
pistols of such respectable length that La Hurière, who was already
aiming, suddenly reflected that the Huguenot's bullets had no farther to
fly in reaching the street from the balcony than his had in reaching
the balcony.
"Assuredly," said he to himself, "I may kill this gentleman, but
likewise this gentleman may kill me in the same way."
Now as Maître La Hurière, an innkeeper by profession, was only
accidentally a soldier, this reflection determined him to retreat and
seek shelter in the corner of the Rue de Braque, far enough away to
cause him some difficulty in finding with a certain certainty,
especially at night, the line which a bullet from his arquebuse would
take in reaching De Mouy.
De Mouy cast a glance around him, and advanced cautiously like a man
preparing to fight a duel; but seeing nothing, he exclaimed:
"Why, it appears, my worthy informant, that you have forgotten your
arquebuse at my door! Here I am. What do you want with me?"
"Aha!" said Coconnas to himself; "he is certainly a brave fellow!"
"Well," continued De Mouy, "friends or enemies, whichever you are, do
you not see I am waiting?"
La Hurière kept silence, Maurevel made no reply, and the three Swiss
remained in covert.
Coconnas waited an instant; then, seeing that no one took part in the
conversation begun by La Hurière and continued by De Mouy, he left his
station, and advancing into the middle of the street, took off his hat
and said:
"Sir, we are not here for an assassination, as you seem to suppose, but
for a duel. I am here with one of your enemies, who was desirous of
meeting you to end gallantly an old controversy. Eh, by Heaven! come
forward, Monsieur de Maurevel, instead of turning your back. The
gentleman accepts."
"Maurevel!" cried De Mouy; "Maurevel, the assassin of my father!
Maurevel, the king's assassin! Ah, by Heaven! Yes, I accept."
And taking aim at Maurevel, who was about to knock at the Hôtel de Guise
to request a reinforcement, he sent a bullet through his hat.
At the noise of the report and Maurevel's shouts, the guard which had
escorted the Duchesse de Nevers came out, accompanied by three or four
gentlemen, followed by their pages, and approached the house of young De
Mouy's mistress.
A second pistol-shot, fired into the midst of the troop, killed the
soldier next to Maurevel; after which De Mouy, finding himself
weaponless, or at least with useless weapons, for his pistols had been
fired and his adversaries were beyond the reach of his sword, took
shelter behind the balcony gallery.
Meantime here and there windows began to be thrown open in the
neighborhood, and according to the pacific or bellicose dispositions of
their inhabitants, were barricaded or bristled with muskets and
arquebuses.
"Help! my worthy Mercandon," shouted De Mouy, beckoning to an elderly
man who, from a window which had just been thrown open in front of the
Hôtel de Guise, was trying to make out the cause of the confusion.
"Is it you who call, Sire de Mouy?" cried the old man: "are they
attacking you?"
"Me--you--all the Protestants; and wait--there is the proof!"
That moment De Mouy had seen La Hurière aim his arquebuse at him; it was
fired; but the young man had time to stoop, and the ball broke a window
above his head.
"Mercandon!" exclaimed Coconnas, who, in his delight at sight of this
fray, had forgotten his creditor, but was reminded of him by De Mouy's
apostrophe; "Mercandon, Rue du Chaume--that is it! Ah, he lives there!
Good! Each of us will settle accounts with our man."
And, while the people from the Hôtel de Guise were breaking in the doors
of De Mouy's house, and Maurevel, with a torch in his hand, was trying
to set it on fire--while now that the doors were once broken, there was
a fearful struggle with a single antagonist who at each rapier-thrust
brought down his foe--Coconnas tried, by the help of a paving-stone, to
break in Mercandon's door, and the latter, unmoved by this solitary
effort, was doing his best with his arquebuse out of his window.
And now all this dark and deserted quarter was lighted up, as if by open
day,--peopled like the interior of an ant-hive; for from the Hôtel de
Montmorency six or eight Huguenot gentlemen, with their servants and
friends, had just made a furious charge, and, supported by the firing
from the windows, were beginning to repulse Maurevel's and the De
Guises' force, who at length were driven back to the place whence they
had come.
Coconnas, who had not yet succeeded i
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