Queen Margot E-Book

Dumas Alexandre

• Herausgeber: Lebooks Editora
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 525

Beschreibung

Although France has produced many great writers, none have been as widely read as Alexandre Dumas. His stories have been translated into nearly a hundred languages and have inspired more than 200 films. Dumas wrote novels and historical chronicles filled with adventure, which sparked the imagination of the public. Alongside The Three Musketeers and The Count of Monte Cristo, Queen Margot is one of Alexandre Dumas' great classics. In Queen Margot, Dumas heavily utilizes significant historical events that took place in France, such as the assassination of Gaspard II de Coligny, the St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre, the practice of judicial torture, which was common at the time, among others. Queen Margot is a great novel that deserves to be read, not only for its literary quality but also for the intense historical moment that permeates the narrative and its characters.    

Leseprobe

Alexandre Dumas

QUEEN MARGOT

Original Title:

“La Reine Margot”

Contents

INTRODUCTION

QUEEN MARGOT

CHAPTER I – The Duc de Guise’s Latin

CHAPTER II – The Queen of Navarre’s Bedchamber

CHAPTER III – A Poet King

CHAPTER IV – The Evening of the Twenty-Fourth of August 1572

CHAPTER V – Of Virtue in General and of the Louvre in Particular

CHAPTER VI – The Debit Paid

CHAPTER VII – The Night of The Twenty-Fourth of August 1572

CHAPTER VIII – The Victims

CHAPTER VI – The Assassins

CHAPTER X – Death, Mass, or Bastille

CHAPTER XI – The Miraculous Hawthorn in the Cemetery of the Holy Innocents

CHAPTER XII – Mutual Confindeces

CHAPTER XIII – Keys May Sometimes Open Doors for Which They Never Intended

CHAPTER XIV – Second Night After the Wedding

CHAPTER XV – What Woman Wills, God Wills

CHAPTER XVI - A Dead Enemy has aye a  Pleasant Savor

CHAPTER XVII – A Rival to Master Ambroise Paré

CHAPTER XVIII - Resurrection

CHAPTER XIX – Master Reni, Perfumer to the Queen-Mother

CHAPTER XX – The Two Black Hens

CHAPTER XXI – In Madame de Sauve’s Apartaments

CHAPTER XXII – Sire, You Will be King

CHAPTER XXIII - A Convert

CHAPTER XXIV - The Fue Tizon And The Rue Cloche Percé

CHAPTER XXV – The Red Cloak Coconas had not been mistaken.

CHAPTER XXVI – Margarita

CHAPTER XXVII – The Hand of God

CHAPTER XXVIII – The Letter from Rome

CHAPTER XXIX – Hark Away!

CHAPTER XXX – Maurevel

CHAPTER XXXI – The Boar Hunt

INTRODUCTION

Alexandre Dumas

(1802 – 1870)

Early Life and Career

Alexandre Dumas was born on July 24, 1802, in Villers-Cotterêts, France. He was the son of Thomas-Alexandre Dumas, a general in Revolutionary France, and Marie-Louise Élisabeth Labouret. His mixed-race heritage, due to his father's African ancestry, often exposed him to racial prejudice, but he rose above these challenges through his immense talent and determination.

Dumas started his career as a playwright, achieving early success with his dramatic works. His first major success came with the play Henri III et sa cour in 1829. His flair for storytelling and his ability to craft engaging plots soon led him to historical novels, which would become his hallmark.

Literary Success

Dumas gained fame and fortune with his novels, including The Three Musketeers (1844) and The Count of Monte Cristo (1844). These works were serialized and became immensely popular, establishing him as one of the leading authors of his time. His novels are celebrated for their adventurous plots, memorable characters, and vivid descriptions of historical settings.

Dumas was also a politically active figure, supporting various causes and participating in political movements. His involvement in these activities often influenced his writing and public life.

Later Life and Challenges

Despite his literary success, Dumas faced significant challenges in his later years. His extravagant lifestyle and numerous business ventures led to financial difficulties. In 1851, he faced a significant financial setback when he was forced to sell his château, Monte-Cristo, due to mounting debts.

Dumas’s health also began to decline. He suffered from various ailments, including a respiratory condition that affected his quality of life. Despite these difficulties, he continued to write prolifically, producing a wide range of works including novels, plays, and memoirs.

Death and Legacy

Alexandre Dumas passed away on December 5, 1870, in Puys, near Dieppe, France. He was buried in the Montmartre Cemetery in Paris, a fitting resting place for one of France’s most celebrated literary figures. His funeral was attended by numerous admirers, reflecting the profound impact he had on literature and culture.

Dumas’s legacy endures through his extensive body of work. His novels remain widely read and adapted into films, television series, and stage productions. His ability to blend historical fact with engaging fiction has ensured that his stories continue to captivate readers around the world. Alexandre Dumas is remembered as a master storyteller whose contributions to literature have left an indelible mark on the world of historical fiction.

Queen Margot (La Reine Margot)

Queen Margot (French: La Reine Margot) is one of Alexandre Dumas’s most renowned historical novels, first published in 1845. The novel is set in the late 16th century and provides a dramatic and fictionalized account of the life of Marguerite de Valois, the Queen of France.

Style and Narrative

Dumas’s Queen Margot is characterized by its rich historical detail, vivid descriptions, and dramatic narrative style. The novel combines historical accuracy with Dumas’s flair for adventure and romance, creating a compelling and engaging read. His ability to weave real historical events with fictional elements provides readers with both entertainment and insight into the period.

Impact and Legacy

Queen Margot is a prime example of Dumas’s skill in blending historical fact with fiction, and it has been widely praised for its engaging storytelling and complex characters. The novel has been adapted into various films, television series, and stage productions, further cementing its place in popular culture.

QUEEN MARGOT

CHAPTER I – The Duc de Guise’s Latin

On Monday, the 18th of August, 1572, there were great doings at the Louvre; the windows of the ancient Royal Palace, usually so gloomy, were brilliantly illuminated; the neighbouring squares and streets, generally so deserted so soon as the clock of Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois had struck nine, were this evening thronged with people, although it was now midnight. This menacing, pushing, clamorous crowd resembled some dark and angry sea with its rearing waves; this surging tide of humanity pouring out over the quay and overflowing the Rue des Fossés-Saint-Germain and the Rue de l’Astruce, beat against the walls of the Louvre and ebbed back against the base of the Hôtel de Bourbon, which rose opposite to the Palace. In spite of the Royal fête, or rather, perhaps because of it, the attitude of the populace was somewhat threatening, since it did not suspect that this solemnity, at which it was acting the part of an uninvited spectator, was but the prelude to another entertainment postponed to a week later, to which it would be invited, and at which it would delight itself to its heart’s content.

The Court was engaged in celebrating the marriage of Marguerite de Valois, daughter of King Henri II, and sister of King Charles IX, with Henri de Bourbon, King of Navarre. In point of fact, the Cardinal de Bourbon had that same morning united the bride and bridegroom, with the ceremonial customary at the weddings of Princesses of France, upon a stage erected at the porch of Notre-Dame.

This marriage had amazed everybody and had given much food for reflection to sundry who were more clear-sighted than the rest. This drawing together between two factions so antagonistic as were the Protestant and Catholic parties at the present moment was not easy to understand; people wondered how the young Prince de Condé could forgive the Duc d’Anjou, the King’s brother, for the death of his father, who had been murdered at Jarnac by Montesquiou. They asked how the young Duc de Guise could pardon Admiral de Coligny for the death of his own father, who had been assassinated at Orleans by Poltrot de Meré. More than this: Jeanne de Navarre, the courageous wife of the weak Antoine de Bourbon, who had brought her son Henri to Paris in order to settle the terms of the Royal alliance, had died barely two months ago, and singular rumours were abroad respecting her sudden decease. Everywhere it was whispered, and sometimes even asserted openly, that she had discovered some terrible secret, and that Catherine de' Medici, fearing the revelation of this secret, had poisoned her with some perfumed gloves, prepared by one René, a Florentine, who was an expert in matters of this nature. Additional confirmation had been given to this report by the fact that, after the death of this great queen, two physicians, one of whom was the celebrated Ambroise Paré, had been instructed, at the request of her two sons, to open and examine the body, with the exception of the brain. Now, as Jeanne de Navarre had been poisoned by the perfume, it was the brain, the only part of the body excluded from the autopsy, and the brain alone, which could furnish proof of the crime. We say crime advisedly, for none doubted that a crime had been perpetrated.

Nor was this all. King Charles, in particular, had shown a persistence amounting to obstinacy in bringing about this marriage which would not merely restore peace to his realm but would likewise attract to Paris all the leaders of the Huguenot faction. Inasmuch as one of the two parties to the marriage belonged to the Catholic, and the other to the Reformed Religion, it had been necessary to apply for a dispensation to Gregory XIII, who at that time occupied the Papal throne. The dispensation was slow in coming, and this delay had caused great anxiety to the late Queen of Navarre, who one day expressed to Charles IX her fears that it would not arrive at all, to which the King had replied:

This marriage, which would not merely restore peace to his realm, but would likewise attract to Paris all the leaders of the Huguenot faction. Inasmuch as one of the two parties to the marriage belonged to the Catholic, and the other to the Reformed Religion, it had been necessary to apply for a dispensation to Gregory XIII., who at that time occupied the Papal throne. The dispensation was slow in coming, and this delay had caused great anxiety to the late Queen of Navarre, who one day expressed to Charles IX her fears that it would not arrive at all, to which the King had replied:

“Do not be uneasy, my good aunt; I honour you more than I do the Pope, and I love my sister more than I fear him. I am not a Huguenot, but neither am I a fool, and, should the Pope prove unmanageable, I will myself take Margot by the hand and give her in marriage to your son before the whole Church.”

This speech had spread from the Louvre through the city, and, while causing great rejoicing to the Huguenots, had given much food for thought to the Catholics, who inquired of one another in undertones whether the King was really betraying them, or whether he was not rather playing some comedy which would result some fine day in an unexpected denouement.

Especially inexplicable did the conduct of Charles IX appear to Admiral de Coligny, who for five or six years had maintained a determined struggle against the King. After having set a price upon his head of one hundred and fifty thousand gold crowns, Charles now swore by him alone, styling him his “father,” and declaring openly that he would henceforth confide the conduct of the War to none but the Admiral. So far did he go, indeed, that Catherine de' Medici, who had hitherto controlled the actions and even the wishes and desires of the young Prince, began to grow seriously uneasy, and not without good reason, for Charles, in a moment of effusion, when speaking of the War in Flanders, had remarked to the Admiral:

“My father, there is one thing in this matter of which we must be very careful, and that is, that the Queen Mother, who, as you know, likes to have her finger in every pie, should know nothing of this enterprise; we must keep the affair so secret that she does not get the slightest inkling of it, for, mischief-maker as I know her to be, she would ruin the whole concern.”

Well, Coligny, wise and experienced as he was, had been unable to hold his tongue about the secret the King had entrusted to him in such strict confidence; and although he had arrived in Paris full of suspicions, although at his departure from Châtillon a peasant woman had thrown herself at his feet, exclaiming:—“Oh! sir, our good master, do not go to Paris, for if you do, you will perish, you and all who go with you”—yet these suspicions had gradually faded from his breast, and from that of Teligny, his son-in-law, towards whom also the King professed a great friendship, styling him “brother” as he styled the Admiral “father,” and conversing with him on as familiar terms as he did with his most intimate and particular friends.

Accordingly, the Huguenots, with the exception of some of the more gloomy and distrustful spirits, were completely reassured; the Queen of Navarre’s death was set down as having been caused by pleurisy, and the vast saloons of the Louvre were thronged by all the worthy Protestants to whom the marriage of their young chief Henri promised an altogether unhoped-for change of fortune. Admiral de Coligny, La Rochefoucauld, the young Prince de Condé, Teligny, all the leaders of the Party, in short, triumphed at seeing all-powerful at the Louvre, and so welcome in Paris, those very persons whom three months previously King Charles and Queen Catherine would fain have hanged on gallows higher than those of murderers. The Marshal de Montmorency alone was missing from this illustrious fraternity. Incapable either of being seduced by promises or deceived by appearances, he had remained in retirement at his Castle of Isle-Adam, alleging as excuse for his absence the grief which he still felt at the death of his father, who had been slain by a pistol-shot at the battle of Saint-Denis by Robert Stuart. But as this event had happened more than three years back, and as depth of feeling was a virtue quite out of fashion at this period, he had not won the credit which he would have wished to gain for this mourning so inordinately prolonged. Everything besides seemed to decide against the Marshal de Montmorency; the King, the Queen, the Duc d’Anjou, and the Duc d’Alençon, were wonderfully gracious to everyone at the royal reception.

The Duc d’Anjou received from the Huguenots themselves well-earned compliments in respect to the two battles of Jarnac and Moncontour, victories gained by him before he had attained the age of eighteen, eclipsing by this precocity both Caesar and Alexander, to whom they compared him, maintaining, of course, his decided superiority over the victors of Issus and Pharsalia; the Duc d'Alençon listened to these compliments with a fawning, yet insincere expression; Queen Catherine beamed with delight, and, with an air of utmost graciousness, congratulated Prince Henri de Condé on his recent marriage with Marie de Clèves; lastly, the Messieurs de Guise themselves smiled upon the formidable enemies of their house, while the Duc de Mayenne discoursed with Monsieur Tavannes and the Admiral about the coming war, which it was now more than ever a question of declaring against Philip II.

Amid these groups there passed backwards and forwards, with head slightly inclined and ears open to all topics of conversation, a young man of nineteen, with keen eyes, black hair cut extremely short, bushy eyebrows, nose curved like an eagle’s beak, an artful smile, and beard and moustache just sprouting. This young man, who had done nothing to distinguish himself until the battle of Arnay-le-Duc, where he had risked his life with much gallantry, and who was now receiving numerous compliments thereon, was the much-loved pupil of Coligny and the hero of the day. Three months ago, that is to say, while his mother was still alive, he had been styled the Prince de Béarn; now his title was King of Navarre, until the time came for him to be called Henri IV.

Occasionally a dark cloud would pass swiftly over his brow; he was doubtless recalling the fact that it was less than two months since his mother’s death, and he, more strongly than anybody, suspected that she had been poisoned. But the cloud was a passing one and disappeared like a floating shadow; for those who were congratulating him and rubbing shoulders with him were the very men who had assassinated the courageous Jeanne d’Albret.

At a short distance from the King of Navarre, and almost as pensive and anxious as the latter affected to be gay and frank, the young Duc de Guise was chatting with Teligny. More fortunate than the Béarnais, at the age of two and twenty his reputation had almost equalled that of his father, the great François de Guise. A nobleman of handsome appearance, tall stature, proud and haughty mien, he was endowed with that natural majesty which caused men to say that, when he passed by, the other Princes appeared but as commonplace people in comparison with him. Young as he was, the Catholics saw in him the leader of their party, just as the Huguenots saw their leader in the young Henri de Navarre, whose appearance we have just depicted. At an earlier date, he had borne the title of Prince de Joinville, and had made his debut at the siege of Orleans, under the command of his father, who had died in his arms, pointing out to him Admiral Coligny as his slayer. Whereupon the young Duke, like Hannibal, had sworn a solemn oath that he would be revenged for his father’s death upon the Admiral and his family, and that he would hunt the Protestants down without rest or truce, vowing to God to be His Destroying Angel upon earth until the last of the Heretics should be exterminated. It was not, therefore, without profound astonishment that this Prince, usually so faithful to his word, was seen to offer his hand to those whom he had sworn to regard as eternal foes, and chatting familiarly with the son-in-law of the very man whose death he had promised his dying father that he would compass.

But, as we have said, this was an evening of surprises.

In point of fact, had he possessed that knowledge of the future which is happily lacking to men, together with that power of reading the heart which unhappily belongs to God alone, the privileged observer who might have been allowed to take part in this reception would certainly have enjoyed one of the most curious spectacles furnished by the annals of the mournful comedy of human affairs.

But this imaginary observer, who had no place in the inner corridors of the Louvre, continued to gaze in the street with his fierce eyes, and to growl with his menacing voice; this observer was, in fact, the populace, which, with its marvellous instinct sharpened by hatred, followed from a distance the shadows of its implacable enemies, and translated its impressions into words as frankly as an inquisitive person in front of the windows of a ballroom hermetically closed can do. The music intoxicates the dancer as he moves to its melodious rhythm, while the curious spectator, seeing nothing but the movement, and not hearing the music, laughs at the apparently objectless gestures of the puppets.

The music which intoxicated the Huguenots was the voice of their pride.

The flames which danced in the eyes of the Parisians were the lightning-flashes of their hatred shedding their lurid light upon the future.

Within the Palace, however, everything wore a smiling face; nay, at this very moment a murmur more sweet and flattering than any that had preceded it was circulating through the Louvre, to the effect that the young bride, having laid aside her cloak of state and her long wedding-veil, had just returned to the ballroom, accompanied by the beautiful Duchesse de Nevers, her bosom friend, and escorted by her brother, Charles IX., who was presenting to her the chief of his guests.

This bride was the daughter of Henri II., the pearl of the crown of France, Marguerite de Valois, whom King Charles IX., in his tender affection for her, never addressed but as “sister Margot.”

Certainly no reception, of however flattering a nature, was ever more deserved than that which was at this moment being accorded to the new Queen of Navarre. Marguerite had scarcely reached her twentieth year, yet she was already the object of the encomiums of all the poets, some of whom compared her with Aurora, others with Venus. She was, in truth, the peerless beauty of that Court, where Catherine de’ Medici had assembled, to play the part of her Sirens, all the loveliest women she could find. Marguerite had dark hair, a brilliant complexion, a voluptuous eye, veiled by dark lashes, a well-cut and rosy mouth, a graceful neck, a full and supple bust, and, lost in its satin slipper, the foot of a child. The French, to whom she belonged, were proud to see so magnificent a flower blossom on their soil, while foreigners passing through France returned from it dazzled by her beauty if they had merely seen her; amazed at her learning if they had conversed with her. Marguerite was not only the most beautiful, but also the best-read woman of her time, and people quoted the saying of an Italian scholar who had been presented to her, and who, after talking with her for an hour in Italian, Spanish, Greek, and Latin, had left her presence with the enthusiastic remark: “To see the Court without seeing Marguerite de Valois is to see neither the Court nor France itself.”

Accordingly, there was no lack of speeches made to King Charles IX. and to the Queen of Navarre; the Huguenots, as we know, were great at speeches. Many allusions to the past, many requests for the future, were adroitly conveyed to the King amid these orations; but to all these allusions he replied with his pale lips and crafty smile: “In giving my sister Margot to Henri de Navarre, I give my sister to all the Protestants in the Kingdom."

This saying, while reassuring some, made others smile, for it contained in reality two meanings: the one paternal, with which Charles IX., in all good conscience, was unwilling to over-burden his mind; the other, offensive to the bride, to her husband, and also to himself, since it recalled certain grave scandals with which the Court Chronicle had already found means to smirch the nuptial robe of Marguerite de Valois.

However, M. de Guise was chatting, as we have said, with Teligny; but he was not so absorbed in the conversation as to prevent him from occasionally turning to bestow a glance on the group of ladies, in the center of which shone the Queen of Navarre. If at such moments the Queen’s glance encountered that of the young Duke, a cloud seemed to darken that charming brow, on which the diamond stars formed a dancing halo, and some vague, half-formed purpose manifested itself in her impatient and uneasy attitude.

The Princess Claude, Marguerite’s eldest sister, who had been now for some years married to the Duc de Lorraine, had noticed this uneasiness and was approaching her to ask the cause of it when, owing to the retirement of the whole assembly before the Queen-mother, who advanced, leaning on the arm of the young Prince de Condé, the Princess found herself separated by some distance from her sister. A general movement then occurred, of which the Duc de Guise availed himself to approach Madame de Nevers, his sister-in-law, and, consequently, Marguerite’s also. Madame de Lorraine, who had not taken her eyes off the young Queen, then saw, instead of the cloud which she had noticed on her brow, a deep blush overspread her cheeks. The Duke, however, was still advancing, and when he arrived within two paces of her, Marguerite, who seemed to feel rather than see his approach, turned around with a violent effort to compose her features into indifference; thereupon the Duke bowed respectfully before her and murmured sotto voce: “Ipse attuli,” which meant to say: "I have brought him, or, have brought myself.”

Marguerite returned the young Duke’s bow, and as she lifted her head again, let fall this reply: “Noctu pro more.”

Which signified:“To-night as usual.”

These softly-spoken words, swallowed up as in a speaking-trumpet by the Princess’s enormous starched collar, were heard only by the person to whom they were addressed; but short as the dialogue had been, it doubtless embraced all that the two young people had to say to each other, for after exchanging these five words they separated, Marguerite with a look more dreamy than ever, and the Duke with an expression more radiant than before they had met. This little scene had occurred without the man who was the most interested in it having appeared to take the slightest notice of it, for the King of Navarre, on his side, had eyes but for one person, around whom was gathered a court almost as numerous as that of Marguerite de Valois; this person 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 of the bedchamber to Catherine de' Medici, and one of the most formidable auxiliaries of that Queen, who poured upon her enemies the philtre of love when she dared not employ the Florentine poison against them. Small, fair, by turns sparkling with vivacity or languishing with melancholy, ever ready for love and for intrigue—the two principal subjects which for the last fifty years had occupied the Courts of three kings in succession—a woman in the full acceptation of the word and in all its charm, from the blue eyes which languished or blazed with fire down to the tiny feet bent rebelliously into their velvet slippers, Madame de Sauve had already for several months entirely captivated the King of Navarre, who was then making his debut in the career of love, as in that of politics. So much so that Marguerite de Navarre, with her splendid and regal beauty, had not even moved her husband’s heart to admiration; and, what was strange and surprising to everybody, even on the part of that lover of darkness and mystery, the Queen-Mother, was that Catherine de Medici, while pursuing her scheme of alliance between her daughter and the King of Navarre, had not ceased to countenance almost openly the intimacy between the latter and Madame de Sauve. But, despite this powerful aid and of the easy-going morals of the time, the fair Charlotte had hitherto resisted his advances; and this resistance, so unexpected, so incredible, and so unheard-of, even more than her wit and beauty, had inflamed the heart of the Béarnais with a passion which, unable to find satisfaction, had fallen back upon itself and had devoured in the young Monarch’s heart the timidity, the pride, and even the indifference, half-philosophical, half-idle, which lay at the bottom of his character.

Madame de Sauve had only entered the ballroom a few minutes earlier. Whether from spite or from annoyance, she had at first determined not to be a witness of her rival’s triumph, and, alleging indisposition as an excuse, had allowed her husband, for five years one of the Secretaries of State, to come alone to the Louvre. Catherine de' Medici, however, on seeing the Baron without his wife, had inquired the reason which kept her beloved Charlotte away, and on hearing that the indisposition was but slight, wrote a few lines requesting her presence, and with this request the young woman had hastened to comply. Henri, though at first quite woe-begone at her absence, had nevertheless breathed more freely on seeing M. de Sauve enter by himself; but at the moment when, having ceased to expect her appearance, he moved off with a sigh towards the lovely creature whom he was condemned, if not to love, at least to treat as his wife, he had seen Madame de Sauve emerging from the end of a corridor, and had remained rooted to the spot with his eyes fixed on this Circe, who enchained him to herself as though with a magic bond, and instead of continuing his progress towards his wife, with a movement of hesitation caused far more by surprise than by alarm, he advanced towards Madame de Sauve.

The courtiers, for their part, seeing that the King of Navarre, the condition of whose heart they already knew, was making towards his fair Charlotte, had not the courage to prevent their meeting, but complacently made way, so that at the same moment when Marguerite de Valois and M. de Guise were exchanging the few words in Latin which we have reported, Henri, who had now reached Madame de Sauve, entered upon a much less mysterious conversation with her in quite intelligible French, though marked with something of a Gascon accent.

“Ah! my sweet!” said he, “here you are, come back, just as they were telling me that you were ill, and I had lost all hope of seeing you.”

“Would your Majesty pretend to make me believe,” answered Madame de Sauve, “that it cost you much to abandon that hope?”

“Zounds! I should think so,” answered the Béarnais; “do you not know that you are my sun by day and my star by night? Truly I thought myself plunged in the blackest darkness when you appeared just now and of a sudden lit up the world for me."

“Then I am doing you a bad turn, Monseigneur.”

“How mean you, sweet?” asked Henri.

“I mean that, being lord of the fairest woman in France, your sole desire should be for the light to give place to darkness, since it is the darkness which brings us happiness.”

“That happiness, cruel creature, lies in the hands of one alone, as you know full well, and she laughs at her poor Henri, and makes him her sport.”

“Oh!” replied the Baronne, “I should have thought for my part that, on the contrary, it was she who is the plaything and the laughing-stock of the King of Navarre.”

Henri was alarmed at her hostile attitude. He reflected, however, that it betokened pique, and that pique is but the mask which conceals love.

“Truly, dear Charlotte,” said he, “you reproach me unjustly, and I do not understand how so sweet a mouth can be at the same time so cruel. Do you imagine, then, it was I who brought about my marriage? By the Lord! No, it was not my doing.”

“Perhaps it was mine!” replied the Baronne, harshly, if the voice of the woman who loves you, and who reproaches you with not loving her, can ever appear harsh.

“Have you not seen farther with those lovely eyes of yours, Baronne? No, no, it is not Henri de Navarre who weds Marguerite de Valois.”

“And who, then?”

“Zounds! It is the Reformed Religion that is marrying the Pope, and nothing more.”

“Nay, not so, Monseigneur, nor do I understand your jests: your Majesty loves the Lady Marguerite, and God forbid I should reproach you for it; she is beautiful enough to be loved.”

Henri reflected for an instant, and while he reflected, a smile compressed the corners of his lips.

“Baronne,” said he, “you are trying to pick a quarrel with me, I fancy, and yet you have no right to do so; what have you done, I ask you, to prevent me from marrying the Lady Marguerite? Nothing at all; on the contrary, you have always forbidden me to hope.”

“And I was quite right in so doing, Monseigneur!” replied Madame de Sauve.

“How so?”

“Certainly, since today you have wedded another.”

“Ah! I have wedded her because you do not love me.”

“Had I loved you, sire, I must have died within an hour!”

“Within an hour! How mean you, and of what would you have died?”

“Of jealousy… for within an hour the Queen of Navarre will dismiss her ladies, and your Majesty your gentlemen.”

“Is that really and truly the thought which troubles you, my sweet?”

“I do not say that. I said that, if I loved you, the thought would trouble me horribly.”

“Well!” exclaimed Henri, overwhelmed with joy at hearing this avowal, the first he had received— “suppose the King of Navarre were not to dismiss his gentlemen tonight?”

“Sire,” said Madame de Sauve, regarding the King with an astonishment which this time was not assumed, “you talk of what is impossible, nay more, incredible.”

“What must I do to make you believe it?”

“You must give me the proof of it, and that proof you cannot give.”

“Yes, Baronne, yes; by St. Henri! I will give it to you, I will,” cried the King, devouring the girl with a burning look of love.

“Oh, your Majesty!” murmured the fair Charlotte, lowering her voice and her eyes. “I do not understand… No, no! It is impossible that you should avoid the happiness awaiting you.”

“There are four Henris in this room, my adored!” replied the King; “Henri of France, Henri of Condé, Henri of Guise, but only one Henri of Navarre.”

“Well?”

“Well! If you have this Henri of Navarre near you all this night?”

“All this night?”

“Yes; will you then feel certain that he is with no other lady?”

“Ah! If you do that, sire!” exclaimed Madame de Sauve.

“I will do it, on the honor of a gentleman.”

Madame de Sauve raised her large eyes, moist with voluptuous promise, and smiled at the King, whose heart was elated with joy.

“Come,” replied Henri, “what would you say in that case?”

“Oh! In that case,” answered Charlotte, “I should say that your Majesty loved me really and truly.”

“Zounds! Then you shall say it, Baronne, for so it is.”

“But how are we to act?” murmured Madame de Sauve.

“Great heavens! Baronne, you surely have some waiting-woman about you, some follower, some girl on whom you can depend?”

“Oh! I have Dariole, a regular treasure; she is so devoted to me that she would lay down her life for my sake.”

“Zounds! Baronne, tell that girl that I will make her fortune when I am King of France, as the astrologers predict I am to be.”

Charlotte smiled, for the Gascon reputation of Henri in regard to his promises was already well established.

“Well!” she said, “what do you want Dariole to do?”

“Nothing much for her, but everything for me.”

“Go on?”

“Your apartment is above mine?”

“Yes.”

“Let her wait behind the door. I will knock gently thrice; she must open the door, and then you shall have the proof which I have offered you.”

Madame de Sauve maintained a silence that lasted a few moments; then, looking around as though to ensure that her words would not be overheard, she glanced for an instant at the group where the Queen-mother was standing. Though only for an instant, it was sufficient to enable Catherine and her lady of the bed-chamber to exchange glances.

“Oh! if I wished to catch your Majesty in an untruth,” said Madame de Sauve, in siren tones that would have melted the wax in Ulysses’s ears.

“Try me, my sweet, try—”

“Ah! I confess that I am struggling against the desire to do so.”

“Let yourself be conquered; women are never so strong as after their defeat.”

“Sire, I hold you to your promise for Dariole on the day that you are King of France.”

Henri uttered an exclamation of joy.

It was at the very moment that this exclamation left his lips that the Queen of Navarre replied to the Duc de Guise: “Noctu pro more: To-night, as usual.” Upon which Henri left the side of Madame de Sauve with a delight equal to that felt by the Duc de Guise as he left the side of Marguerite de Valois.

An hour after this two-fold incident, which we have just related, King Charles and the Queen-mother withdrew to their own apartments. Almost immediately, the rooms began to empty, and the bases of the marble columns in the corridors became once more visible. The Admiral and the Prince de Condé were escorted home by four hundred Huguenot gentlemen through the crowds which hooted them as they passed. Presently, Henri de Guise, accompanied by the Lorraine noblemen and the Catholics, came out in their turn and were greeted by the populace with shouts of joy and applause.

As for Marguerite de Valois, Henri de Navarre, and Madame de Sauve, they were lodged, as we know, in the Louvre itself.

CHAPTER II – The Queen of Navarre’s Bedchamber

The Duke of Guise escorted his sister-in-law, the Duchess of Nevers, back to her house, which was on Rue du Chaume, opposite Rue de Richelieu. After handing her over to her ladies, he went to his own rooms to change his attire for a cloak suitable for the night and to arm himself with one of those short, sharp daggers known as “On the word of a gentleman,” which were carried without a sword. However, when he took it from the table on which he had placed it, he noticed a small note wedged between the blade and the sheath.

Opening the note, he read the following:

“I sincerely hope that M. de Guise will not return to the Louvre tonight, or if he does, that he will at least take the precaution of arming himself with a good suit of mail and sword.”

“Aha!” said the Duke, turning to his valet de chambre. “Here is a curious warning, Master Robin. Now be good enough to tell me who the people are who have gotten in here during my absence.”

“One person only, Monseigneur.”

“And who is he?”

“M. du Gast.”

“Ah! Just as I thought. I rather suspected who the hand belonged to. And you are sure that Du Gast came? You saw him?”

“I did more, Monseigneur, I spoke with him.”

“Good; then I will follow his advice. My suit of mail and my sword.”

The valet de chambre, accustomed to these changes of attire, brought both. The Duke then put on his coat of mail, composed of chains so pliable that the texture of the steel was hardly thicker than velvet; next, he donned his long hose, a doublet of gray and silver, his favorite colors, high boots that came up to the middle of his thighs, and a black velvet cap without plume or jewels. He wrapped himself in a dark-colored cloak, fastened a dagger in his belt, and placed his sword in the hands of a page, the only escort he desired, and set off for the Louvre.

Just as he crossed the threshold of his house, the watchman at St. Germain-l’Auxerrois announced the hour of one in the morning.

Though the night was so advanced and the streets at this time far from safe, our adventurous Prince encountered no mishap on the way and arrived safely in front of the massive old Louvre, all the lights of which had gradually been extinguished, looming darkly in the silence of the night.

In front of the Royal Palace extended a deep moat which overlooked most of the rooms of the princes lodged in the Palace. Marguerite’s rooms were situated on the first floor.

But this first floor, which would have been accessible had there been no moat, was, because of its existence, raised about thirty feet above the ground, and consequently beyond the reach of lovers or burglars, although this fact did not deter the Duke from resolutely descending into the ditch.

At the same moment, the sound of a window on the ground floor being opened was heard. This window was guarded by bars; but a hand appeared, removed one of these bars which had been loosened beforehand, and through this opening let down a thread of silk.

“Is it you, Gillonne?” asked the Duke in a low tone.

“Yes, Monseigneur,” replied a woman’s voice in an even lower tone.

“And Marguerite?”

“She is waiting for you.”

“Good.”

With these words, the Duke signaled to his page, who, opening his cloak, unrolled a slender rope ladder. The Prince fastened one end of the ladder to the silken thread. Gillonne pulled the ladder up and secured it firmly; then the Duke, after buckling his sword to his belt, began his ascent, which he completed without incident. Once he had passed through the window, the bar was replaced, and the window was closed again. The page, having seen his master enter the Louvre safely, lay down on the grass at the bottom of the moat, wrapping himself in his cloak and taking shelter in the shadow of the wall.

The night was dark, and a few large, warm drops of rain fell from the electrically charged clouds.

The Duke of Guise followed his guide, who was none other than the daughter of Jacques de Matignon, Marshal of France. This girl was Marguerite's confidante, with whom she shared all her secrets, and it was said that among the mysteries locked in her unshakeable fidelity were some so dreadful that they forced her to remain silent about everything else.

No light remained in the lower chambers or corridors, but from time to time a ghastly flash of lightning illuminated the dark rooms with a ghostly blue light.

The Duke, still guided by his escort, who held him by the hand, finally reached a spiral staircase built into the thickness of the wall. This staircase opened through a secret and invisible door into the antechamber leading to Marguerite’s apartments.

The antechamber, like the rest of the lower rooms, was in profound darkness.

Upon reaching the antechamber, Gillonne stopped.

“Have you brought what the Queen desires?” she asked in a low tone.

“Yes,” answered the Duke of Guise, “but I will hand it over to Her Majesty herself.”

“Then come without another moment’s delay!” said a voice from the darkness, making the Duke start, for he recognized it as Marguerite’s.

At that moment, a curtain of purple velvet and gold fleurs-de-lis was raised, and the Duke discerned in the shadow the Queen herself, who, in her impatience, had come to meet him.

“I am here, Madame,” said the Duke, quickly passing behind the curtain and letting it fall back into place.

Now it was Marguerite de Valois’s turn to guide the Prince through the apartment, which he knew well, while Gillonne, remaining at the door, signaled her Royal mistress with a reassuring gesture by placing her finger on her lips.

Marguerite, as if aware of the Duke’s jealous unease, led him into her bedroom and then stopped.

“Well, Duke,” she said, “are you satisfied?”

“Satisfied, Madame? With what, I ask you?”

“With this proof I am giving you,” replied Marguerite, with a slight edge of annoyance, “that I belong to a man who, on his very wedding night, values me so little that he hasn’t even come to thank me for the honor I have done him, not in choosing him, but in accepting him as my husband.”

“Oh, Madame,” said the Duke sadly, “rest assured that he will come, especially if you wish him to.”

“And it is you who say that, Henri,” cried Marguerite, “you, who of all people know otherwise! If I had the desire you attribute to me, would I have asked you to come to the Louvre?”

“You asked me to come here, Marguerite, because you wish to erase all traces of our past relationship, and because that past lives not only in my heart but also in this silver casket which I have brought you.”

“May I tell you one thing, Henri?” replied Marguerite, looking the Duke steadily in the face. “And that is that you are behaving more like a schoolboy than a Prince. I deny that I have loved you! I wish to extinguish a flame which may die, perhaps, but the reflection of which will never be quenched! For the affairs of people of my station ignite and often bring disaster upon the entire period in which they live. No, no, my Lord Duke; you can keep Marguerite’s letters and the casket she gave you. She only asks for one letter from those it contains, and that is because this letter is as dangerous to you as it is to herself.”

“They are all yours,” said the Duke; “select the one you wish to destroy.”

Marguerite eagerly searched the opened casket, and with a trembling hand took up, one after another, a dozen letters, contenting herself with merely glancing at their addresses, as though this alone would recall the contents of the letters to her memory. After going through them all, she looked at the Duke and, turning very pale, said:

“No, sir, the one I am looking for is not there; you haven’t lost it by any chance? As for handing it over—”

“Which letter are you looking for, Madame?”

“The one in which I told you to get married without delay.”

“In order to excuse your unfaithfulness?” Marguerite shrugged her shoulders.

“No, but to save your life. The letter in which I told you that the King, perceiving our mutual love, and the efforts I was making to break off your union with the Infanta of Portugal, had summoned his brother, the Bastard of Angoulême, and showing him two swords, had said: ‘Slay Henri de Guise with this sword tonight, or I will kill him with the other tomorrow.’ Where is that letter?”

“Here,” said the Duke of Guise, drawing it from his breast.

Marguerite almost tore it from his hands, opened it eagerly, confirmed that it was the one she was searching for, uttered an exclamation of joy, and thrust it into the candle. The flame immediately caught it and consumed it, but Marguerite, as though fearing that even its ashes might convey information, crushed the charred remains beneath her foot.

The Duke of Guise had followed with his eyes the restless actions of his mistress.

“Well, Marguerite,” said he when she had finished, “are you satisfied now?”

“Yes; for now that you have married Princess of Porcian, my brother will forgive you for loving me, while he would not have forgiven me for revealing such a secret which, in my weakness for you, I should not have had the strength to conceal from you.”

“True,” said the Duke, “at that time you loved me.”

“And I love you still, Henri, as much as, nay more than ever.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, I do; for never more than today did I need a true and devoted friend. As a queen, I have no throne; as a woman, I have no husband.”

The young Prince shook his head sadly.

“But when I tell you, Henri, when I repeat that my husband not only does not love me, but that he hates and despises me; besides, I think the mere fact of your presence in the room where he ought to be is good proof of this hatred and contempt.”

“It is still early, Madame, and the King of Navarre has needed time to dismiss his gentlemen; if he has not come yet, he will not be long in doing so.”

“And I tell you that he will not come,” cried Marguerite with increasing vexation.

“Madame,” said Gillonne, opening the door and raising the curtain, “The King of Navarre is coming from his rooms.”

“Oh! I knew very well that he would come!” exclaimed the Duke of Guise.

“Henri,” said Marguerite, in a peremptory tone, and seizing the Duke by the hand, “you shall see if I am a woman of my word, and if you can depend on me when I have once given a promise. Henri, go into that closet.”

“Madame, let me go if there is yet time, for reflect that at the first sign of affection he gives you, I will come out of that closet, and then woe betide him!”

“You are mad! Go in, go in, I tell you; I will answer for everything.”

And she pushed the Duke into the closet.

Marguerite was just in time. Scarcely had the door closed behind the Duke when the King of Navarre, escorted by two pages carrying eight wax candles in two candelabra, appeared smiling on the threshold of the chamber.

Marguerite concealed her uneasiness by making a profound reverence.

“You haven’t retired to bed yet, Madame?” asked the Béarnais with a frank expression of pleasure on his face. “Were you expecting me by chance?”

“No, sir,” answered Marguerite, “since you told me only yesterday that you knew our marriage was a political union, and that you would never force me to submit to your embraces.”

“Well and good; but that’s no reason why we shouldn’t converse for a little while. Shut the door, Gillonne, and leave us.”

Marguerite, who had been seated, rose and extended her hand as if to order the pages to remain.

“Must I call your women?” asked the King. “I will do so if you insist upon it, though I must confess that, in view of what I have to say to you, I should prefer that we were alone.”

And the King of Navarre stepped towards the closet.

“No,” cried Marguerite, throwing herself impetuously in front of him, “no, it is unnecessary, and I am ready to listen to you.”

The Béarnais had discovered what he wished to know; he threw a swift and searching glance towards the closet, as though desiring, in spite of the curtain that concealed it, to penetrate its dark recesses; then, fixing his eyes upon his wife, who was now pale with alarm, he said:

“In that case, Madame,” he said in a perfectly calm tone, “let us have a little talk together.”

“As your Majesty pleases,” said Marguerite, sinking rather than sitting down upon the chair indicated by her husband. The Béarnais sat down beside her.

“Madame,” he continued, “our marriage—whatever people may say about it—is, I think, a good marriage. I am entirely yours and you are mine.”

“But—” said Marguerite, in terror.

“Consequently,” the King went on without appearing to notice her hesitation, “we ought to treat one another as good allies since we have sworn an alliance to each other before God. Is not that your opinion?”

“Certainly it is.”

“I know, Madame, the greatness of your penetration; I also know how the ground of this Court is strewn with dangerous pitfalls. Well, I am young, and although I have never injured anybody, I have plenty of enemies. In which camp, Madame, am I to reckon her who bears my name, and who has sworn at the altar to love me?”

“Oh, sir, could you imagine—”

“I imagine nothing, Madame; I hope, and I should like to be assured that my hope is well founded. It is certain that our marriage is either merely a pretext or a trap.”

Marguerite started, for the same thought had likely occurred to her mind.

“Now, which of the two is it?” continued Henri de Navarre. “The King hates me, the Dukes of Anjou and Alençon hate me, and Catherine de' Medici, who hated my mother, cannot help but hate me as well.”

“Oh, sir, what are you saying?”

“The truth, Madame,” replied the King. “I wish there were someone here to hear my words so that I might not be thought to be the dupe of those who assassinated M. de Mouy and poisoned my mother.”

“But, sir,” said Marguerite quickly, with the calmest and most smiling expression she could muster, “you know there is nobody here but the two of us.”

“That is precisely why I am speaking so freely, and why I dare to tell you that I am not deceived by the blandishments of the French Court or those of the house of Lorraine.”

“Sir! sir!” cried Marguerite.

“Well, what is the matter, sweet one?” asked Henri, smiling in turn.

“The matter is, sir, that such speeches are very dangerous.”

“Not when we are quite alone,” replied the King. “Well, I was telling you—”

Marguerite was evidently suffering, and she wished she could stop her husband’s words. But Henri continued with apparent unconcern:

“I was telling you, then, that I am threatened on all sides: by the King, by the Duke of Alençon, by the Duke of Anjou, by the Queen-Mother, by the Duke de Guise, by the Duke de Mayenne, by the Cardinal de Lorraine—by everyone, in short. You know, Madame, one feels these things instinctively. Well! Against all these threats, which will soon turn into attacks, I can defend myself with your help, since you are beloved by all the people who hate me.”

“I!” said Marguerite.

“Yes, you,” replied Henri de Navarre with perfect good humor. “Yes, you are beloved by King Charles; you are beloved”—he emphasized the word—“by the Duke of Alençon and by Queen Catherine; and, lastly, you are beloved by the Duke de Guise.”

“Sir—” murmured Marguerite.

“Well, is there anything surprising in the fact that everyone loves you? All those I have just named are either your brothers or your relations, and to love these is simply to obey God’s commandment.”

“But to what does all this tend, sir?” asked Marguerite in a troubled tone.

“It leads to what I have already told you: with you as, I won’t say my friend, but my ally, I can brave everything; while, on the other hand, with you as my enemy, I am lost.”

“Oh, sir, your enemy, never!” cried Marguerite.

“But my friend, if never any more than that?”

“Perhaps.”

“And my ally?”

“Certainly.”

And Marguerite turned and extended her hand to the King.

Henri took Marguerite's hand, kissed it gracefully, and kept it within his own, more out of curiosity than tenderness.

“Well, Madame, I believe you,” he said, “and accept you as my ally. They have married us without our knowing or loving one another, and without consulting us who are chiefly concerned. We therefore owe each other nothing as husband and wife. You see, Madame, that I meet your wishes and confirm today what I promised you yesterday. But we enter into this alliance freely, under no compulsion, as two loyal beings who unite for mutual protection; that is how you understand the matter, is it not?”

“Yes, sir,” said Marguerite, trying to withdraw her hand.

“Well!” continued Henri, keeping his eyes fixed on the closet door, “since the first proof of a frank alliance is absolute confidence, I am going to tell you, Madame, in its minutest details, the scheme I have formed to successfully combat this hostility.”

“Sir,” murmured Marguerite, involuntarily directing her gaze towards the closet, while Henri, noticing the success of his ruse, smiled to himself.

“This is what I intend to do,” he continued, without seeming to notice her agitation; “I intend—”

“Sir,” cried Marguerite, rising abruptly and grasping the King by the arm, “let me have a moment’s breath; I am choking from the emotion—the heat—”

Indeed, Marguerite was pale and trembling, as though about to collapse. Henri walked to a window at the far end of the room and opened it. The window overlooked the river. Marguerite followed him.

“Silence! Silence, sir, for your own sake,” she murmured.

“What, Madame,” said Henri with his customary smile, “did you not say we were alone?”

“Yes, sir; but haven’t you heard that by means of an air-tube inserted in a wall or ceiling, everything can be overheard?”

“True, Madame, true,” said Henri in a low tone. “You do not love me, it is true; but you are an honorable woman.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“I mean that, had you been capable of betraying me, you might have let me continue until I betrayed myself with my own words. You stopped me. I know now that someone is concealed here; that you are an unfaithful wife, but a loyal ally, and at the present moment,” added Henri with a smile, “I stand in greater need of fidelity in matters of policy than in love—”

“Sir,” murmured Marguerite in confusion.

“There, there, we will discuss all this later on, when we know each other better,” said Henri.

“Yes, yes,” murmured Marguerite.

“In that case, I will not disturb you longer. I owed you my respects and some advances in the way of friendship; accept them as they are offered, with all my heart. Go to rest, then, and good night.”

Marguerite looked at her husband with gratitude and, in turn, extended her hand.

“It is settled,” she said.

“A political alliance, frank and loyal?” asked Henri.

“Frank and loyal,” replied Marguerite.

Henri, after giving his final words of thanks, moved towards the door. Marguerite, almost hypnotized, watched him until he disappeared from view. As the curtain fell behind him, Henri spoke quickly in a low tone:

“Thank you, Marguerite; thank you. You are a true daughter of France. I leave with my mind at ease. In place of your love, at least your friendship will not fail me. I rely on you, as you may rely on me. Adieu, Madame.”

Henri kissed his wife’s hand and pressed it gently before briskly making his way back to his own quarters. As he walked down the corridor, he muttered to himself:

“Who the devil could be in there with her? Is it the King, the Duke of Anjou, the Duke of Alençon, the Duke of Guise? A brother or a lover, or both? I almost regret making that appointment with the Baroness. But since I’ve given my word and Dariole is waiting for me… never mind; she will probably suffer for the fact that I passed through my wife’s chamber on my way to her. By God, Margot, as my brother-in-law Charles calls her, is an extraordinary creature.”

With a step that showed a hint of hesitation, Henri de Navarre ascended the stairs leading to Madame de Sauve’s apartment.

Marguerite, once Henri had left, turned her attention back to the Duke, who was waiting by the closet door. The sight of him stirred a pang of remorse within her.

The Duke, for his part, looked somber, his furrowed brows indicating a troubled mind.

“Marguerite is neutral today,” he said. “In a week, she will be hostile.”

“Ah, so you heard?” Marguerite replied.

“What did you expect me to do in that closet?” the Duke asked.

“And do you think I acted otherwise than befits the Queen of Navarre?” Marguerite countered.

“No,” the Duke said, “but otherwise than becomes the mistress of the Duke of Guise.”

“Sir,” replied Marguerite, “I cannot love my husband, but no one has the right to demand that I betray him. Honestly, would you betray the secrets of your wife, the Princess of Porcian?”

“Come now, Madame,” the Duke said, shaking his head, “that’s enough. I see that you no longer love me as you did when you informed me of the King’s plots against me.”

“The King was then strong, and you were weak. Henri is now weak, and you are strong. You see, I still play the same part.”

“Then you have indeed crossed from one camp to the other.”

“I have acquired the right to do so, sir, by having saved your life.”

“Very well, Madame; and as, when lovers part, they restore all that has been given them, I, in my turn, will save your life if the opportunity occurs, and we shall be quits.”

With these words the Duke bowed and withdrew without Marguerite making any movement to stop him. In the ante-chamber he found Gillonne, who conducted him to the window on the ground floor, and in the moat he found his page, with whom he returned to the Hotel de Guise.

Meanwhile, Marguerite had gone to the window and stood there wrapped in thought.

“What a wedding night!” she murmured. “My husband shuns me and my lover deserts me!”

At this moment, there passed on the other side of the moat, coming from the Tour de Bois and ascending towards the Moulin de la Monnaie, a student with his arms akimbo, singing lustily:

Why, when I your lips would taste,

 And fain would clasp your slender waist,

 And feast upon your eyes so pure,

 Why do you play the nun demure,

 Enclosed by cloister walls?

For whom do you reserve your charms,

 Your bosom, eyes, and rounded arms?

 Think you Pluto’s love to share—

When Charon shall have rowed you there—

In his dark and silent halls?

Down there, fair one, when you die,

 Upon a bed of straw you’ll lie;

And when I meet you there below,

I shall not to the Shades avow

That you were once my sweet.

Therefore, while youth and beauty last,

 Amend your coldness in the past

And to my suit relent.

 For when you're dead, you will repent

You spurned me from your feet.

Marguerite listened to this ballad with a doleful smile; then, when the student’s voice had died away in the distance, she closed the window again and summoned Gillonne to help her prepare for bed.

CHAPTER III – A Poet King

The next day and those that succeeded it were spent in fêtes, ballets, and tourneys. The two parties continued to fraternize with one another. The Huguenots were treated with an attention and respect sufficient to turn the heads of the most embittered among them. Pierre Cotton had been seen dining and making merry with the Baron de Courtaumer, and the Duc de Guise had gone up the Seine with the Prince de Condé in a barge, attended by a band of musicians.