THE VALOIS SAGA: Queen Margot, Chicot de Jester & The Forty-Five Guardsmen (Historical Novels). Alexandre Dumas

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      “Because, although I am already too bad a Huguenot to be a faithful servant of the King of Navarre, I am not a sufficiently good Catholic to be friends with the Duc d’Alençon and Monsieur de Guise.”

      This time Marguerite cast down her eyes, for she felt the very depths of her heart stirred by what he said, and yet she could not have told whether his reply was meant to give her joy or pain.

      At this moment Gillonne came back. Marguerite asked her a question with a glance; Gillonne’s answer, also conveyed by her eyes, was in the affirmative. She had succeeded in getting the key to the King of Navarre.

      Marguerite turned her eyes toward La Mole, who stood before her, his head drooping on his breast, pale, like one suffering alike in mind and in body.

      “Monsieur de la Mole is proud,” said she, “and I hesitate to make him a proposition he will doubtless reject.”

      La Mole rose, took one step toward Marguerite, and was about to bow low before her to signify that he was at her service; but an intense, keen, burning pang forced the tears from his eyes, and conscious that he was in danger of falling, he clutched a piece of tapestry and clung to it.

      “Don’t you see, sir,” cried Marguerite, springing to him and supporting him in her arms, “don’t you see that you still need me?”

      A scarcely perceptible movement passed over La Mole’s lips.

      “Oh, yes!” he whispered, “like the air I breathe, like the light I see!”

      At this moment three knocks were heard at Marguerite’s door.

      “Do you hear, madame?” cried Gillonne, alarmed.

      “Already!” exclaimed Marguerite.

      “Shall I open?”

      “Wait! perhaps it is the King of Navarre.”

      “Oh, madame!” cried La Mole, recalled to himself by these words, which the queen had spoken in such a low tone that she hoped Gillonne only had heard them, “on my knees I entreat you, let me depart. Yes, dead or alive! madame, have pity on me! Oh! you do not answer. I will tell you all, and then you will drive me away, I hope.”

      “Be silent,” said Marguerite, who found an indescribable charm in the young man’s reproaches; “be silent.”

      “Madame,” replied La Mole, who did not find that anger he expected in the voice of the queen, “madame, I tell you again, everything is audible in this closet. Oh, do not make me perish by tortures more cruel than the executioner could inflict”—

      “Silence! silence!” said Marguerite.

      “Oh, madame, you are merciless! you will not hear me, you will not understand me. Know, then, that I love you”—

      “Silence! I tell you,” interrupted Marguerite, placing on his mouth her warm, perfumed hand, which he seized between both of his and pressed eagerly to his lips.

      “But”— he whispered.

      “Be silent, child — who is this rebel that refuses to obey his queen?”

      Then darting out of the closet, she shut the door and stood leaning against the wall pressing her trembling hand to her heart, as if to control it.

      “Open, Gillonne.”

      Gillonne left the room, and an instant after, the fine, intellectual, but rather anxious countenance of the King of Navarre appeared behind the tapestry.

      “You have sent for me, madame?”

      “Yes, sire. Your majesty received my letter?”

      “And not without some surprise, I confess,” said Henry, looking round with distrust, which, however, almost instantly vanished from his mind.

      “And not without some apprehension,” added Marguerite.

      “I confess it, madame! But still, surrounded as I am by deadly enemies, by friends still more dangerous, perhaps, than my open foes, I recollected that one evening I had seen a noble generosity shining in your eyes —’twas the night of our marriage; that one other evening I had seen the star of courage beaming in them —’twas yesterday, the day fixed for my death.”

      “Well, sire?” said Marguerite, smiling, while Henry seemed striving to read her heart.

      “Well, madame,” returned the king, “thinking of these things, I said to myself, as I read your letter bidding me come: ‘Without friends, for he is a disarmed prisoner, the King of Navarre has but one means of dying nobly, of dying a death that will be recorded in history. It is to die betrayed by his wife; and I am come’"—

      “Sire,” replied Marguerite, “you will change your tone when you learn that all this is the work of a woman who loves you — and whom you love.”

      Henry started back at these words, and his keen gray eyes under their black lashes were fixed on the queen with curiosity.

      “Oh, reassure yourself, sire,” said the queen, smiling; “I am not that person.”

      “But, madame,” said Henry, “you sent me this key, and this is your writing.”

      “It is my writing, I confess; the letter came from me, but the key is a different matter. Let it satisfy you to know that it has passed through the hands of four women before it reached you.”

      “Of four women?” exclaimed Henry in astonishment.

      “Yes,” said Marguerite; “Queen Catharine’s, Madame de Sauve’s, Gillonne’s, and mine.”

      Henry pondered over this enigma.

      “Now let us talk reasonably, sire,” said Marguerite, “and above all let us speak frankly. Common report has it that your majesty has consented to abjure. Is it true?”

      “That report is mistaken; I have not yet consented.”

      “But your mind is made up?”

      “That is to say, I am deliberating. When one is twenty and almost a king, ventre saint gris! there are many things well worth a mass.”

      “And among other things life, for instance!”

      Henry could not repress a fleeting smile.

      “You do not tell me your whole thought,” said Marguerite.

      “I have reservations for my allies, madame; and you know we are but allies as yet; if indeed you were both my ally — and”—

      “And your wife, sire?”

      “Faith! yes, and my wife”—

      “What then?”

      “Why, then, it might be different, and I perhaps might resolve to remain King of the Huguenots, as they call me. But as it is, I must be content to live.”

      Marguerite СКАЧАТЬ