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

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СКАЧАТЬ at the foot of the bed, Marguerite’s clothes scattered over the chairs, the way she rubbed her eyes as if to drive away her sleepiness, all convinced Catharine that she had awakened her daughter.

      Then she smiled as a woman does when she has succeeded in her plans, and drawing up an easy chair, she said:

      “Let us sit down, Marguerite, and talk.”

      “Madame, I am listening.”

      “It is time,” said Catharine, slowly shutting her eyes in the characteristic way of people who weigh each word or who deeply dissimulate, “it is time, my daughter, that you should know how ardently your brother and myself desire to see you happy.”

      This exordium for one who knew Catharine was alarming.

      “What can she be about to say?” thought Marguerite.

      “To be sure,” continued La Florentine, “in giving you in marriage we fulfilled one of those acts of policy frequently required by important interests of those who govern; but I must confess, my poor child, that we had no expectation that the indifference manifested by the King of Navarre for one so young, so lovely, and so fascinating as yourself would be so obstinate.”

      Marguerite arose, and folding her robe de chambre around her, courtesied with ceremonious respect to her mother.

      “I have heard to-night only,” continued Catharine, “otherwise I should have paid you an earlier visit, that your husband is far from showing you those attentions you have a right to claim, not merely as a beautiful woman, but as a princess of France.”

      Marguerite sighed, and Catharine, encouraged by this mute approval, proceeded.

      “In fact, that the King of Navarre is openly cohabiting one of my maids of honor who is scandalously smitten with him, that he scorns the love of the woman graciously given to him, is an insult to which we poor powerful ones of the earth cannot apply a remedy, and yet the meanest gentleman in our kingdom would avenge it by calling out his son-inlaw or having his son do so.”

      Marguerite dropped her head.

      “For some time, my daughter,” Catharine went on to say, “I have seen by your reddened eyes, by your bitter sallies against La Sauve, that in spite of your efforts your heart must show external signs of its bleeding wound.”

      Marguerite trembled: a slight movement had shaken the curtains; but fortunately Catharine did not notice it.

      “This wound,” said she with affectionate sweetness redoubled, “this wound, my daughter, a mother’s hand must cure. Those who with the intention of securing your happiness have brought about your marriage, and who in their anxiety about you notice that every night Henry of Navarre goes to the wrong rooms; those who cannot allow a kinglet like him to insult a woman of such beauty, of such high rank, and so worthy, by scorning your person and neglecting his chances of posterity; those who see that at the first favorable wind, this wild and insolent madcap will turn against our family and expel you from his house — I say have not they the right to secure your interests by entirely dividing them from his, so that your future may be better suited to yourself and your rank?”

      “And yet, madame,” replied Marguerite, “in spite of these observations so replete with maternal love, and filling me with joy and pride, I am bold enough to affirm to your majesty that the King of Navarre is my husband.”

      Catharine started with rage, and drawing closer to Marguerite she said:

      “He, your husband? Is it sufficient to make you husband and wife that the Church has pronounced its blessing upon you? And is the marriage consecration only in the words of the priest? He, your husband? Ah, my daughter! if you were Madame de Sauve you might give me this reply. But wholly contrary of what we expected of him since you granted Henry of Navarre the honor of calling you his wife, he has given all your rights to another woman, and at this very instant even,” said Catharine, raising her voice — “this key opens the door of Madame de Sauve’s apartment — come with me and you will see”—

      “Oh, not so loud, madame, not so loud, I beseech you!” said Marguerite, “for not only are you mistaken, but”—

      “Well?”

      “Well, you will awaken my husband!”

      As she said these words Marguerite arose with a perfectly voluptuous grace, her white dress fluttering loosely around her, while the large open sleeves displayed her bare and faultlessly modelled arm and truly royal hand, and taking a rose-colored taper she held it near the bed, and drawing back the curtain, and smiling significantly at her mother, pointed to the haughty profile, the black locks, and the parted lips of the King of Navarre, who, as he lay upon the disordered bed, seemed buried in profound repose.

      Pale, with haggard eyes, her body thrown back as if an abyss had opened at her feet, Catharine uttered not a cry, but a hoarse bellow.

      “You see, madame,” said Marguerite, “you were misinformed.”

      Catharine looked first at Marguerite, then at Henry. In her active mind she combined Marguerite’s smile with the picture of that pale and dewy brow, those eyes circled by dark-colored rings, and she bit her thin lips in silent fury.

      Marguerite allowed her mother for a moment to contemplate this picture, which affected her like the head of Medusa. Then she dropped the curtain and stepping on her tip-toes she came back to Catharine and sat down:

      “You were saying, madame?”—

      The Florentine for several seconds tried to fathom the young woman’s naïveté; but as if her keen glance had become blunted on Marguerite’s calmness, she exclaimed, “Nothing,” and hastily left the room.

      As soon as the sound of her departing footsteps had died away down the long corridor, the bed-curtains opened a second time, and Henry, with sparkling eyes, trembling hand, and panting breath, came out and knelt at Marguerite’s feet; he was dressed only in his short-clothes and his coat of mail, so that Marguerite, seeing him in such an odd rig, could not help laughing even while she was warmly shaking hands with him.

      “Ah, madame! ah, Marguerite!” he cried, “how shall I ever repay you?”

      And he covered her hand with kisses which gradually strayed higher up along her arm.

      “Sire,” said she, gently retreating, “can you forget that a poor woman to whom you owe your life is mourning and suffering on your account? Madame de Sauve,” added she, in a lower tone, “has forgotten her jealousy in sending you to me; and to that sacrifice she may probably have to add her life, for you know better than any one how terrible is my mother’s anger!”

      Henry shuddered; and, rising, started to leave the room.

      “Upon second thoughts,” said Marguerite, with admirable coquetry, “I have thought it all over and I see no cause for alarm. The key was given to you without any directions, and it will be supposed that you granted me the preference for to-night.”

      “And so I do, Marguerite! Consent but to forget”—

      “Not so loud, sire, not so loud!” replied the queen, employing the same words she had a few minutes before used to her mother; “any one in the adjoining closet can hear you. And as I am not yet quite free, I will ask you to speak in a lower tone.”

      “Oho!” СКАЧАТЬ