THE VALOIS SAGA: Queen Margot, Chicot de Jester & The Forty-Five Guardsmen (Historical Novels). Alexandre Dumas
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Название: THE VALOIS SAGA: Queen Margot, Chicot de Jester & The Forty-Five Guardsmen (Historical Novels)
Автор: Alexandre Dumas
Издательство: Bookwire
Жанр: Языкознание
isbn: 9788075835925
isbn:
Marguerite understood all the love in his look, all the despair in his weakness.
“Sire,” said she, “your majesty is bound to confer on this young man, who imperilled his life for his king, since he received his wounds while coming hither to inform you of the admiral’s death and Téligny’s — your majesty is bound, I repeat, to confer on him an honor for which he will be grateful all his life long.”
“What is it, madame?” asked Henry. “Command me, I am ready.”
“Monsieur de la Mole must sleep to-night at your majesty’s feet, while you, sire, can sleep on this couch. With the permission of my august spouse,” added Marguerite, smiling, “I will summon Gillonne and return to bed, for I assure you I am not the least wearied of us three.”
Henry had shrewd sense and a quick perception of things; friends and enemies subsequently found fault with him for possessing too much of both. He fully admitted that she who thus banished him from the nuptial bed was well justified in so doing by the indifference he had himself manifested toward her; and then, too, she had just repaid this indifference by saving his life; he therefore allowed no self-love to dictate his answer.
“Madame,” said he, “if Monsieur de la Mole were able to come to my quarters I would give him my own bed.”
“Yes,” replied Marguerite, “but your quarters just at the present time would not be safe for either of you, and prudence dictates that your majesty should remain here until morning.”
Then without awaiting the king’s reply she summoned Gillonne, and bade her prepare the necessary cushions for the king, and to arrange a bed at the king’s feet for La Mole, who appeared so happy and contented with the honor that one would have sworn he no longer felt his wounds.
Then Marguerite, courtesing low to the king, passed into her chamber, the door of which was well furnished with bolts, and threw herself on the bed.
“One thing is certain,” said Marguerite to herself, “tomorrow Monsieur de la Mole must have a protector at the Louvre; and he who, to-night, sees and hears nothing, may change his mind tomorrow.”
Then she called Gillonne, who was waiting to receive her last orders.
Gillonne came to her.
“Gillonne,” said she in a whisper, “you must contrive to bring my brother the Duc d’Alençon here tomorrow morning before eight o’clock.”
It was just striking two at the Louvre.
La Mole for a few moments talked on political subjects with the king, who gradually grew drowsy and was soon snoring.
La Mole might have slept as well as the king, but Marguerite was not asleep; she kept turning from side to side in her bed, and the noise she made disturbed the young man’s ideas and sleep.
“He is very young,” murmured Marguerite in her wakeful mood, “he is very timid; perhaps — but we must see — perhaps it will be ridiculous. Yet he has handsome eyes — and a good figure, and he is very charming; but if he should not turn out to be brave! — He ran away! — He is renouncing his faith! It is too bad — the dream began well. However, let things take their course and entrust them to that madcap Henriette’s triple god.”
And toward daybreak Marguerite fell asleep, murmuring:
“Eros, Cupido, Amor.”
Chapter 15.
What Woman Wills, God Wills.
Marguerite was not mistaken: the wrath distilled in the depths of Catharine’s heart at sight of this comedy, the intrigue of which she followed without being in any way able to change its denouement, required a victim. So instead of going directly to her own room the queen mother proceeded to that of her lady in waiting.
Madame de Sauve was in expectation of two visits — one she hoped to receive from Henry, and the other she feared was in store for her from the queen mother. As she lay in her bed only partially undressed, while Dariole kept watch in the antechamber, she heard a key turn in the lock, and then slowly approaching footsteps which would have seemed heavy if they had not been deadened by thick rugs. She did not recognize Henry’s light, eager step; she suspected that Dariole was prevented from coming to warn her, and so leaning on her elbow she waited with eye and ear alert. The portière was lifted and the trembling young woman saw Catharine de Médicis appear.
Catharine seemed calm; but Madame de Sauve, accustomed for two years to study her, well knew what dark designs, and possibly cruel vengeance, might be concealed beneath that apparent calm.
At sight of Catharine, Madame de Sauve was about to spring from her bed, but Catharine signed to her to stay where she was; and poor Charlotte was fixed to the spot, inwardly endeavoring to collect all the forces of her soul to endure the storm which was silently gathering.
“Did you convey the key to the King of Navarre?” inquired Catharine, without the tone of her voice betraying any change; and yet as she spoke her lips grew paler and paler.
“I did, madame,” answered Charlotte, in a voice which she vainly tried to make as firm and assured as Catherine’s was.
“And have you seen him?”
“Who?” asked Madame de Sauve.
“The King of Navarre.”
“No, madame; but I am expecting him, and when I heard the key turn in the lock, I firmly believed it was he.”
At this answer, which indicated either perfect confidence or deep dissimulation on Madame de Sauve’s part, Catharine could not repress a slight shiver. She clinched her short plump hand.
“And yet you knew perfectly well,” said she with her evil smile, “you knew perfectly well, Carlotta, that the King of Navarre would not come to-night.”
“I, madame? I knew that?” exclaimed Charlotte, with a tone of surprise perfectly well assumed.
“Yes, you knew it!”
“If he does not come, he must be dead!” replied the young woman, shuddering at the mere supposition.
What gave Charlotte the courage to lie so was the certainty that she would suffer from a terrible vengeance if her little treason should be discovered.
“But did you not write to the king, Carlotta mia?” inquired Catharine, with the same cruel and silent laugh.
“No, madame,” answered Charlotte, with well-assumed naïveté, “I cannot recollect receiving your majesty’s commands to do so.”
A short silence followed, during which Catharine continued to gaze on Madame de Sauve as the serpent looks at the bird it wishes to fascinate.
“You think you are pretty,” said Catharine, “you think you are clever, do you not?”
“No, СКАЧАТЬ