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

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СКАЧАТЬ not a terrible history of a doctor at Perugia, who killed at once, by the aid of a pomade,⁷ his daughter and his daughter’s lover?”

      “Yes, madame.”

      “And this lover was”—

      “Was King Ladislas, madame.”

      “Ah, yes!” murmured she; “have you any of the details of this story?”

      “I have an old book which mentions it,” replied Réné.

      “Well, let us go into the other room, and you can show it me.”

      They left the cell, the door of which Réné closed after him.

      “Has your majesty any other orders to give me concerning the sacrifices?”

      “No, Réné, I am for the present sufficiently convinced. We will wait till we can secure the head of some criminal, and on the day of the execution you must arrange with the hangman.”

      Réné bowed in token of obedience, then holding his candle up he let the light fall on the shelves where his books stood, climbed on a chair, took one down, and handed it to the queen.

      Catharine opened it.

      “What is this?” she asked; “‘On the Method of Raising and Training Tercels, Falcons, and Gerfalcons to be Courageous, Valiant, and always ready for Flight.’”

      “Ah! pardon me, madame, I made a mistake. That is a treatise on venery written by a scientific man of Lucca for the famous Castruccio Castracani. It stood next the other and was bound exactly like it. I took down the wrong one. However, it is a very precious volume; there are only three copies extant — one belongs to the library at Venice, the other was bought by your grandfather Lorenzo and was offered by Pietro de Médicis to King Charles VIII., when he visited Florence, and the third you have in your hands.”

      “I venerate it,” said Catharine, “because of its rarity, but as I do not need it, I return it to you.”

      And she held out her right hand to Réné to receive the book which she wished, while with her left hand she returned to him the one which she had first taken.

      This time Réné was not mistaken; it was the volume she wished. He stepped down, turned the leaves for a moment, and gave it to her open.

      Catharine went and sat down at a table. Réné placed the magic taper near her and by the light of its bluish flame she read a few lines in an undertone:

      “Good!” said she, shutting the book; “that is all I wanted to know.”

      She rose from her seat, leaving the book on the table, but bearing away the idea which had germinated in her mind and would ripen there.

      Réné waited respectfully, taper in hand, until the queen, who seemed about to retire, should give him fresh orders or ask fresh questions.

      Catharine, with her head bent and her finger on her mouth, walked up and down several times without speaking.

      Then suddenly stopping before Réné, and fixing on him her eyes, round and piercing like a hawk’s:

      “Confess you have made for her some love-philter,” said she.

      “For whom?” asked Réné, starting.

      “La Sauve.”

      “I, madame?” said Réné; “never!”

      “Never?”

      “I swear it on my soul.”

      “There must be some magic in it, however, for he is desperately in love with her, though he is not famous for his constancy.”

      “Who, madame?”

      “He, Henry, the accursed — he who is to succeed my three sons — he who shall one day be called Henry IV., and is yet the son of Jeanne d’Albret.”

      And Catharine accompanied these words with a sigh which made Réné shudder, for he thought of the famous gloves he had prepared by Catharine’s order for the Queen of Navarre.

      “So he still runs after her, does he?” said Réné.

      “He does,” replied the queen.

      “I thought that the King of Navarre was quite in love with his wife now.”

      “A farce, Réné, a farce! I know not why, but every one is seeking to deceive me. My daughter Marguerite is leagued against me; perhaps she, too, is looking forward to the death of her brothers; perhaps she, too, hopes to be Queen of France.”

      “Perhaps so,” reechoed Réné, falling back into his own reverie and echoing Catharine’s terrible suspicion.

      “Ha! we shall see,” said Catharine, going to the main door, for she doubtless judged it useless to descend the secret stair, now that she was sure that they were alone.

      Réné preceded her, and in a few minutes they stood in the perfumer’s shop.

      “You promised me some new kind of cosmetic for my hands and lips, Réné; the winter is at hand and you know how sensitive my skin is to the cold.”

      “I have already provided for this, madame; and I shall bring you some tomorrow.”

      “You would not find me in before nine o’clock tomorrow evening; I shall be occupied with my devotions during the day.”

      “I will be at the Louvre at nine o’clock, then, madame.”

      “Madame de Sauve has beautiful hands and beautiful lips,” said Catharine in a careless tone. “What pomade does she use?”

      “For her hands?”

      “Yes, for her hands first.”

      “Heliotrope.”

      “What for her lips?”

      “She is going to try a new opiate of my invention. I was going to bring your majesty a box of it at the same time.”

      Catharine mused an instant.

      “She is certainly a very beautiful creature,” said she, pursuing her secret thoughts; “and the passion of the Béarnais for her is not strange at all.”

      “And she is so devoted to your majesty,” said Réné. “At least I should think so.”

      Catharine smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

      “When a woman loves, is she faithful to any one but her lover? You must have given her some philter, Réné.”

      “I swear I have not, madame.”

      “Well, well; we’ll say no more about it. Show me this new opiate you spoke of, that is to make her lips fresher and rosier than ever.”

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