QUEEN MARGOT (Historical Novel). Alexandre Dumas

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      “And wherefore, madame?” inquired Charles IX., fixing on his mother that glassy eye which, on certain occasions, became so penetrating.

      “Because every day I receive new insults from persons of the new faith; because today I hear that you have been threatened by the Protestants even in your own Louvre, and I do not desire to be present at such spectacles.”

      “But then, madame,” replied Charles IX., with an expression full of conviction, “an attempt has been made to kill their admiral. An infamous murderer has already assassinated the brave M. de Mouy. Mort de ma vie, mother, there must be justice in a kingdom!”

      “Oh, be easy on that head, my son,” said Catharine; “they will not fail justice; for if you should refuse it, they will still have it in their own way: on M. de Guise today, on me tomorrow, and yourself later.”

      “Oh, madame!” said Charles, allowing a first accent of doubt to show in his voice, “do you think so?”

      “Oh, my son,” replied Catharine, giving way entirely to the violence of her thoughts, “do you not see that it is no longer a question of François de Guise’s death or the admiral’s, of the Protestant religion or the Catholic religion, but simply of the substitution of Antoine de Bourbon’s son for the son of Henry the Second?”

      “Come, come, mother, you are falling again into your usual exaggeration,” said the King.

      “What, then, have you in mind, my son?”

      “To wait, mother — to wait. All human wisdom is in this single word. The greatest, the strongest, the most skilful is he who knows how to wait.”

      “You may wait, then; I will not.”

      Catharine made a courtesy, and stepping towards the door, was about to return to her apartment.

      Charles IX. stopped her.

      “Well, then, really, what is best to be done, mother?” he asked, “for above all I am just, and I would have every one satisfied with me.”

      Catharine turned toward him.

      “Come, count,” she said to Tavannes, who was caressing the King’s shrike, “tell the King your opinion as to what should be done.”

      “Will your Majesty permit me?” inquired the count.

      “Speak, Tavannes! — speak.”

      “What does your Majesty do when, in the chase, the wounded boar turns on you?”

      “By Heaven! monsieur, I wait for him, with firm foot,” replied Charles, “and stab him in the throat with my boar-spear.”

      “Simply that he may not hurt you,” remarked Catharine.

      “And to amuse myself,” said the King, with a sigh which indicated courage easily aroused even to ferocity; “but I should not amuse myself killing my subjects; for, after all, the Huguenots are my subjects, as well as the Catholics.”

      “Then, sire,” said Catharine, “your subjects, the Huguenots, will do like the wild boar who escapes the spear thrust into his throat: they will bring down the throne.”

      “Nonsense! Do you really think so, madame?” said Charles IX., with an air which denoted that he did not place great faith in his mother’s predictions.

      “But have you not seen M. de Mouy and his party today?”

      “Yes; I have seen them, for I have just left them. But what does he ask for that is not just? He has requested that his father’s murderer and the admiral’s assassin be put to death. Did we not punish M. de Montgommery for the death of my father and your husband, although that death was a simple accident?”

      “Very well, sire,” said Catharine, piqued, “let us say no more. Your majesty is under the protection of that God who gives you strength, wisdom, and confidence. But I, a poor woman whom God abandons, no doubt on account of my sins, fear and yield.”

      And having said this, Catharine again courteseyed and left the room, making a sign to the Duc de Guise, who had at that moment entered, to remain in her place, and try a last effort.

      Charles IX. followed his mother with his eye, but this time did not recall her. He then began to caress his dogs, whistling a hunting-air.

      He suddenly paused.

      “My mother,” said he, “is a royal spirit, and has scruples! Really, now, it is a cool proposal, to kill off some dozens of Huguenots because they come to demand justice! Is it not their right?”

      “Some dozens!” murmured the Duc de Guise.

      “Ah! are you here, sir?” said the King, pretending to see him for the first time. “Yes, some dozens. A tolerable waste of life! Ah! if any one came to me and said; ‘Sire, you shall be rid of all your enemies at once, and tomorrow there shall not remain one to reproach you with the death of the others,’ why, then, I do not say”—

      “Well, sire?”

      “Tavannes,” said the King, “you will tire Margot; put her back on her perch. It is no reason, because she bears the name of my sister, the Queen of Navarre, that every one should caress her.”

      Tavannes put the hawk on her perch, and amused himself by curling and uncurling a greyhound’s ears.

      “But, sire, if any one should say to your Majesty: ‘Sire, your Majesty shall be delivered from all your enemies tomorrow’?”

      “And by the intercession of what saint would this miracle be wrought?”

      “Sire, today is the 24th of August, and therefore it would be by the interposition of Saint Bartholomew.”

      “A worthy saint,” replied the King, “who allowed himself to be skinned alive!”

      “So much the better; the more he suffered, the more he ought to have felt a desire for vengeance on his executioners.”

      “And will you, my cousin,” said the King, “will you, with your pretty little gold-hilted sword, slay ten thousand Huguenots between now and tomorrow? Ha! ha! ha! mort de ma vie! you are very amusing, Monsieur de Guise!”

      And the King burst into a loud laugh, but a laugh so forced that the room echoed with its sinister sound.

      “Sire, one word — and one only,” continued the duke, shuddering in spite of himself at the sound of that laugh, which had nothing human in it — “one signal, and all is ready. I have the Swiss and eleven hundred gentlemen; I have the light horse and the citizens; your Majesty has your guards, your friends, the Catholic nobility. We are twenty to one.”

      “Well, then, cousin, since you are so strong, why the devil do you come to fill my ears with all this? Act without me — act”—

      And the King turned again to his dogs.

      Then the portière was raised, and Catharine reappeared.

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