QUEEN MARGOT (Historical Novel). Alexandre Dumas

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      “But I”— said Marguerite.

      “The order is general.”

      “I, the Queen of Navarre! — I, his sister!”

      “My orders admit of no exception, madame; I pray you to pardon me.”

      And the officer closed the door.

      “Oh, he is lost!” exclaimed Marguerite, alarmed at the sight of all those sinister faces, which even if they did not breathe vengeance, expressed sternness of purpose. “Yes, yes! I comprehend all. I have been used as a bait. I am the snare which has entrapped the Huguenots; but I will enter, if I am killed in the attempt!”

      And Marguerite ran like a mad creature through the corridors and galleries, when suddenly, as she passed by a small door, she heard a sweet song, almost melancholy, so monotonous it was. It was a Calvinistic psalm, sung by a trembling voice in the next room.

      “My brother the king’s nurse — the good Madelon — she is there!” exclaimed Marguerite. “God of the Christians, aid me now!”

      And, full of hope, Marguerite knocked at the little door.

      Soon after the counsel which Marguerite had conveyed to him, after his conversation with Réné, and after leaving the queen mother’s chamber, in spite of the efforts of the poor little Phoebe — who like a good genius tried to detain him — Henry of Navarre had met several Catholic gentlemen, who, under a pretext of doing him honor, had escorted him to his apartments, where a score of Huguenots awaited him, who had rallied round the young prince, and, having once rallied, would not leave him — so strongly, for some hours, had the presentiment of that fatal night weighed on the Louvre. They had remained there, without any one attempting to disturb them. At last, at the first stroke of the bell of Saint–Germain l’Auxerrois, which resounded through all hearts like a funeral knell, Tavannes entered, and, in the midst of a death-like silence, announced that King Charles IX. desired to speak to Henry.

      It was useless to attempt resistance, and no one thought of it. They heard the ceilings, galleries, and corridors creaking beneath the feet of the assembled soldiers, who were in the court-yards, as well as in the apartments, to the number of two thousand. Henry, after having taken leave of his friends, whom he was never again to see, followed Tavannes, who led him to a small gallery next the King’s apartments, where he left him alone, unarmed, and a prey to mistrust.

      The King of Navarre counted here alone, minute by minute, two mortal hours; listening, with increasing alarm, to the sound of the tocsin and the discharge of fire-arms; seeing through a small window, by the light of the flames and flambeaux, the refugees and their assassins pass; understanding nothing of these shrieks of murder, these cries of distress — not even suspecting, in spite of his knowledge of Charles IX., the queen mother, and the Duc de Guise, the horrible drama at this moment enacting.

      Henry had not physical courage, but he had better than that — he had moral fortitude. Though he feared danger, yet he smiled at it and faced it; but it was danger in the field of battle — danger in the open air — danger in the eyes of all, and attended by the noisy harmony of trumpets and the loud and vibrating beat of drums; but now he was weaponless, alone, locked in, shut up in a semi-darkness where he could scarcely see the enemy that might glide toward him, and the weapon that might be raised to strike him.

      These two hours were, perhaps, the most agonizing of his life.

      In the hottest of the tumult, and as Henry was beginning to understand that, in all probability, this was some organized massacre, a captain came to him, and conducted the prince along a corridor to the King’s rooms. As they approached, the door opened and closed behind them as if by magic. The captain then led Henry to the King, who was in his armory.

      When they entered, the King was seated in a great arm-chair, his two hands placed on the two arms of the seat, and his head falling on his chest. At the noise made by their entrance Charles looked up, and Henry observed the perspiration dropping from his brow like large beads.

      “Good evening, Harry,” said the young King, roughly. “La Chastre, leave us.”

      The captain obeyed.

      A gloomy silence ensued. Henry looked around him with uneasiness, and saw that he was alone with the King.

      Charles IX. suddenly arose.

      “Par la mordieu!” said he, passing his hands through his light brown hair, and wiping his brow at the same time, “you are glad to be with me, are you not, Harry?”

      “Certainly, sire,” replied the King of Navarre, “I am always happy to be with your Majesty.”

      “Happier than if you were down there, eh?” continued Charles, following his own thoughts rather than replying to Henry’s compliment.

      “I do not understand, sire,” replied Henry.

      “Look out, then, and you will soon understand.”

      And with a quick movement Charles stepped or rather sprang to the window, and drawing with him his brother-inlaw, who became more and more terror-stricken, he pointed to him the horrible outlines of the assassins, who, on the deck of a boat, were cutting the throats or drowning the victims brought them at every moment.

      “In the name of Heaven,” cried Henry; “what is going on to-night?”

      “To-night, sir,” replied Charles IX., “they are ridding me of all the Huguenots. Look yonder, over the Hôtel de Bourbon, at the smoke and flames: they are the smoke and flames of the admiral’s house, which is on fire. Do you see that body, which these good Catholics are drawing on a torn mattress? It is the corpse of the admiral’s son-inlaw — the carcass of your friend, Téligny.”

      “What means this?” cried the King of Navarre, seeking vainly by his side for the hilt of his dagger, and trembling equally with shame and anger; for he felt that he was at the same time laughed at and threatened.

      “It means,” cried Charles IX., becoming suddenly furious, and turning frightfully pale, “it means that I will no longer have any Huguenots about me. Do you hear me, Henry? — Am I King? Am I master?”

      “But, your Majesty”—

      “My Majesty kills and massacres at this moment all that is not Catholic; it is my pleasure. Are you a Catholic?” exclaimed Charles, whose anger was rising higher and higher, like an awful tide.

      “Sire,” replied Henry, “do you remember your own words, ‘What matters the religion of those who serve me well’?”

      “Ha! ha! ha!” cried Charles, bursting into a ferocious laugh; “you ask me if I remember my words, Henry! ‘Verba volant,’ as my sister Margot says; and had not all those”— and he pointed to the city with his finger —“served me well, also? Were they not brave in battle, wise in council, deeply devoted? They were all useful subjects — but they were Huguenots, and I want none but Catholics.”

      Henry remained silent.

      “Do you understand me now, Harry?” asked Charles.

      “I understand, sire.”

      “Well?”

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