QUEEN MARGOT (Historical Novel). Alexandre Dumas

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СКАЧАТЬ done. For if they all die, poor unfortunates, it is because the same terms have been proposed to them which your Majesty proposes to me, and they have refused, as I refuse.”

      Charles seized the young prince’s arm, and fixed on him a look the vacancy of which suddenly changed into a fierce and savage scowl.

      “What!” he said, “do you believe that I have taken the trouble to offer the mass to those whose throats we are cutting yonder?”

      “Sire,” said Henry, disengaging his arm, “will you not die in the religion of your fathers?”

      “Yes, par la mordieu! and you?”

      “Well, sire, I will do the same!” replied Henry.

      Charles uttered a roar of rage and, with trembling hand, seized his arquebuse, which lay on the table.

      Henry, who stood leaning against the tapestry, with the perspiration on his brow, and nevertheless, owing to his presence of mind, calm to all appearance, followed every movement of the terrible king with the greedy stupefaction of a bird fascinated by a serpent.

      Charles cocked his arquebuse, and stamping with blind rage cried, as he dazzled Henry’s eyes with the polished barrel of the deadly gun:

      “Will you accept the mass?”

      Henry remained mute.

      Charles IX. shook the vaults of the Louvre with the most terrible oath that ever issued from the lips of man, and grew even more livid than before.

      “Death, mass, or the Bastille!” he cried, taking aim at the King of Navarre.

      “Oh, sire!” exclaimed Henry, “will you kill me — me, your brother?”

      Henry thus, by his incomparable cleverness, which was one of the strongest faculties of his organization, evaded the answer which Charles IX. expected, for undoubtedly had his reply been in the negative Henry had been a dead man.

      As immediately after the climax of rage, reaction begins, Charles IX. did not repeat the question he had addressed to the Prince of Navarre; and after a moment’s hesitation, during which he uttered a hoarse kind of growl, he went back to the open window, and aimed at a man who was running along the quay in front.

      “I must kill some one!” cried Charles IX., ghastly as a corpse, his eyes suffused with blood; and firing as he spoke, he struck the man who was running.

      Henry uttered a groan.

      Then, animated by a frightful ardor, Charles loaded and fired his arquebuse without cessation, uttering cries of joy every time his aim was successful.

      “It is all over with me!” said the King of Navarre to himself; “when he sees no one else to kill, he will kill me!”

      “Well,” said a voice behind the princes, suddenly, “is it done?”

      It was Catharine de Médicis, who had entered unobserved just as the King was firing his last shot.

      “No, thousand thunders of hell!” said the King, throwing his arquebuse across the room. “No, the obstinate blockhead — he will not consent!”

      Catharine made no reply. She turned her eyes slowly where Henry stood as motionless as one of the figures of the tapestry against which he was leaning. She then gave a glance at the King, which seemed to say:

      “Then why he is alive?”

      “He is alive, he is alive!” murmured Charles IX., who perfectly understood the glance, and replied to it without hesitation — “he is alive — because he is my relative.”

      Catharine smiled.

      Henry saw the smile, and realized that his struggle was to be with Catharine.

      “Madame,” he said to her, “the whole thing comes from you, I see very well, and my brother-inlaw Charles is not to blame. You laid the plan for drawing me into a snare. You made your daughter the bait which was to destroy us all. You separated me from my wife that she might not see me killed before her eyes”—

      “Yes, but that shall not be!” cried another voice, breathless and impassioned, which Henry instantly recognized and which made Charles start with surprise and Catharine with rage.

      “Marguerite!” exclaimed Henry.

      “Margot!” said Charles IX.

      “My daughter!” muttered Catharine.

      “Sire,” said Marguerite to Henry, “your last words were an accusation against me, and you were both right and wrong — right, for I am the means by which they attempted to destroy you; wrong, for I did not know that you were going to your destruction. I, sire, owe my own life to chance — to my mother’s forgetfulness, perhaps; but as soon as I learned your danger I remembered my duty, and a wife’s duty is to share her husband’s fortunes. If you are exiled, sire, I will follow you into exile; if you are put into prison I will be your fellow-captive; if they kill you, I will also die.”

      And she offered her husband her hand, which he eagerly seized, if not with love, at least with gratitude.

      “Oh, my poor Margot!” said Charles, “you had much better bid him become a Catholic!”

      “Sire,” replied Marguerite, with that lofty dignity which was so natural to her, “for your own sake do not ask any prince of your house to commit a cowardly act.”

      Catharine darted a significant glance at Charles.

      “Brother,” cried Marguerite, who equally well with Charles IX. understood Catharine’s ominous pantomime, “my brother, remember! you made him my husband!”

      Charles IX., at bay between Catharine’s commanding eyes and Marguerite’s supplicating look, as if between the two opposing principles of good and evil, stood for an instant undecided; at last Ormazd won the day.

      “In truth,” said he, whispering in Catharine’s ear, “Margot is right, and Harry is my brother-inlaw.”

      “Yes,” replied Catharine in a similar whisper in her son’s ear, “yes — but supposing he were not?”

      Chapter 11.

       The Hawthorn of the Cemetery of the Innocents.

       Table of Contents

      As soon as Marguerite reached her own apartments she tried in vain to divine the words which Catharine de Médicis had whispered to Charles IX., and which had cut short the terrible council of life and death which was taking place.

      She spent a part of the morning in attending to La Mole, and the rest in trying to guess the enigma, which her mind could not discover.

      The King of Navarre remained a prisoner in the Louvre, the persecution of the Huguenots went on hotter than ever. The terrible night was followed by a day of massacre still more horrible. No longer the bells rang the tocsin, but Te СКАЧАТЬ