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

kif me the ledder,” said the German gentleman, holding out his hand toward Coconnas, who hesitated.

      “By Heaven!” replied the Piedmontese, distrustful like a half-Italian, “I scarcely know whether I ought, as I have not the honor of knowing you.”

      “I am Pesme; I’m addached to Monsir le Douque de Gouise.”

      “Pesme,” murmured Coconnas; “I am not acquainted with that name.”

      “It is Monsieur de Besme, my dear sir,” said the sentinel. “His pronunciation misled you, that is all; you may safely give him your letter, I’ll answer for it.”

      “Ah! Monsieur de Besme!” cried Coconnas; “of course I know you! with the greatest pleasure. Here is the letter. Pardon my hesitation; but fidelity requires one to be careful.”

      “Goot, goot! dere iss no need of any egscuse,” said Besme.

      “Perhaps, sir,” said La Mole, “you will be so kind as to the same for my letter that you have done for my friend?”

      “And vat iss your name, monsir?”

      “The Comte Lerac de la Mole.”

      “Gount Lerag dee la Mole?”

      “Yes.”

      “I don’t know de name.”

      “It is not strange that I have not the honor of being known to you, sir, for like the Comte de Coconnas I am only just arrived in Paris.”

      “Where do you gome from?”

      “From Provence.”

      “Vit a ledder?”

      “Yes.”

      “For Monsir dee Gouise?”

      “No; for his majesty the King of Navarre.”

      “I do not pelong to de King of Navarre,” said De Besme coldly, “and derefore I gannot dake your ledder.”

      And turning on his heel, he entered the Louvre, bidding Coconnas follow him.

      La Mole was left alone.

      At this moment a troop of cavaliers, about a hundred in number, came out from the Louvre by a gate alongside that of which Besme and Coconnas had entered.

      “Aha!” said the sentinel to his comrade, “there are De Mouy and his Huguenots! See how joyous they all are! The King has probably promised them to put to death the assassin of the admiral; and as it was he who murdered De Mouy’s father, the son will kill two birds with one stone.”

      “Excuse me, my good fellow,” interrupted La Mole, “did you not say that officer is M. de Mouy?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “And that those with him are”—

      “Are heretics — I said so.”

      “Thank you,” said La Mole, affecting not to notice the scornful word parpaillots, employed by the sentinel. “That was all I wished to know;” and advancing to the chief of the cavaliers:

      “Sir,” said he, “I am told you are M. de Mouy.”

      “Yes, sir,” returned the officer, courteously.

      “Your name, well known among those of our faith, emboldens me to address you, sir, to ask a special favor.”

      “What may that be, sir — but first whom have I the honor of addressing?”

      “The Comte Lerac de la Mole.”

      The young men bowed to each other.

      “What can I do for you, sir?” asked De Mouy.

      “Sir, I am just arrived from Aix, and bring a letter from M. d’Auriac, Governor of Provence. This letter is directed to the King of Navarre and contains important and pressing news. How can I give it to him? How can I enter the Louvre?”

      “Nothing is easier than to enter the Louvre, sir,” replied De Mouy; “but I fear the King of Navarre will be too busy to see you at this hour. However, if you please, I will take you to his apartments, and then you must manage for yourself.”

      “A thousand thanks!”

      “Come, then,” said De Mouy.

      De Mouy dismounted, threw the reins to his lackey, stepped toward the wicket, passed the sentinel, conducted La Mole into the château, and, opening the door leading to the king’s apartments:

      “Enter, and inquire for yourself, sir,” said he.

      And saluting La Mole, he retired.

      La Mole, left alone, looked round.

      The ante-room was vacant. One of the inner doors was open. He advanced a few paces and found himself in a passage.

      He knocked and spoke, but no one answered. The profoundest silence reigned in this part of the Louvre.

      “What was told me about the stern etiquette of this place?” said he to himself. “One may come and go in this palace as if it were a public place.”

      Then he called again, but without obtaining any better result than before.

      “Well, let us walk straight on,” thought he, “I must meet some one,” and he proceeded down the corridor, which grew darker and darker.

      Suddenly the door opposite that by which he had entered opened, and two pages appeared, lighting a lady of noble bearing and exquisite beauty.

      The glare of the torches fell full on La Mole, who stood motionless.

      The lady stopped also.

      “What do you want, sir?” said she, in a voice which fell upon his ears like exquisite music.

      “Oh, madame,” said La Mole, casting down his eyes, “pardon me; I have just parted from M. de Mouy, who was so good as to conduct me here, and I wish to see the King of Navarre.”

      “His majesty is not here, sir; he is with his brother-inlaw. But, in his absence, could you not say to the queen”—

      “Oh, yes, madame,” returned La Mole, “if I could obtain audience of her.”

      “You have it already, sir.”

      “What?” cried La Mole.

      “I am the Queen of Navarre.”

      La Mole made such a hasty movement of surprise and alarm that it caused the queen to smile.

      “Speak, sir,” said Marguerite, “but speak quickly, for the queen mother is waiting for me.”

      “Oh, madame, if the queen mother is waiting for you,” said La Mole, “suffer me to leave you, for just now it would be impossible for me to speak to you. I am incapable of collecting my ideas. The sight of you has dazzled me. I no longer think, I can only admire.”

      Marguerite advanced graciously toward the handsome young man, who, without knowing it, was acting like a finished courtier.

      “Recover yourself, sir,” said she; “I will wait and they will wait for me.”

      “Pardon me, madame,” said La Mole, “if I did not salute your majesty at first with all the respect which you have a right to expect from one of your humblest servants, but”—

      “You took me for one of my ladies?” said Marguerite.

      “No, madame; but for the shade of the beautiful Diane de Poitiers, who is said to haunt the Louvre.”

      “Come, sir,” said Marguerite, “I see you will make your fortune at court; you said you had a letter for the king, it was not needed, but no matter! Where is it? I will give it to him — only make haste, I beg of you.”

      In a twinkling La Mole threw open