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

madame. Oh, mon Dieu! Can I hope my name is known to your majesty?”

      “I have heard the king, my husband, and the Duc d’Alençon, my brother, speak of you. I know they expect you.”

      And in her corsage, glittering with embroidery and diamonds, she slipped the letter which had just come from the young man’s doublet and was still warm from the vital heat of his body. La Mole eagerly watched Marguerite’s every movement.

      “Now, sir,” said she, “descend to the gallery below, and wait until some one comes to you from the King of Navarre or the Duc d’Alençon. One of my pages will show you the way.”

      And Marguerite, as she said these words, went on her way. La Mole drew himself up close to the wall. But the passage was so narrow and the Queen of Navarre’s farthingale was so voluminous that her silken gown brushed against the young man’s clothes, while a penetrating perfume hovered where she passed.

      La Mole trembled all over and, feeling that he was in danger of falling, he tried to find a support against the wall.

      Marguerite disappeared like a vision.

      “Are you coming, sir?” asked the page who was to conduct La Mole to the lower gallery.

      “Oh, yes — yes!” cried La Mole, joyfully; for as the page led him the same way by which Marguerite had gone, he hoped that by making haste he might see her again.

      And in truth, as he reached the top of the staircase, he perceived her below; and whether she heard his step or looked round by chance, Marguerite raised her head, and La Mole saw her a second time.

      “Oh,” said he, as he followed the page, “she is not a mortal — she is a goddess, and as Vergilius Maro says: ‘Et vera incessu patuit dea.’”

      “Well?” asked the page.

      “Here I am,” replied La Mole, “excuse me, here I am.”

      The page, preceding La Mole, descended a story lower, opened one door, then another, and stopping,

      “You are to wait here,” said he.

      La Mole entered the gallery, the door of which closed after him.

      The gallery was vacant except for one gentleman, who was sauntering up and down, and seemed also waiting for some one.

      The evening was by this time beginning to scatter monstrous shadows from the depths of the vaulted ceiling, and though the two gentlemen were not twenty paces apart, it was impossible for either to recognize the other’s face.

      La Mole drew nearer.

      “By Heaven!” muttered he as soon as he was within a few feet of the other, “here is Monsieur le Comte de Coconnas again!”

      At the sound of footsteps Coconnas had already turned, and was staring at La Mole with no less astonishment than the other showed.

      “By Heaven!” cried he. “The devil take me but here is Monsieur de la Mole! What am I doing? Swearing in the King’s palace? Well, never mind; it seems the King swears in a different way from mine, and even in churches. Here we are at last, then, in the Louvre!”

      “Yes; I suppose Monsieur de Besme introduced you?”

      “Oh, he is a charming German. Who brought you in?”

      “M. de Mouy — I told you the Huguenots had some interest at court. Have you seen Monsieur de Guise?”

      “No, not yet. Have you obtained your audience with the King of Navarre?”

      “No, but I soon shall. I was brought here and told to wait.”

      “Ah, you will see there is some great supper under way and we shall be placed side by side. What a strange chance! For two hours fortune has joined us! But what is the matter? You seem ill at ease.”

      “I?” exclaimed La Mole, shivering, for in truth he was still dazzled by the vision which had been vouchsafed him. “Oh, no, but the place in which we are brings into my mind a throng of reflections.”

      “Philosophical ones, I suppose. Just the same as it is with me. When you came in I was just going over in my mind all my tutor’s recommendations. Monsieur le Comte, are you acquainted with Plutarch?”

      “Certainly I am!” exclaimed La Mole, smiling, “he is one of my favorite authors.”

      “Very well,” Coconnas went on gravely, “this great man does not seem to me so far wrong when he compares the gifts of nature to brilliant but ephemeral flowers, while he regards virtue as a balsamic plant of imperishable perfume and sovereign efficacy for the healing of wounds.”

      “Do you know Greek, Monsieur de Coconnas?” said La Mole, gazing keenly at his companion.

      “No, I do not; but my tutor did, and he strongly advised me when I should be at court to talk about virtue. ‘That looks well,’ he said. So I assure you I am well fortified with it. By the way, are you hungry?”

      “No.”

      “And yet you seemed anxious to taste the broiled fowl of La Belle Étoile. As for me, I am dying of starvation!”

      “Well, Monsieur de Coconnas, here is a fine chance for you to make use of your arguments on virtue and to put your admiration for Plutarch to the proof, for that great writer says somewhere: ‘It is good to accustom the soul to pain and the stomach to hunger’—‘Prepon esti tên men psvchên odunê, ton de gastéra semó askeïn.’”

      “Ah, indeed! So you know Greek?” exclaimed Coconnas in surprise.

      “Faith, yes,” replied La Mole, “my tutor taught me.”

      “By Heaven! count, your fortune is made if that is so; you will compose poetry with Charles IX. and you will talk Greek with Queen Marguerite!”

      “Not to reckon that I can still talk Gascon with the King of Navarre!” added La Mole, laughing.

      At this moment the door communicating with the King’s apartment opened, a step was heard, and a shade was seen approaching in the darkness. This shade materialized into a body. This body belonged to Monsieur de Besme.

      He scrutinized both gentlemen, so as to pick out the one he wanted, and then motioned Coconnas to follow him.

      Coconnas waved his hand to La Mole.

      De Besme conducted Coconnas to the end of the gallery, opened a door, and stood at the head of a staircase.

      He looked cautiously round, then up and down.

      “Monsir de Gogonnas,” said he, “vere are you staying?”

      “At La Belle Étoile, Rue de l’Arbre Sec.”

      “Goot, goot! dat is glose by. Go pack to your hodel gwick and to-nide”—

      He looked around him again.

      “Well, to-night?”

      “Vell, gome here mit a vite gross in your hat. De bassvord is ‘Gouise.’ Hush! nod a vord.”

      “What time am I to come?”

      “Ven you hear de dogsin.”

      “What’s the dogsin?” asked Coconnas.

      “Ja! de dogsin — pum! pum!”

      “Oh! the tocsin!”

      “Ja, vot elus tid I zay?”

      “Good — I shall be here,” said Coconnas.

      And, saluting De Besme, he took his departure, asking himself:

      “What the devil does he mean and why should the tocsin be rung? No matter! I persist in my opinion: Monsieur de Besme is a charming Tedesco — Why not wait for the Comte de la Mole? Ah faith, no! he will probably be invited to supper with the King of Navarre.”