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

without waiting to hear more, and Tavannes and the Duc de Guise were left almost as uncertain as before.

      Meantime another scene was passing in Catharine’s apartment. After she had given the Duc de Guise her counsel to remain firm, she returned to her rooms, where she found assembled the persons who were usually present when she went to bed.

      Her face was now as full of joy as it had been downcast when she set out. With her most agreeable manner she dismissed her women one by one and her courtiers, and there remained only Madame Marguerite, who, seated on a coffer near the open window, was looking at the sky, absorbed in thought.

      Two or three times, when she thus found herself alone with her daughter, the queen mother opened her mouth to speak, but each time a gloomy thought withheld the words ready to escape her lips.

      Suddenly the portière was raised, and Henry of Navarre appeared.

      The little greyhound, which was asleep on the throne, leaped up and bounded towards him.

      “You here, my son!” said Catharine, starting. “Do you sup in the Louvre to-night?”

      “No, madame,” replied Henry, “we are going into the city to-night, with Messieurs d’Alençon and De Condé. I almost expected to find them here paying their court to you.”

      Catharine smiled.

      “Go, gentlemen, go — men are so fortunate in being able to go about as they please! Are they not, my daughter?”

      “Yes,” replied Marguerite, “liberty is so glorious, so sweet a thing.”

      “Does that imply that I restrict yours, madame?” inquired Henry, bowing to his wife.

      “No, sire; I do not complain for myself, but for women in general.”

      “Are you going to see the admiral, my son?” asked Catharine.

      “Yes, possibly.”

      “Go, that will set a good example, and tomorrow you will give me news of him.”

      “Then, madame, I will go, since you approve of this step.”

      “Oh,” said Catharine, “my approval is nothing — But who goes there? Send him away, send him away.”

      Henry started to go to the door to carry out Catharine’s order; but at the same instant the portière was raised and Madame de Sauve showed her blond head.

      “Madame,” said she, “it is Réné, the perfumer, whom your majesty sent for.”

      Catharine cast a glance as quick as lightning at Henry of Navarre.

      The young prince turned slightly red and then fearfully pale. Indeed, the name of his mother’s assassin had been spoken; he felt that his face betrayed his emotion, and he went and leaned against the bar of the window.

      The little greyhound growled.

      At the same moment two persons entered — the one announced, and the other having no need to be so.

      The first was Réné, the perfumer, who approached Catharine with all the servile obsequiousness of Florentine servants. He held in his hand a box, which he opened, and all the compartments were seen filled with powders and flasks.

      The second was Madame de Lorraine, Marguerite’s eldest sister. She entered by a small secret door, which led from the King’s closet, and, all pale and trembling, and hoping not to be observed by Catharine, who was examining, with Madame de Sauve, the contents of the box brought by René, seated herself beside Marguerite, near whom the King of Navarre was standing, with his hand on his brow, like one who tries to rouse himself from some sudden shock.

      At this instant Catharine turned round.

      “Daughter,” she said to Marguerite, “you may retire to your room. My son, you may go and amuse yourself in the city.”

      Marguerite rose, and Henry turned half round.

      Madame de Lorraine seized Marguerite’s hand.

      “Sister,” she whispered, with great quickness, “in the name of the Duc de Guise, who now saves you, as you saved him, do not go from here — do not go to your apartments.”

      “Eh! what say you, Claude?” inquired Catharine, turning round.

      “Nothing, mother.”

      “You were whispering to Marguerite.”

      “Simply to wish her good-night, and convey a greeting to her from the Duchesse de Nevers.”

      “And where is that fair duchess?”

      “At her brother-inlaw’s, M. de Guise’s.”

      Catharine looked suspiciously at the women and frowning:

      “Come here, Claude,” said the queen mother.

      Claude obeyed, and the queen seized her hand.

      “What did you say to her, indiscreet girl that you are?” she murmured, squeezing her daughter’s wrist until she nearly shrieked with pain.

      “Madame,” said Henry to his wife, having lost nothing of the movements of the queen, Claude, or Marguerite — “madame, will you allow me the honor of kissing your hand?”

      Marguerite extended her trembling hand.

      “What did she say to you?” whispered Henry, as he stooped to imprint a kiss on her hand.

      “Not to go out. In the name of Heaven, do not you go out either!”

      This was like a flash; but by its light, swift as it was, Henry at once detected a complete plot.

      “This is not all,” added Marguerite; “here is a letter, which a country gentleman brought.”

      “Monsieur de la Mole?”

      “Yes.”

      “Thank you,” he said, taking the letter and putting it under his doublet; and, passing in front of his bewildered wife, he placed his hand on the shoulder of the Florentine.

      “Well, Maître Réné!” he said, “and how go commercial affairs?”

      “Pretty well, monseigneur — pretty well,” replied the poisoner, with his perfidious smile.

      “I should think so,” said Henry, “with men who, like you, supply all the crowned heads at home and abroad.”

      “Except the King of Navarre,” replied the Florentine, impudently.

      “Ventre saint gris, Maître Réné,” replied the king, “you are right; and yet my poor mother, who also bought of you, recommended you to me with her dying breath. Come to me tomorrow, Maître Réné, or day after tomorrow, and bring your best perfumes.”

      “That would not be a bad notion,” said Catharine, smiling; “for it is said”—

      “That I need some perfumery,” interrupted Henry, laughing; “who told you that, mother? Was it Margot?”

      “No, my son,” replied Catharine, “it was Madame de Sauve.”

      At this moment the Duchesse de Lorraine, who in spite of all her efforts could no longer contain herself, burst into loud sobs.

      Henry did not even turn toward her.

      “Sister, what is the matter?” cried Marguerite, darting toward Claude.

      “Nothing,” said Catharine, passing between the two young women, “nothing; she has those nervous attacks, for which Mazille prescribes aromatic preparations.”

      And again, and with still more force than before, she pressed her eldest daughter’s arm; then, turning toward the youngest:

      “There, Margot,” she said, “did you not hear me request you to retire to your room? If that is not sufficient, I command you.”