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

the secret corridor. She started, for only three persons came by that door — the King, the queen mother, and the Duc d’Alençon. She opened the closet door, made a gesture of silence to Gillonne and La Mole, and then went to let her visitor in.

      It was the Duc d’Alençon.

      The young prince had not been seen since the night before. For a moment, Marguerite had conceived the idea of asking his intercession for the King of Navarre, but a terrible idea restrained her. The marriage had taken place against his wishes. François detested Henry, and had evinced his neutrality toward the Béarnais only because he was convinced that Henry and his wife had remained strangers to each other. A mark of interest shown by Marguerite in her husband might thrust one of the three threatening poniards into his heart instead of turning it aside. Marguerite, therefore, on perceiving the young prince, shuddered more than she had shuddered at seeing the King or even the queen mother. Nevertheless no one could have told by his appearance that anything unusual was taking place either in the city or at the Louvre. He was dressed with his usual elegance. His clothes and linen breathed of those perfumes which Charles IX. despised, but of which the Duc d’Anjou and he made continual use.

      A practised eye like Marguerite’s, however, could detect the fact that in spite of his rather unusual pallor and in spite of a slight trembling in his hands — delicate hands, as carefully treated as a lady’s — he felt a deep sense of joy in the bottom of his heart. His entrance was in no wise different from usual. He went to his sister to kiss her, but Marguerite, instead of offering him her cheek, as she would have done had it been King Charles or the Duc d’Anjou, made a courtesy and allowed him to kiss her forehead.

      The Duc d’Alençon sighed and touched his bloodless lips to her brow.

      Then taking a seat he began to tell his sister the sanguinary news of the night, the admiral’s lingering and terrible death, Téligny’s instantaneous death caused by a bullet. He took his time and emphasized all the bloody details of that night, with that love of blood characteristic of himself and his two brothers; Marguerite allowed him to tell his story.

      “You did not come to tell me this only, brother?” she then asked.

      The Duc d’Alençon smiled.

      “You have something else to say to me?”

      “No,” replied the duke; “I am waiting.”

      “Waiting! for what?”

      “Have you not told me, dearest Marguerite,” said the duke, drawing his armchair close up to his sister’s, “that your marriage with the King of Navarre was contracted against your wishes?”

      “Yes, no doubt. I did not know the Prince of Béarn when he was proposed to me as a husband.”

      “And after you came to know him, did you not tell me that you felt no love for him?”

      “I told you so; it is true.”

      “Was it not your opinion that this marriage would make you unhappy?”

      “My dear François,” said Marguerite, “when a marriage is not the height of happiness it is almost always the depth of wretchedness.”

      “Well, then, my dear Marguerite, as I said to you — I am waiting.”

      “But what are you waiting for?”

      “For you to display your joy!”

      “What have I to be joyful for?”

      “The unexpected chance which offers itself for you to resume your liberty.”

      “My liberty?” replied Marguerite, who was determined to compel the prince to express his whole thought.

      “Yes; your liberty! You will now be separated from the King of Navarre.”

      “Separated!” said Marguerite, fastening her eyes on the young prince.

      The Duc d’Alençon tried to endure his sister’s look, but his eyes soon avoided hers with embarrassment.

      “Separated!” repeated Marguerite; “let us talk this over, brother, for I should like to understand all you mean, and how you propose to separate us.”

      “Why,” murmured the duke, “Henry is a Huguenot.”

      “No doubt; but he made no secret of his religion, and that was known when we were married.”

      “Yes; but since your marriage, sister,” asked the duke, involuntarily allowing a ray of joy to shine upon his face, “what has Henry been doing?”

      “Why, you know better than any one, François, for he has spent his days almost constantly in your society, either hunting or playing mall or tennis.”

      “Yes, his days, no doubt,” replied the duke; “his days — but his nights?”

      Marguerite was silent; it was now her turn to cast down her eyes.

      “His nights,” persisted the Duc d’Alençon, “his nights?”

      “Well?” inquired Marguerite, feeling that it was requisite that she should say something in reply.

      “Well, he has been spending them with Madame de Sauve!”

      “How do you know that?” exclaimed Marguerite.

      “I know it because I have an interest in knowing it,” replied the young prince, growing pale and picking the embroidery of his sleeves.

      Marguerite began to understand what Catharine had whispered to Charles, but pretended to remain in ignorance.

      “Why do you tell me this, brother?” she replied, with a well-affected air of melancholy; “was it to remind me that no one here loves me or takes my part, neither those whom nature gave me as protectors nor the man whom the Church gave me as my husband?”

      “You are unjust,” said the Duc d’Alençon, drawing his armchair still nearer to his sister, “I love you and protect you!”

      “Brother,” said Marguerite, looking at him sharply, “have you anything to say to me from the queen mother?”

      “I! you mistake, sister. I swear to you — what can make you think that?”

      “What can make me think that? — why, because you are breaking off the intimacy that binds you to my husband, because you are abandoning the cause of the King of Navarre.”

      “The cause of the King of Navarre!” replied the Duc d’Alençon, wholly at his wits’ end.

      “Yes, certainly. Now look here, François; let us speak frankly. You have come to an agreement a score of times; you cannot raise yourself or even hold your own except by mutual help. This alliance”—

      “Has now become impossible, sister,” interrupted the Duc d’Alençon.

      “And why so?”

      “Because the King has designs on your husband! Pardon me, when I said your husband, I erred; I meant Henry of Navarre. Our mother has seen through the whole thing. I entered into an alliance with the Huguenots because I believed the Huguenots were in favor; but now they are killing the Huguenots, and in another week there will not remain fifty in the whole kingdom. I gave my hand to the King of Navarre because he was — your husband; but now he is not your husband. What can you say to that — you who are not only the loveliest woman in France, but have the clearest head in the kingdom?”

      “Why, I have this to say,” replied Marguerite, “I know our brother Charles; I saw him yesterday in one of those fits of frenzy, every one of which shortens his life ten years. I have to say that unfortunately these attacks are very frequent, and that thus, in all probability, our brother Charles has not very long to live; and, finally, I have to say that the King of Poland has just died, and the question of electing a prince of the house of France in his stead is much discussed; and when circumstances are thus, it is not the moment to abandon allies who, in the moment of struggle, might support us with the