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

change; and yet as she spoke her lips grew paler and paler.

      “I did, madame,” answered Charlotte, in a voice which she vainly tried to make as firm and assured as Catherine’s was.

      “And have you seen him?”

      “Who?” asked Madame de Sauve.

      “The King of Navarre.”

      “No, madame; but I am expecting him, and when I heard the key turn in the lock, I firmly believed it was he.”

      At this answer, which indicated either perfect confidence or deep dissimulation on Madame de Sauve’s part, Catharine could not repress a slight shiver. She clinched her short plump hand.

      “And yet you knew perfectly well,” said she with her evil smile, “you knew perfectly well, Carlotta, that the King of Navarre would not come to-night.”

      “I, madame? I knew that?” exclaimed Charlotte, with a tone of surprise perfectly well assumed.

      “Yes, you knew it!”

      “If he does not come, he must be dead!” replied the young woman, shuddering at the mere supposition.

      What gave Charlotte the courage to lie so was the certainty that she would suffer from a terrible vengeance if her little treason should be discovered.

      “But did you not write to the king, Carlotta mia?” inquired Catharine, with the same cruel and silent laugh.

      “No, madame,” answered Charlotte, with well-assumed naïveté, “I cannot recollect receiving your majesty’s commands to do so.”

      A short silence followed, during which Catharine continued to gaze on Madame de Sauve as the serpent looks at the bird it wishes to fascinate.

      “You think you are pretty,” said Catharine, “you think you are clever, do you not?”

      “No, madame,” answered Charlotte; “I only know that sometimes your majesty has been graciously pleased to commend both my personal attractions and address.”

      “Well, then,” said Catharine, growing eager and animated, “you were mistaken if you think so, and I lied when I told you so; you are a simpleton and hideous compared to my daughter Margot.”

      “Oh, madame,” replied Charlotte, “that is a fact I will not even try to deny — least of all in your presence.”

      “So, then, the King of Navarre prefers my daughter to you; a circumstance, I presume, not to your wishes, and certainly not what we agreed should be the case.”

      “Alas, madame,” cried Charlotte, bursting into a torrent of tears which now flowed from no feigned source, “if it be so, I can but say I am very unfortunate!”

      “It is so,” said Catharine, darting the two-fold keenness of her eyes like a double poniard into Madame de Sauve’s heart.

      “But who can make you believe that?” asked Charlotte.

      “Go down to the Queen of Navarre’s pazza, and you will find your lover there!”

      “Oh!” exclaimed Madame de Sauve.

      Catharine shrugged her shoulders.

      “Are you jealous, pray?” asked the queen mother.

      “I?” exclaimed Madame de Sauve, recalling her fast-failing strength.

      “Yes, you! I should like to see a Frenchwoman’s jealousy.”

      “But,” said Madame de Sauve, “how should your majesty expect me to be jealous except out of vanity? I love the King of Navarre only as far as your majesty’s service requires it.”

      Catharine gazed at her for a moment with dreamy eyes.

      “What you tell me may on the whole be true,” she murmured.

      “Your majesty reads my heart.”

      “And your heart is wholly devoted to me?”

      “Command me, madame, and you shall judge for yourself.”

      “Well, then, Carlotta, since you are ready to sacrifice yourself in my service, you must still continue for my sake to be in love with the King of Navarre and, above all, to be very jealous — jealous as an Italian woman.”

      “But, madame,” asked Charlotte, “how does an Italian woman show her jealousy?”

      “I will tell you,” replied Catharine, and after nodding her head two or three times she left the room as deliberately and noiselessly as she had come in.

      Charlotte, confused by the keen look of those eyes dilated like a cat’s or a panther’s without thereby losing anything of their inscrutability, allowed her to go without uttering a single word, without even letting her breathing be heard, and she did not even take a respiration until she heard the door close behind her and Dariole came to say that the terrible apparition had departed.

      “Dariole,” said she, “draw up an armchair close to my bed and spend the night in it. I beg you to do so, for I should not dare to stay alone.”

      Dariole obeyed; but in spite of the company of her faithful attendant, who stayed near her, in spite of the light from the lamp which she commanded to be left burning for the sake of greater tranquillity, Madame de Sauve also did not fall asleep till daylight, so insistently rang in her ears the metallic accent of Catharine’s voice.

      Though Marguerite had not fallen asleep till daybreak she awoke at the first blast of the trumpets, at the first barking of the dogs. She instantly arose and began to put on a costume so negligent that it could not fail to attract attention. Then she summoned her women, and had the gentlemen ordinarily in attendance on the King of Navarre shown into her antechamber, and finally opening the door which shut Henry and De la Mole into the same room, she gave the count an affectionate glance and addressing her husband she said:

      “Come, sire, it is not sufficient to have made madame my mother believe in what is not; it still remains for you to convince your whole court that a perfect understanding exists between us. But make yourself quite easy,” added she, laughing, “and remember my words, rendered almost solemn by the circumstances. To-day will be the last time that I shall put your majesty to such a cruel test.”

      The King of Navarre smiled and ordered his gentlemen to be admitted.

      Just as they were bowing to him he pretended suddenly to recollect having left his mantle on the queen’s bed and begged their excuse for receiving them in such a way; then, taking his mantle from the hands of Marguerite, who stood blushing by his side, he clasped it on his shoulder. Next, turning to his gentlemen, he inquired what news there was in the city and at court.

      Marguerite was engaged in watching out of the corner of her eye the imperceptible signs of astonishment betrayed by the gentlemen at detecting this newly revealed intimacy between the king and queen of Navarre, when an usher entered, followed by three or four gentlemen, and announced the Duc d’Alençon.

      To bring him there Gillonne had only to tell him that the king had spent the night in the queen’s room.

      François rushed in so precipitately that he almost upset those who preceded him. His first glance was for Henry; his next was for Marguerite.

      Henry replied with a courteous bow; Marguerite composed her features so that they expressed the utmost serenity.

      Then the duke cast a vague but scrutinizing look around the whole room: he saw the two pillows placed at the head of the bed, the derangement of its tapestried coverings, and the king’s hat thrown on a chair.

      He turned pale, but quickly recovering himself, he said:

      “Does my royal brother Henry join this morning with the King in his game of tennis?”

      “Does his Majesty do me the honor to select me as his partner?” inquired Henry, “or is it only a little attention on your part, my brother-inlaw?”