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

actually to love instead of pretending to love as Catharine had commanded, kept gazing at Henry to see if his eyes were in accord with his words.

      “Come, now, Henry,” she was saying, “be honest; that night which you spent in the boudoir of her majesty the Queen of Navarre, with Monsieur de la Mole at your feet, didn’t you feel sorry that that worthy gentleman was between you and the queen’s bedroom?”

      “Certainly I did, sweetheart,” said Henry, “for the only way that I could reach this room where I am so comfortable, where at this instant I am so happy, was for me to pass through the queen’s room.”

      Madame de Sauve smiled.

      “And you have not been there since?”

      “Only as I have told you.”

      “You will never go to her without informing me?”

      “Never.”

      “Would you swear to it?”

      “Certainly I would, if I were still a Huguenot, but”—

      “But what?”

      “But the Catholic religion, the dogmas of which I am now learning, teach me that one must never take an oath.”

      “Gascon!” exclaimed Madame de Sauve, shaking her head.

      “But now it is my turn, Charlotte,” said Henry. “If I ask you some questions, will you answer?”

      “Certainly I will,” replied the young woman, “I have nothing to hide from you.”

      “Now look here, Charlotte,” said the king, “explain to me just for once how it came about that after the desperate resistance which you made to me before my marriage, you became less cruel to me who am an awkward Béarnais, an absurd provincial, a prince too poverty-stricken, indeed, to keep the jewels of his crown polished.”

      “Henry,” said Charlotte, “you are asking the explanation of the enigma which the philosophers of all countries have been trying to determine for the past three thousand years! Henry, never ask a woman why she loves you; be satisfied with asking, ‘Do you love me?’”

      “Do you love me, Charlotte?” asked Henry.

      “I love you,” replied Madame de Sauve, with a fascinating smile, dropping her pretty hand into her lover’s.

      Henry retained the hand.

      “But,” he went on to say, following out his thought, “supposing I have guessed the word which the philosophers have been vainly trying to find for three thousand years — at least as far as you are concerned, Charlotte?”

      Madame de Sauve blushed.

      “You love me,” pursued Henry, “consequently I have nothing else to ask you and I consider myself the happiest man in the world. But you know happiness is always accompanied by some lack. Adam, in the midst of Eden, was not perfectly happy, and he bit into that miserable apple which imposed upon us all that love for novelty that makes every one spend his life in the search for something unknown. Tell me, my darling, in order to help me to find mine, didn’t Queen Catharine at first bid you love me?”

      “Henry,” exclaimed Madame de Sauve, “speak lower when you speak of the queen mother!”

      “Oh!” exclaimed Henry, with a spontaneity and boldness which deceived Madame de Sauve herself, “it was a good thing formerly to distrust her, kind mother that she is, but then we were not on good terms; but now that I am her daughter’s husband”—

      “Madame Marguerite’s husband!” exclaimed Charlotte, flushing with jealousy.

      “Speak low in your turn,” said Henry; “now that I am her daughter’s husband we are the best friends in the world. What was it they wanted? For me to become a Catholic, so it seems. Well, grace has touched me, and by the intercession of Saint Bartholomew I have become one. We live together like brethren in a happy family — like good Christians.”

      “And Queen Marguerite?”

      “Queen Marguerite?” repeated Henry; “oh, well, she is the link uniting us.”

      “But, Henry, you said that the Queen of Navarre, as a reward for the devotion I showed her, had been generous to me. If what you say is true, if this generosity, for which I have cherished deep gratitude toward her, is genuine, she is a connecting link easy to break. So you cannot trust to this support, for you have not made your pretended intimacy impose on any one.”

      “Still I do rest on it, and for three months it has been the bolster on which I have slept.”

      “Then, Henry!” cried Madame de Sauve, “you have deceived me, and Madame Marguerite is really your wife.”

      Henry smiled.

      “There, Henry,” said Madame de Sauve, “you have given me one of those exasperating smiles which make me feel the cruel desire to scratch your eyes out, king though you are.”

      “Then,” said Henry, “I seem to be imposing now by means of this pretended friendship, since there are moments when, king though I am, you desire to scratch out my eyes, because you believe that it exists!”

      “Henry! Henry!” said Madame de Sauve, “I believe that God himself does not know what your thoughts are.”

      “My sweetheart,” said Henry, “I think that Catharine first told you to love me, next, that your heart told you the same thing, and that when those two voices are speaking to you, you hear only your heart’s. Now here I am. I love you and love you with my whole heart, and that is the very reason why if ever I should have secrets I should not confide them to you — for fear of compromising you, of course — for the queen’s friendship is changeable, it is a mother-inlaw’s.”

      This was not what Charlotte expected; it seemed to her that the thickening veil between her and her lover every time she tried to sound the depths of his bottomless heart was assuming the consistency of a wall, and was separating them from each other. So she felt the tears springing to her eyes as he made this answer, and as it struck ten o’clock just at that moment:

      “Sire,” said Charlotte, “it is my bed-time; my duties call me very early tomorrow morning to the queen mother.”

      “So you drive me away to-night, do you, sweetheart?”

      “Henry, I am sad. As I am sad, you would find me tedious and you would not like me any more. You see that it is better for you to withdraw.”

      “Very good,” said Henry, “I will withdraw if you insist upon it, only, ventre saint gris! you must at least grant me the favor of staying for your toilet.”

      “But Queen Marguerite, sire! won’t you keep her waiting if you remain?”

      “Charlotte,” replied Henry, gravely, “it was agreed between us that we should never mention the Queen of Navarre, but it seems to me that this evening we have talked about nothing but her.”

      Madame de Sauve sighed; then she went and sat down before her toilet-table. Henry took a chair, pulled it along toward the one that served as his mistress’s seat, and setting one knee on it while he leaned on the back of the other, he said:

      “Come, my good little Charlotte, let me see you make yourself beautiful, and beautiful for me whatever you said. Heavens! What things! What scent-bottles, what powders, what phials, what perfumery boxes!”

      “It seems a good deal,” said Charlotte, with a sigh, “and yet it is too little, since with it all I have not as yet found the means of reigning exclusively over your majesty’s heart.”

      “There!” exclaimed Henry; “let us not fall back on politics! What is that little fine delicate brush? Should it not be for painting the eyebrows of my Olympian Jupiter?”

      “Yes, sire,” replied Madame de Sauve, “and you have guessed at the first shot!”

      “And