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

sent, sire; ’tis the famous opiate which he has been promising me so long — to make still sweeter the lips which your majesty has been good enough sometimes to find rather sweet.”

      And Henry, as if to test what the charming woman said, touched his lips to the ones which she was looking at so attentively in the mirror. Now that they were returning to the field of coquetry, the cloud began to lift from the baroness’s brow. She took up the box which had thus been explained, and was just going to show Henry how the vermilion salve was used, when a sharp rap at the antechamber door startled the two lovers.

      “Some one is knocking, madame,” said Dariole, thrusting her head through the opening of the portière.

      “Go and find out who it is, and come back,” said Madame de Sauve. Henry and Charlotte looked at each other anxiously, and Henry was beginning to think of retiring to the oratory, in which he had already more than once taken refuge, when Dariole reappeared.

      “Madame,” said she, “it is Maître Réné, the perfumer.”

      At this name Henry frowned, and involuntarily bit his lips.

      “Do you want me to refuse him admission?” asked Charlotte.

      “No!” said Henry; “Maître Réné never does anything without having previously thought about it. If he comes to you, it is because he has a reason for coming.”

      “In that case, do you wish to hide?”

      “I shall be careful not to,” said Henry, “for Maître Réné knows everything; therefore Maître Réné knows that I am here.”

      “But has not your majesty some reason for thinking his presence painful to you?”

      “I!” said Henry, making an effort, which in spite of his will-power he could not wholly dissimulate. “I! none at all! we are rather cool to each other, it is true; but since the night of Saint Bartholomew we have been reconciled.”

      “Let him enter!” said Madame de Sauve to Dariole.

      A moment later Réné appeared, and took in the whole room at a glance.

      Madame de Sauve was still before her toilet-table.

      Henry had resumed his place on the couch.

      Charlotte was in the light, and Henry in the shadow.

      “Madame,” said Réné, with respectful familiarity, “I have come to offer my apologies.”

      “For what, Réné?” asked Madame de Sauve, with that condescension which pretty women always use towards the world of tradespeople who surround them, and whose duty it is to make them more beautiful.

      “Because long ago I promised to work for these pretty lips, and because”—

      “Because you did not keep your promise until today; is that it?” asked Charlotte.

      “Until today?” repeated Réné.

      “Yes; it was only today, in fact, this evening, that I received the box you sent me.”

      “Ah! indeed!” said Réné, looking strangely at the small opiate box on Madame de Sauve’s table, which was precisely like those he had in his shop. “I thought so!” he murmured. “And you have used it?”

      “No, not yet. I was just about to try it as you entered.” Réné‘s face assumed a dreamy expression which did not escape Henry. Indeed, very few things escaped him.

      “Well, Réné, what are you going to do now?” asked the king.

      “I? Nothing, sire,” said the perfumer, “I am humbly waiting until your majesty speaks to me, before taking leave of Madame la Baronne.”

      “Come, now!” said Henry, smiling. “Do you need my word to know that it is a pleasure to me to see you?”

      Réné glanced around him, made a tour of the room as if to sound the doors and the curtains with his eye and ear, then he stopped and standing so that he could embrace at a glance both Madame de Sauve and Henry:

      “I do not know it,” said he, thanks to that admirable instinct which like a sixth sense guided him during the first part of his life in the midst of impending dangers. Henry felt that at that moment something strangely resembling a struggle was passing through the mind of the perfumer, and turned towards him, still in the shadow, while the Florentine’s face was in the light.

      “You here at this hour, Réné?” said he.

      “Am I unfortunate enough to be in your majesty’s way?” asked the perfumer, stepping back.

      “No, but I want to know one thing.”

      “What, sire?”

      “Did you think you would find me here?”

      “I was sure of it.”

      “You wanted me, then?”

      “I am glad to have found you, at least.”

      “Have you something to say to me?” persisted Henry.

      “Perhaps, sire!” replied Réné.

      Charlotte blushed, for she feared that the revelation which the perfumer seemed anxious to make might have something to do with her conduct towards Henry. Therefore she acted as though, having been wholly engrossed with her toilet, she had heard nothing, and interrupted the conversation.

      “Ah! really, Réné,” said she, opening the opiate box, “you are a delightful man. This cake is a marvellous color, and since you are here I am going to honor you by experimenting with your new production.”

      She took the box in one hand, and with the other touched the tip of her finger to the rose paste, which she was about to raise to her lips.

      Réné gave a start.

      The baroness smilingly lifted the opiate to her mouth.

      Réné turned pale.

      Still in the shadow, but with fixed and glowing eyes, Henry lost neither the action of the one nor the shudder of the other.

      Charlotte’s hand had but a short distance to go before it would touch her lips when Réné seized her arm, just as Henry rose to do so.

      Henry fell back noiselessly on the couch.

      “One moment, madame,” said Réné, with a constrained smile, “you must not use this opiate without special directions.”

      “Who will give me these directions?”

      “I.”

      “When?”

      “As soon as I have finished saying what I have to say to his Majesty the King of Navarre.”

      Charlotte opened her eyes wide, understanding nothing of the mysterious language about her, and sat with the opiate pot in one hand, gazing at the tip of her finger, red with the rouge.

      Henry rose, and moved by a thought which, like all those of the young king, had two sides, one which seemed superficial, the other which was deep, he took Charlotte’s hand and red as it was, made as though to raise it to his lips.

      “One moment,” said Réné, quickly, “one moment! Be kind enough, madame, to rinse your lovely hands with this soap from Naples which I neglected to send you at the same time as the rouge, and which I have the honor of bringing you now.”

      Drawing from its silver wrapping a cake of green soap, he put it in a vermilion basin, poured some water over it, and, with one knee on the floor, offered it to Madame de Sauve.

      “Why, really, Maître Réné, I no longer recognize you,” said Henry, “you are so gallant that you far outstrip every court fop.”

      “Oh, what a delicious perfume!” cried Charlotte, rubbing her beautiful hands with the pearly foam made by the scented cake.

      Réné