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

Coconnas extended his hand to La Mole and withdrew, having exchanged a final glance and a final smile with his friend.

      About ten minutes after he left his post, the door opened, and Marguerite, peering out cautiously, took La Mole by the hand and, without uttering a word, drew him from the corridor into the furthest corner of her room. She closed the door behind her with a care which indicated the importance of the conversation she was about to have.

      Once in her room she stopped, seated herself on her ebony chair, and drawing La Mole to her, she clasped her hands over both of his.

      “Now that we are alone,” said she, “let us talk seriously, my very dear friend.”

      “Seriously, madame,” said La Mole.

      “Or lovingly. Does that please you better? But there can be serious things in love, and especially in the love of a queen.”

      “Then — let us talk of serious things; but on condition that your majesty will not be vexed at the lighter things I have to say to you.”

      “I shall be vexed only at one thing, La Mole, and that is if you address me as ‘madame’ or ‘your majesty.’ For you, my beloved, I am just Marguerite.”

      “Yes, Marguerite! Yes, Margarita! Yes, my pearl!” cried the young man, devouring the queen with his eyes.

      “Yes, that is right,” said Marguerite. “So you are jealous, my fine gentleman?”

      “Oh! unreasonably.”

      “Still?”

      “Madly, Marguerite.”

      “Jealous of whom? Come!”

      “Of everyone.”

      “But really?”

      “Of the king first.”

      “I should think after what you had seen and heard you might be easy on that point.”

      “Of this Monsieur de Mouy, whom I saw this morning for the first time, and whom this evening I find so far advanced in his intimacy with you.”

      “Monsieur de Mouy?”

      “Yes.”

      “Who gave you such ideas about Monsieur de Mouy?”

      “Listen! I recognized him from his figure, from the color of his hair, from a natural feeling of hatred. He is the one who was with Monsieur d’Alençon this morning.”

      “Well, what connection has that with me?”

      “Monsieur d’Alençon is your brother. It is said that you are very fond of him. You may have confided to him a vague feeling of your heart, and, according to the custom at court, he has aided your wish by admitting Monsieur de Mouy to your apartment. Now, what I do not understand is how I was fortunate enough to find the king here at the same time. But in any case, madame, be frank with me. In default of other sentiment, a love like mine has the right to demand frankness in return. See, I prostrate myself at your feet. If what you have felt for me is but a passing fancy, I will give you back your trust, your promise, your love; I will give back to Monsieur d’Alençon his kind favors and my post of gentleman, and I will go and seek death at the siege of La Rochelle, if love does not kill me before I have gone as far as that.”

      Marguerite listened smilingly to these charming words, watching La Mole’s graceful gestures, then leaning her beautiful dreamy head on her feverish hand:

      “You love me?” she asked.

      “Oh, madame! more than life, more than safety, more than all; but you, you — you do not love me.”

      “Poor fool!” she murmured.

      “Ah, yes, madame,” cried La Mole, still at her feet, “I have told you I was that.”

      “The chief thought of your life, then, is your love, dear La Mole!”

      “It is the only thought, madame, the sole thought.”

      “Well, be it so; I will make of all the rest only an accessory to this love. You love me; do you wish to remain near me?”

      “My one prayer is that God will never take me from you.”

      “Well, you shall not leave me. I need you, La Mole.”

      “You need me? Does the sun need the glow-worm?”

      “If I will tell you that I love you, would you be wholly devoted to me?”

      “Ah! am I not that already, madame, and more than wholly?”

      “Yes, but, God forgive me, you still doubt!”

      “Oh! I am wrong, I am ungrateful, or, rather, as I have told you and repeated to you, I am a fool. But why was Monsieur de Mouy with you this evening? why did I see him this morning with Monsieur le Duc d’Alençon? Why that cherry-colored cloak, that white plume, that affected imitation of my gait? Ah! madame, it is not you whom I suspect, but your brother.”

      “Wretched man!” said Marguerite, “wretched man to suppose that Duc François would push complacency so far as to introduce a wooer to his sister’s room! Mad enough to be jealous, and yet not to have guessed! Do you know, La Mole, that the Duc d’Alençon would run you through with his own sword if he knew that you were here, this evening, at my feet, and that instead of sending you away I were saying to you: ‘Stay here where you are, La Mole; for I love you, my fine gentleman, do you hear? I love you!’ Ah, yes! he would certainly kill you.”

      “Great God!” cried La Mole, starting back and looking at Marguerite in terror, “is it possible?”

      “Everything is possible, my friend, in these times and at this court. Now, one word; it was not for me that Monsieur de Mouy, in your cloak, his face hidden under your hat, came to the Louvre. It was for Monsieur d’Alençon. But I, thinking it was you, brought him here. He knows our secret, La Mole, and must be carefully managed.”

      “I should prefer to kill him,” said La Mole; “that is shorter and surer.”

      “And I, my brave gentleman,” said the queen, “I prefer him to live, and for you to know everything, for not only is his life useful to us, but it is necessary. Listen and weigh your words well before you answer. Do you love me enough, La Mole, to be glad if I were really to become a queen; that is, queen of a real kingdom?”

      “Alas, madame, I love you enough to wish what you wish, even should this desire ruin my whole life!”

      “Well, do you want to aid me to realize this desire, which would make you still happier?”

      “Oh! I should lose you, madame,” cried La Mole hiding his head in his hands.

      “No, on the contrary. Instead of being the first of my servants, you would become the first of my subjects, that is all.”

      “Oh! no interest — no ambition, madame — do not sully the feeling I have for you — the devotion, nothing but devotion!”

      “Noble nature!” said Marguerite; “well, yes, I accept your devotion, and I shall find out how to reward it.”

      She extended both her hands, and La Mole covered them with kisses.

      “Well!” said she.

      “Well, yes!” replied La Mole, “yes, Marguerite, I am beginning to comprehend this vague project already talked of by us Huguenots before the massacre of Saint Bartholomew, the scheme for the execution of which I, like many another worthier than myself, was sent to Paris. You covet this actual kingdom of Navarre which is to take the place of an imaginary kingdom. King Henry drives you to it; De Mouy conspires with you, does he not? But the Duc d’Alençon, what is he doing in it all? Where is there a throne for him? I do not see. Now, is the Duc d’Alençon sufficiently your — friend to aid you in all this without asking anything in exchange for the danger he runs?”

      “The duke,