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

I have given you. But wait, I will give you the letter from Monsieur de Nevers. Here it is. Oh, no, those are some verses from Annibal, atrocious ones too, my poor Marguerite. He can not write any other kind. But wait, here it is. No, it isn’t, that is a note of my own which I brought for you to have La Mole give him. Ah! at last, here it is.” And Madame de Nevers handed the letter to the queen.

      Marguerite opened it hastily and read it; but it told nothing more than she had already learned from her friend.

      “How did you receive this?” continued the queen.

      “From a courier of my husband, who had orders to stop at the Hôtel de Guise before going to the Louvre, and to deliver this letter to me before delivering that of the King. I knew the importance my queen would attach to this news, and I had written to Monsieur de Nevers to act thus. He obeyed, you see; he is not like that monster of a Coconnas. Now there is no one in the whole of Paris, except the King, you, and I, who knows this news; except the man who followed our courier”—

      “What man?”

      “Oh! the horrid business! Imagine how tired, worn out, and dusty the wretched messenger was when he arrived! He rode seven days, day and night, without stopping an instant.”

      “But the man you spoke of just now?”

      “Wait a minute. Constantly followed by a wild-looking fellow who had relays like himself and who rode as far as he did for the four hundred leagues, the poor courier constantly expected to be shot in his back. Both reached the Saint Marcel gate at the same time, both galloped down the Rue Mouffetard, both crossed the city. But at the end of the bridge of Notre–Dame our courier turned to the right, while the other took the road to the left by the Place du Châtelet, and sped along the quays by the side of the Louvre, like an arrow from a bow.”

      “Thanks, my good Henriette, thanks!” cried Marguerite. “You are right; that is very interesting news. By whom was the other courier sent? I must know. So leave me until this evening. Rue Tizon, is it not? and the hunt tomorrow. Do take a frisky horse, so that he will run away, and we can be by ourselves. I will tell you this evening what is necessary for you to try and find out from your Coconnas.”

      “You will not forget my letter?” said the duchess of Nevers smiling.

      “No, no, do not worry; he shall have it, and at once.”

      Madame de Nevers left, and Marguerite immediately sent for Henry, who came to her quickly. She gave him the letter from the Duc de Nevers.

      “Oh! oh!” he exclaimed.

      Then Marguerite told him about the second courier.

      “Yes,” said Henry; “I saw him enter the Louvre.”

      “Perhaps he was for the queen mother.”

      “No, I am sure of that, for I ventured to take my stand in the corridor, and I saw no one pass.”

      “Then,” said Marguerite, looking at her husband, “he must be”—

      “For your brother D’Alençon, must he not?” said Henry.

      “Yes; but how can we be sure?”

      “Could not one of his two gentlemen be sent for?” said Henry, carelessly, “and through him”—

      “You are right,” said Marguerite, put at her ease at her husband’s suggestion. “I will send for Monsieur de la Mole. Gillonne! Gillonne!”

      The young girl appeared.

      “I must speak at once with Monsieur de la Mole,” said the queen. “Try to find him and bring him here.”

      Gillonne disappeared. Henry seated himself before a table on which was a German book containing engravings by Albert Durer, which he began to examine with such close attention that when La Mole entered he did not seem to hear him, and did not even raise his head.

      On his side, the young man, seeing the king with Marguerite, stopped on the threshold, silent from surprise and pale from anxiety.

      Marguerite went to him.

      “Monsieur de la Mole,” said she, “can you tell me who is on guard today at Monsieur d’Alençon’s?”

      “Coconnas, madame,” said La Mole.

      “Try to find out for me from him if he admitted to his master’s room a man covered with mud, who apparently had a long or hasty ride.”

      “Ah, madame, I fear he will not tell me; for several days he has been very taciturn.”

      “Indeed! But by giving him this note, it seems to me that he will owe you something in exchange.”

      “From the duchess! Oh, with this note I will try.”

      “Add,” said Marguerite, lowering her voice, “that this note will serve him as a means of gaining entrance this evening to the house you know about.”

      “And I, madame,” said La Mole, in a low tone, “what shall be mine?”

      “Give your name. That will be enough.”

      “Give me the note, madame,” said La Mole, with throbbing heart, “I will bring back the answer.”

      He withdrew.

      “We shall know tomorrow if the duke has been informed of the Poland affair,” said Marguerite calmly, turning to her husband.

      “That Monsieur de la Mole is really a fine servant,” said the Béarnais, with his peculiar smile, “and, by Heaven! I will make his fortune!”

11. Fair duchess, your dear eyes Are emerald skies, Half hid ‘neath cloud-lids white, Whence fiercer lightning flies, Launched forth for our surprise, Than could arise From twenty Joves in furious might.

      Chapter 29.

       The Departure.

       Table of Contents

      When on the following day a beautiful sun, red but rayless, as is apt to be the case on privileged days of winter, rose behind the hills of Paris, everything had already been awake for two hours in the court of the Louvre. A magnificent Barbary horse, nervous and spirited, with limbs like those of a stag, on which the veins crossed one another like network, pawed the ground, pricked up his ears and snorted, while waiting for Charles IX. He was less impatient, however, than his master who, detained by Catharine, had been stopped by her in the hall. She had said she wished to speak to him on a matter of importance. Both were in the corridor with the glass windows. Catharine was cold, pale, and quiet as usual. Charles IX. fretted, bit his nails, and whipped his two favorite dogs. The latter were covered with cuirasses of mail, so that the snout of the wild boar should not harm them, and that they might be able to encounter the terrible animal with impunity. A small scutcheon with the arms of France had been stitched on their breasts similar to those on the breasts of the pages, who, more than once, had envied the privileges of these happy favorites.

      “Pay attention, Charles,” said Catharine, “no one but you and I knows as yet of the expected arrival of these Polonais. But, God forgive me, the King of Navarre acts as if he knew. In spite of his abjuration, which I always mistrust, he is in communication with the Huguenots. Have you noticed how often he has gone out the past few days? He has money, too, he who has never had any. He buys horses, arms, and on rainy days he practises fencing from morning until night.”

      “Well, my God, mother!” exclaimed Charles IX., impatiently, “do you think he intends to kill me, or my brother D’Anjou? In that case he will need a few more lessons, for yesterday I counted eleven buttonholes with my foil on his doublet, which, however, had only six. And as to my brother D’Anjou, you know that he fences as well if not better than I do; at least so people say.”

      “Listen,