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

“that this method is practicable and that it would save us all the disasters you foresee?”

      “I think so,” said Henry. “The Huguenots love you. Your bearing is modest, your position both high and interesting, and the kindness you have always shown to those of the faith will incline them to serve you.”

      “But,” said D’Alençon, “there is a division in the party. Will those who want you want me?”

      “I will undertake to bring them together by two means.”

      “What means?”

      “First, by the confidence the leaders have in me; then by the fear that your highness, knowing their names”—

      “But who will tell me these names?”

      “I, ventre saint gris!”

      “You will do that?”

      “Listen, François; as I told you, you are the only one I love at court,” said Henry. “This, no doubt, is because you are persecuted like myself; and then my wife, too, loves you with an affection which is unequalled”—

      François flushed with pleasure.

      “Believe me, brother,” continued Henry; “take this thing in hand, reign in Navarre; and provided you keep a place at your table for me, and a fine forest in which to hunt, I shall consider myself fortunate.”

      “Reign in Navarre!” said the duke; “but if”—

      “If the Duc d’Anjou is chosen King of Poland; is that it? I will finish your thought for you.”

      François looked at Henry with something like terror.

      “Well, listen, François,” continued Henry, “since nothing escapes you. This is how I reason: If the Duc d’Anjou is chosen King of Poland, and our brother Charles, God keep him! should happen to die, it is but two hundred leagues from Pau to Paris, while it is four hundred from Paris to Cracovie. So you would be here to receive the inheritance by the time the King of Poland learned it was vacant. Then, if you are satisfied with me, you could give me the kingdom of Navarre, which would thenceforth be merely one of the jewels in your crown. In that way I would accept it. The worst that could happen to you would be that you would remain king there and bring up a race of kings by living with me and my family, while here, what are you? a poor persecuted prince, a poor third son of a king, the slave of two elder brothers, and one whom a whim may send to the Bastille.”

      “Yes, yes,” said François; “I know that very well, so well that I do not see why you should give up this plan you propose to me. Is there no throb there?”

      And the Duc d’Alençon put his hand on his brother’s heart.

      “There are,” said Henry, smiling, “burdens too heavy for some hands; therefore I shall not try to raise this one; fear of fatigue is greater than the desire of possession.”

      “So, Henry, you really renounce it?”

      “I said so to De Mouy and I repeat it to you.”

      “But in such cases, my dear brother,” said D’Alençon, “one does not say, one proves.”

      Henry breathed like a pugilist who feels his enemy’s back bending.

      “I will prove it this evening,” said he. “At nine o’clock we shall have the names of the leaders and the plan of the undertaking. I have already sent my renunciation to De Mouy.”

      François took Henry’s hand and pressed it effusively between his own.

      At that moment Catharine entered the Duc d’Alençon’s rooms, unannounced, as was her habit.

      “Together!” said she, smiling; “two good brothers, truly!”

      “I trust so, madame,” said Henry, with great coolness, while the Duc d’Alençon turned white from distress.

      Henry stepped back to leave Catharine free to speak with her son.

      The queen mother drew a magnificent jewel from her bag.

      “This clasp comes from Florence,” said she. “I will give it to you for the belt of your sword.”

      Then in a low tone:

      “If to-night you hear any noise in your good brother Henry’s room, do not stir.”

      François pressed his mother’s hand, and said:

      “Will you allow me to show Henry the beautiful gift you have just given me?”

      “You may do more. Give it to him in your name and in mine, for I have ordered a second one just like it.”

      “You hear, Henry,” said François, “my good mother brings me this jewel and doubles its value by allowing me to give it to you.”

      Henry went into ecstasies over the beauty of the clasp, and was enthusiastic in his thanks. When his delight had grown calmer:

      “My son,” said Catharine, “I feel somewhat indisposed and I am going to bed; your brother Charles is greatly wearied from his fall and is going to do the same. So we shall not have supper together this evening, but each will be served in his own room. Oh, Henry, I forgot to congratulate you on your bravery and quickness. You saved your king and your brother, and you shall be rewarded for it.”

      “I am already rewarded, madame,” replied Henry, bowing.

      “By the feeling that you have done your duty?” replied Catharine. “That is not enough, and Charles and I will do something to pay the debt we owe you.”

      “Everything that comes to me from you and my good brother will be welcome, madame.”

      Then he bowed and withdrew.

      “Ah! brother François!” thought Henry as he left, “I am sure now of not leaving alone, and the conspiracy which had a body has found a head and a heart. Only let us look out for ourselves. Catharine gives me a present, Catharine promises me a reward. There is some deviltry beneath it all. I must confer this evening with Marguerite.”

      Chapter 33.

       The Gratitude of King Charles ix.

       Table of Contents

      Maurevel had spent a part of the day in the King’s armory; but when it was time for the hunters to return from the chase Catharine sent him into her oratory with the guards who had joined him.

      Charles IX., informed by his nurse on his arrival that a man had spent part of the day in his room, was at first very angry that a stranger had been admitted into his apartments. But his nurse described the man, saying that he was the same one she herself had been ordered to admit one evening, and the King realized that it was Maurevel. Then remembering the order his mother had wrung from him that morning, he understood everything.

      “Oh, ho!” murmured Charles, “the same day on which he has saved my life. The time is badly chosen.”

      He started to go to his mother, but one thought deterred him.

      “By Heaven! If I mention this to her it will result in a never-ending discussion. Better for us to act by ourselves.

“Nurse,” said he, “lock every door, and say to Queen Elizabeth¹² that I am suffering somewhat from the fall I have had, and that I shall sleep alone to-night.”

      The nurse obeyed, and as it was not yet time for the execution of his plan, Charles sat himself down to compose poetry. It was this occupation which made the time pass most quickly for the King. Nine o’clock struck before he thought it was more than seven. He counted the strokes of the clock one by one, and at the last he rose.

      “The