LITMIR.BIZ

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two words, it is this: The King of Navarre is in love, and not with me; I am not in love, but I do not want him, yet we must both of us change, or seem to change, between now and tomorrow.”

      “Well, then, you change, and be very sure he will do the same.”

      “That is quite impossible, for I am less than ever inclined to change.”

      “Only with respect to your husband, I hope.”

      “Henriette, I have a scruple.”

      “A scruple! about what?”

      “A religious one. Do you make any difference between Huguenots and Catholics?”

      “In politics?”

      “Yes.”

      “Of course.”

      “And in love?”

      “My dear girl, we women are such heathens that we admit every kind of sect, and recognize many gods.”

      “In one, eh?”

      “Yes,” replied the duchess, her eyes sparkling; “he who is called Eros, Cupido, Amor. He who has a quiver on his back, wings on his shoulders, and a fillet over his eyes. Mordi, vive la dévotion!”

      “You have a peculiar method of praying; you throw stones on the heads of Huguenots.”

      “Let us do our duty and let people talk. Ah, Marguerite! how the finest ideas, the noblest actions, are spoilt in passing through the mouths of the vulgar!”

      “The vulgar! — why, it was my brother Charles who congratulated you on your exploits, wasn’t it?”

      “Your brother Charles is a mighty hunter blowing the horn all day, and that makes him very thin. I reject his compliments; besides, I gave him his answer — didn’t you hear what I said?”

      “No; you spoke so low.”

      “So much the better. I shall have more news to tell you. Now, then, finish your story, Marguerite.”

      “I was going to say — to say”—

      “Well?”

      “I was going to say,” continued the queen, laughing, “if the stone my brother spoke of be a fact, I should resist.”

      “Ah!” cried Henriette, “so you have chosen a Huguenot, have you? Well, to reassure your conscience, I promise you that I will choose one myself on the first opportunity.”

      “Ah, so you have chosen a Catholic, have you?”

      “Mordi!” replied the duchess.

      “I see, I see.”

      “And what is this Huguenot of yours?”

      “I did not choose him. The young man is nothing and probably never will be anything to me.”

      “But what sort is he? You can tell me that; you know how curious I am about these matters.”

      “A poor young fellow, beautiful as Benvenuto Cellini’s Nisus — and he came and took refuge in my room.”

      “Oho! — of course without any suggestion on your part?”

      “Poor fellow! Do not laugh so, Henriette; at this very moment he is between life and death.”

      “He is ill, is he?”

      “He is grievously wounded.”

      “A wounded Huguenot is very disagreeable, especially in these times; and what have you done with this wounded Huguenot, who is not and never will be anything to you?”

      “He is in my closet; I am concealing him and I want to save him.”

      “He is handsome! he is young! he is wounded. You hide him in your closet; you want to save him. This Huguenot of yours will be very ungrateful if he is not too grateful.”

      “I am afraid he is already — much more so than I could wish.”

      “And this poor young man interests you?”

      “From motives of humanity — that’s all.”

      “Ah, humanity! my poor queen, that is the very virtue that is the ruin of all of us women.”

      “Yes; and you understand: as the King, the Duc d’Alençon, my mother, even my husband, may at any moment enter my room”—

      “You want me to hide your little Huguenot as long as he is ill, on condition I send him back to you when he is cured?”

      “Scoffer!” said Marguerite, “no! I do not lay my plans so far in advance; but if you could conceal the poor fellow — if you could preserve the life I have saved — I confess I should be most grateful. You are free at the Hôtel de Guise; you have neither brother-inlaw nor husband to spy on you or constrain you; besides, behind your room there is a closet like mine into which no one is entitled to enter; so lend me your closet for my Huguenot, and when he is cured open the cage and let the bird fly away.”

      “There is only one difficulty, my dear queen: the cage is already occupied.”

      “What, have you also saved somebody?”

      “That is exactly what I answered your brother with.”

      “Ah, I understand! that’s why you spoke so low that I could not hear you.”

      “Listen, Marguerite: it is an admirable story — is no less poetical and romantic than yours. After I had left you six of my guards, I returned with the rest to the Hôtel de Guise, and I was watching them pillage and burn a house separated from my brother’s palace only by the Rue des Quatre Fils, when I heard the voices of men swearing and of women crying. I went out on the balcony and the first thing I saw was a sword flashing so brilliantly that it seemed to light up the whole scene. I was filled with admiration for this fiery sword. I am fond of fine things, you know! Then naturally enough I tried to distinguish the arm wielding it and then the body to which the arm belonged. Amid sword-thrusts and shouts I at last made out the man and I saw — a hero, an Ajax Telamon. I heard a voice — the voice of a Stentor. My enthusiasm awoke — I stood there panting, trembling at every blow aimed at him, at every thrust he parried! That was a quarter hour of emotion such as I had never before experienced, my queen; and never believed was possible to experience. So there I was panting, holding my breath, trembling, and voiceless, when all of a sudden my hero disappeared.”

      “How?”

      “Struck down by a stone an old woman threw at him. Then, like Cyrus, I found my voice, and screamed, ‘Help! help!’ my guards went out, lifted him up, and bore him to the room which you want for your protégé.”

      “Alas, my dear Henriette, I can better understand this story because it is so nearly my own.”

      “With this difference, queen, that as I am serving my King and my religion, I have no reason to send Monsieur Annibal de Coconnas away.”

      “His name is Annibal de Coconnas!” said Marguerite, laughing.

      “A terrible name, is it not? Well, he who bears it is worthy of it. What a champion he is, by Heaven! and how he made the blood flow! Put on your mask, my queen, for we are now at the palace.”

      “Why put on my mask?”

      “Because I wish to show you my hero.”

      “Is he handsome?”

      “He seemed magnificent to me during the conflict. To be sure, it was at night and he was lighted up by the flames. This morning by daylight I confess he seemed to me to have lost a little.”

      “So then my protégé is rejected at the Hôtel de Guise. I am sorry for it, for that is the last place where they would look for a Huguenot.”

      “Oh, no, your Huguenot shall

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