LITMIR.BIZ

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cried the queen, beside herself, “help!”

      “Ah!” said La Mole, despairingly, “you have killed me. To die by so sweet a voice, so fair a hand! I did not think it possible.”

      At the same time the door flew open, and a troop of men, their faces covered with blood and blackened with powder, their swords drawn, and their pikes and arquebuses levelled, rushed into the apartment.

      Coconnas was at their head — his red hair bristling, his pale blue eyes extraordinarily dilated, his cheek cut open by La Mole’s sword, which had ploughed its bloody furrow there. Thus disfigured, the Piedmontese was terrible to behold.

      “By Heaven!” he cried, “there he is! there he is! Ah! this time we have him at last!”

      La Mole looked round him for a weapon, but in vain; he glanced at the queen, and saw the deepest pity depicted in her face; then he felt that she alone could save him; he threw his arms round her.

      Coconnas advanced, and with the point of his long rapier again wounded his enemy’s shoulder, and the crimson drops of warm blood stained the white and perfumed sheets of Marguerite’s couch.

      Marguerite saw the blood flow; she felt the shudder that ran through La Mole’s frame; she threw herself with him into the recess between the bed and the wall. It was time, for La Mole, whose strength was exhausted, was incapable of flight or resistance; he leaned his pallid head on Marguerite’s shoulder, and his hand convulsively seized and tore the thin embroidered cambric which enveloped Marguerite’s body in a billow of gauze.

      “Oh, madame,” murmured he, in a dying voice, “save me.”

      He could say no more. A mist like the darkness of death came over his eyes, his head sunk back, his arms fell at his side, his legs gave way, and he sank on the floor, bathed in his blood, and dragging the queen with him.

      At this moment Coconnas, excited by the shouts, intoxicated by the sight of blood, and exasperated by the long chase, advanced toward the recess; in another instant his sword would have pierced La Mole’s heart, and perhaps Marguerite’s also.

      At the sight of the bare steel, and even more moved at such brutal insolence, the daughter of kings drew herself up to her full stature and uttered such a shriek of terror, indignation, and rage that the Piedmontese stood petrified by an unknown feeling; and yet undoubtedly had this scene been prolonged and no other actor taken part in it, his feeling would have vanished like a morning snow under an April sun. But suddenly a secret door in the wall opened, and a pale young man of sixteen or seventeen, dressed in black and with his hair in disorder, rushed in.

      “Wait, sister!” he cried; “here I am, here I am!”

      “François! François!” cried Marguerite; “help! help!”

      “The Duc d’Alençon!” murmured La Hurière, grounding his arquebuse.

      “By Heaven! a son of France!” growled Coconnas, drawing back.

      The duke glanced round him. He saw Marguerite, dishevelled, more lovely than ever, leaning against the wall, surrounded by men, fury in their eyes, sweat on their foreheads, and foam in their mouths.

      “Wretches!” cried he.

      “Save me, brother!” shrieked Marguerite. “They are going to kill me!”

      A flame flashed across the duke’s pallid face.

      He was unarmed, but sustained, no doubt, by the consciousness of his rank, he advanced with clinched fists toward Coconnas and his companions, who retreated, terrified at the lightning darting from his eyes.

      “Ha! and will you murder a son of France, too?” cried the duke. Then, as they recoiled — “Ho, there! captain of the guard! Hang every one of these ruffians!”

      More alarmed at the sight of this weaponless young man than he would have been at the aspect of a regiment of reiters or lansquenets, Coconnas had already reached the door. La Hurière was leaping downstairs like a deer, and the soldiers were jostling and pushing one another in the vestibule in their endeavors to escape, finding the door far too small for their great desire to be outside it. Meantime Marguerite had instinctively thrown the damask coverlid of her bed over La Mole, and withdrawn from him.

      When the last murderer had departed the Duc d’Alençon came back:

      “Sister,” he cried, seeing Marguerite all dabbled with blood, “are you wounded?” And he sprang toward his sister with a solicitude which would have done credit to his affection if he had not been charged with harboring too deep an affection for a brother to entertain for a sister.

      “No,” said she; “I think not, or, if so, very slightly.”

      “But this blood,” said the duke, running his trembling hands all over Marguerite’s body. “Where does it come from?”

      “I know not,” replied she; “one of those wretches laid his hand on me, and perhaps he was wounded.”

      “What!” cried the duke, “he dared to touch my sister? Oh, if you had only pointed him out to me, if you had told me which one it was, if I knew where to find him”—

      “Hush!” said Marguerite.

      “And why?” asked François.

      “Because if you were seen at this time of night in my room”—

      “Can’t a brother visit his sister, Marguerite?”

      The queen gave the duke a look so keen and yet so threatening that the young man drew back.

      “Yes, yes, Marguerite,” said he, “you are right, I will go to my room; but you cannot remain alone this dreadful night. Shall I call Gillonne?”

      “No, no! leave me, François — leave me. Go by the way you came!”

      The young prince obeyed; and hardly had he disappeared when Marguerite, hearing a sigh from behind her bed, hurriedly bolted the door of the secret passage, and then hastening to the other entrance closed it in the same way, just as a troop of archers and soldiers like a hurricane dashed by in hot chase of some other Huguenot residents in the Louvre.

      After glancing round to assure herself that she was really alone, she again went to the “ruelle” of her bed, lifted the damask covering which had concealed La Mole from the Duc d’Alençon, and drawing the apparently lifeless body, by great exertion, into the middle of the room, and finding that the victim still breathed, sat down, placed his head on her knees, and sprinkled his face with water.

      Then as the water cleared away the mask of blood, dust, and gunpowder which had covered his face, Marguerite recognized the handsome cavalier who, full of life and hope, had three or four hours before come to ask her to look out for his interests with her protection and that of the King of Navarre; and had gone away, dazzled by her beauty, leaving her also impressed by his.

      Marguerite uttered a cry of terror, for now what she felt for the wounded man was more than mere pity — it was interest. He was no longer a mere stranger: he was almost an acquaintance. By her care La Mole’s fine features soon reappeared, free from stain, but pale and distorted by pain. A shudder ran through her whole frame as she tremblingly placed her hand on his heart. It was still beating. Then she took a smelling-bottle from the table, and applied it to his nostrils.

      La Mole opened his eyes.

      “Oh! mon Dieu!” murmured he; “where am I?”

      “Saved!” said Marguerite. “Reassure yourself — you are saved.”

      La Mole turned his eyes on the queen, gazed earnestly for a moment, and murmured,

      “Oh, how beautiful you are!”

      Then as if the vision were too much for him, he closed his lids and drew a sigh.

      Marguerite started. He had become still paler than before, if that were possible, and for an instant that sigh was his last.

      “Oh,

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