LITMIR.BIZ

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Marguerite,” he said, “I had forgotten to tell you one thing; that is, that by this time tomorrow the King of Navarre will be dead.”

      Marguerite uttered a cry, for the idea that she was the instrument of assassination caused in her a terror she could not subdue.

      “And you will not prevent his death?” she said; “you will not save your best and most faithful ally?”

      “Since yesterday the King of Navarre is no longer my ally.”

      “Who is, pray?”

      “Monsieur de Guise. By destroying the Huguenots, Monsieur de Guise has become the king of the Catholics.”

      “And does a son of Henry II. recognize a duke of Lorraine as his king?”

      “You are in a bad frame of mind, Marguerite, and you do not understand anything.”

      “I confess that I try in vain to read your thoughts.”

      “Sister, you are of as good a house as the Princesse de Porcian; De Guise is no more immortal than the King of Navarre. Now, then, Marguerite, suppose three things, three possibilities: first, suppose monsieur is chosen King of Poland; the second, that you loved me as I love you; well, I am King of France, and you are — queen of the Catholics.”

      Marguerite hid her face in her hands, overwhelmed at the depth of the views of this youth, whom no one at court thought possessed of even common understanding.

      “But,” she asked after a moment’s silence, “I hope you are not jealous of Monsieur le Duc de Guise as you were of the King of Navarre!”

      “What is done is done,” said the Duc d’Alençon, in a muffled voice, “and if I had to be jealous of the Duc de Guise, well, then, I was!”

      “There is only one thing that can prevent this capital plan from succeeding, brother.”

      “And what is that?”

      “That I no longer love the Duc de Guise.”

      “And whom, pray, do you love?”

      “No one.”

      The Duc d’Alençon looked at Marguerite with the astonishment of a man who takes his turn in failing to understand, and left the room, pressing his icy hand on his forehead, which ached to bursting.

      Marguerite remained alone and thoughtful; the situation was beginning to take a clear and definite shape before her eyes; the King had permitted Saint Bartholomew’s, Queen Catharine and the Duc de Guise had put it into execution. The Duc de Guise and the Duc d’Alençon were about to join partnership so as to get the greatest possible advantage. The death of the King of Navarre would be a natural result of this great catastrophe. With the King of Navarre out of the way, his kingdom would be seized upon, Marguerite would be left a throneless, impotent widow with no other prospect before her than a nunnery, where she would not even have the sad consolation of weeping for a consort who had never been her husband.

      She was still in the same position when Queen Catharine sent to ask if she would not like to go with her and the whole court on a pious visitation to the hawthorn of the Cemetery of the Innocents. Marguerite’s first impulse was to refuse to take part in this cavalcade. But the thought that this excursion might possibly give her a chance to learn something new about the King of Navarre’s fate decided her to go. So she sent word that if they would have a palfrey ready for her she would willingly go with their majesties.

      Five minutes later a page came to ask if she was ready to go down, for the procession was preparing to start.

      Marguerite warned Gillonne by a gesture to look after the wounded man and so went downstairs.

      The King, the queen mother, Tavannes, and the principal Catholics were already mounted. Marguerite cast a rapid glance over the group, which was composed of about a score of persons; the King of Navarre was not of the party.

      Madame de Sauve was there. Marguerite exchanged a glance with her, and was convinced that her husband’s mistress had something to tell her.

      They rode down the Rue de l’Astruce and entered into the Rue Saint Honoré. As the populace caught sight of the King, Queen Catharine, and the principal Catholics they flocked together and followed the procession like a rising tide, and shouts rent the air.

      “Vive le Roi!”

      “Vive la Messe.”

      “Death to the Huguenots!”

      These acclamations were accompanied by the waving of ensanguined swords and smoking arquebuses, which showed the part each had taken in the awful work just accomplished.

      When they reached the top of the Rue des Prouvelles they met some men who were dragging a headless carcass. It was the admiral’s. The men were going to hang it by the feet at Montfaucon.

      They entered the Cemetery des Saints Innocents by the gate facing the Rue des Chaps, now known as the Rue des Déchargeurs; the clergy, notified in advance of the visit of the King and the queen mother, were waiting for their majesties to make them speeches.

      Madame de Sauve took advantage of a moment when Catharine was listening to one of the discourses to approach the Queen of Navarre, and beg leave to kiss her hand. Marguerite extended her arm toward her, and Madame de Sauve, as she kissed the queen’s hand, slipped a tiny roll of paper up her sleeve.

      Madame de Sauve drew back quickly and with clever dissimulation; yet Catharine perceived it, and turned round just as the maid of honor was kissing Marguerite’s hand.

      The two women saw her glance, which penetrated them like a flash of lightning, but both remained unmoved; only Madame de Sauve left Marguerite and resumed her place near Catharine.

      When Catharine had finished replying to the address which had just been made to her she smiled and beckoned the Queen of Navarre to go to her.

      “Eh, my daughter,” said the queen mother, in her Italian patois, “so you are on intimate terms with Madame de Sauve, are you?”

      Marguerite smiled in turn, and gave to her lovely countenance the bitterest expression she could, and replied:

      “Yes, mother; the serpent came to bite my hand!”

      “Aha!” replied Catharine, with a smile; “you are jealous, I think!”

      “You are mistaken, madame,” replied Marguerite; “I am no more jealous of the King of Navarre than the King of Navarre is in love with me, but I know how to distinguish my friends from my enemies. I like those that like me, and detest those that hate me. Otherwise, madame, should I be your daughter?”

      Catharine smiled so as to make Marguerite understand that if she had had any suspicion it had vanished.

      Moreover, at that instant the arrival of other pilgrims attracted the attention of the august throng.

      The Duc de Guise came with a troop of gentlemen all warm still from recent carnage. They escorted a richly decorated litter, which stopped in front of the King.

      “The Duchesse de Nevers!” cried Charles IX., “Ah! let that lovely robust Catholic come and receive our compliments. Why, they tell me, cousin, that from your own window you have been hunting Huguenots, and that you killed one with a stone.”

      The Duchesse de Nevers blushed exceedingly red.

      “Sire,” she said in a low tone, and kneeling before the King, “on the contrary, it was a wounded Catholic whom I had the good fortune to rescue.”

      “Good — good, my cousin! there are two ways of serving me: one is by exterminating my enemies, the other is by rescuing my friends. One does what one can, and I am certain that if you could have done more you would!”

      While this was going on, the populace, seeing the harmony existing between the house of Lorraine and Charles IX., shouted exultantly:

      “Vive le Roi!”

      “Vive

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