was of oak, marvellously carved, covered with velvet and with gold fringes, while the Bible from which she was reading (for she was of the reformed religion) was very old and torn, like those found in the poorest cottages; now everything in the room was typified by the priedieu and the Bible.
“Eh, Madelon!” said the King.
The kneeling woman lifted her head smilingly at the well-known voice, and rising from her knees —
“Ah! it is you, my son,” said she.
“Yes, nurse; come here.”
Charles IX. let fall the curtain, and sat down on the arm of an easy-chair. The nurse appeared.
“What do you want with me, Charlot?”
“Come near, and answer in a low tone.”
The nurse approached him with a familiarity such as might come from that maternal affection felt by a woman for her nursling, but attributed by the pamphlets of the time to a source infinitely less pure.
“Here I am,” said she; “speak!”
“Is the man I sent for come?”
“He has been here half an hour.”
Charles rose, approached the window, looked to assure himself there were no eavesdroppers, went to the door and looked out there also, shook the dust from his trophies of arms, patted a large greyhound which followed him wherever he went, stopping when he stopped and moving when he moved — then returning to his nurse:
“Very well, nurse, let him come in,” said he.
The worthy woman disappeared by the same passage by which she had entered, while the king went and leaned against a table on which were scattered arms of every kind.
Scarcely had he done so when the portière was again lifted, and the person whom he expected entered.
He was a man of about forty, his eyes gray and false, his nose curved like the beak of a screech-owl, his cheek-bones prominent. His face tried to look respectful, but all that he could do was to wear a hypocritical smile on his lips blanched with fear.
Charles gently put his hand behind him, and grasped the butt of a pistol of a new construction, that was discharged, not by a match, as formerly, but by a flint brought in contact with a wheel of steel. He fixed his dull eyes steadily on the newcomer; meantime he whistled, with perfect precision and with remarkable sweetness, one of his favorite hunting-airs.
After a pause of some minutes, during which the expression of the stranger’s face grew more and more discomposed,
“You are the person,” said the King, “called François de Louvièrs Maurevel?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Captain of petardeers?”
“Yes, sire.”
“I wanted to see you.”
Maurevel made a low bow.
“You know,” continued Charles, laying a stress on each word, “that I love all my subjects equally?”
“I know,” stammered Maurevel, “that your Majesty is the father of your people.”
“And that the Huguenots and Catholics are equally my children?”
Maurevel remained silent, but his agitation was manifest to the King’s piercing eyes, although the person whom he was addressing was almost concealed in the darkness.
“Does this displease you,” said the King, “you who have waged such a bitter war on the Huguenots?”
Maurevel fell on his knees.
“Sire,” stammered he, “believe that”—
“I believe,” continued Charles, looking more and more keenly at Maurevel, while his eyes, which at first had seemed like glass, now became almost fiery, “I believe that you had a great desire at Moncontour to kill the admiral, who has just left me; I believe you missed your aim, and that then you entered the army of my brother, the Duc d’Anjou; I believe that then you went for a second time over to the prince’s and there took service in the company of M. de Mouy de Saint Phale”—
“Oh, sire!”
“A brave gentleman from Picardy”—
“Sire, sire!” cried Maurevel, “do not overwhelm me.”
“He was a brave officer,” continued Charles, whose features assumed an aspect of almost ferocious cruelty, “who received you as if you had been his son; fed you, lodged you, and clothed you.”
Maurevel uttered a despairing sigh.
“You called him your father, I believe,” continued the King, pitilessly, “and a tender friendship existed between you and the young De Mouy, his son.”
Maurevel, still on his knees, bowed low, more and more crushed under the indignation of the King, who stood immovable, like a statue whose lips only are endowed with vitality.
“By the way,” continued the King, “M. de Guise was to give you ten thousand crowns if you killed the admiral — was he not?”
The assassin in consternation struck his forehead against the floor.
“As regards your worthy father, the Sieur de Mouy, you were one day acting as his escort in a reconnaissance toward Chevreux. He dropped his whip and dismounted to pick it up. You were alone with him; you took a pistol from your holster, and while he was bending over, you shot him in the back; then seeing he was dead — for you killed him on the spot — you escaped on the horse he had given you. This is your history, I believe?”
And as Maurevel remained mute under this accusation, every circumstance of which was true, Charles IX. began to whistle again, with the same precision and melody, the same hunting-air.
“Now, then, murderer!” said he after a little, “do you know I have a great mind to have you hanged?”
“Oh, your Majesty!” cried Maurevel.
“Young De Mouy entreated me to do so only yesterday, and I scarcely knew what answer to make him, for his demand was perfectly just.”
Maurevel clasped his hands.
“All the more just, because I am, as you say, the father of my people; and because, as I answered you, now that I am reconciled to the Huguenots, they are as much my children as the Catholics.”
“Sire,” said Maurevel, in despair, “my life is in your hands; do with it what you will.”
“You are quite right, and I would not give a groat for it.”
“But, sire,” asked the assassin, “is there no means of redeeming my crime?”
“None that I know of; only if I were in your place — but thank God I am not”—
“Well,
