of the movements of the queen, Claude, or Marguerite — “madame, will you allow me the honor of kissing your hand?”
Marguerite extended her trembling hand.
“What did she say to you?” whispered Henry, as he stooped to imprint a kiss on her hand.
“Not to go out. In the name of Heaven, do not you go out either!”
This was like a flash; but by its light, swift as it was, Henry at once detected a complete plot.
“This is not all,” added Marguerite; “here is a letter, which a country gentleman brought.”
“Monsieur de la Mole?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” he said, taking the letter and putting it under his doublet; and, passing in front of his bewildered wife, he placed his hand on the shoulder of the Florentine.
“Well, Maître Réné!” he said, “and how go commercial affairs?”
“Pretty well, monseigneur — pretty well,” replied the poisoner, with his perfidious smile.
“I should think so,” said Henry, “with men who, like you, supply all the crowned heads at home and abroad.”
“Except the King of Navarre,” replied the Florentine, impudently.
“Ventre saint gris, Maître Réné,” replied the king, “you are right; and yet my poor mother, who also bought of you, recommended you to me with her dying breath. Come to me tomorrow, Maître Réné, or day after tomorrow, and bring your best perfumes.”
“That would not be a bad notion,” said Catharine, smiling; “for it is said”—
“That I need some perfumery,” interrupted Henry, laughing; “who told you that, mother? Was it Margot?”
“No, my son,” replied Catharine, “it was Madame de Sauve.”
At this moment the Duchesse de Lorraine, who in spite of all her efforts could no longer contain herself, burst into loud sobs.
Henry did not even turn toward her.
“Sister, what is the matter?” cried Marguerite, darting toward Claude.
“Nothing,” said Catharine, passing between the two young women, “nothing; she has those nervous attacks, for which Mazille prescribes aromatic preparations.”
And again, and with still more force than before, she pressed her eldest daughter’s arm; then, turning toward the youngest:
“There, Margot,” she said, “did you not hear me request you to retire to your room? If that is not sufficient, I command you.”
“Excuse me, madame,” replied Marguerite, trembling and pale; “I wish your majesty good-night.”
“I hope your wishes may be heard. Good-night — good-night!”
Marguerite withdrew, staggering, and in vain seeking to meet her husband’s eyes, but he did not even turn toward her.
There was a moment’s silence, during which Catharine remained with her eyes fastened on the Duchess of Lorraine, who, without speaking, looked at her mother with clasped hands.
Henry’s back was still turned, but he was watching the scene in a mirror, while seeming to curl his mustache with a pomade which Réné had just given to him.
“And you, Henry,” said Catharine, “are you still intending to go out?”
“Yes, that’s true,” exclaimed the king. “Faith, I was forgetting that the Duc d’Alençon and the Prince de Condé are waiting for me! These are admirable perfumes; they quite overpower one, and destroy one’s memory. Good evening, madame.”
“Good evening! To-morrow you will perhaps bring me tidings of the admiral.”
“Without fail — Well, Phoebe, what is it?”
“Phoebe!” said the queen mother, impatiently.
“Call her, madame,” said the Béarnais, “for she will not allow me to go out.”
The queen mother rose, took the little greyhound by the collar, and held her while Henry left the apartment, with his features as calm and smiling as if he did not feel in his heart that his life was in imminent peril.
Behind him the little dog, set free by Catharine de Médicis, rushed to try and overtake him, but the door was closed, and Phoebe could only put her long nose under the tapestry and give a long and mournful howl.
“Now, Charlotte,” said Catharine to Madame de Sauve, “go and find Messieurs de Guise and Tavannes, who are in my oratory, and return with them; then remain with the Duchess of Lorraine, who has the vapors.”
Chapter 7.
The Night of the 24th of August, 1572.
When La Mole and Coconnas had finished their supper — and it was meagre enough, for the fowls of La Belle Étoile had their pin feathers singed only on the sign — Coconnas whirled his chair around on one leg, stretched out his feet, leaned one elbow on the table, and drinking a last glass of wine, said:
“Do you mean to go to bed instantly, Monsieur de la Mole?”
“Ma foi! I am very much inclined, for it is possible that I may be called up in the night.”
“And I, too,” said Coconnas; “but it appears to me that, under the circumstances, instead of going to bed and making those wait who are to come to us, we should do better to call for cards and play a game. They would then find us quite ready.”
“I would willingly accept your proposal, sir, but I have very little money for play. I have scarce a hundred gold crowns in my valise, for my whole treasure. I rely on that with which to make my fortune!”
“A hundred gold crowns!” cried Coconnas, “and you complain? By Heaven! I have but six!”
“Why,” replied La Mole, “I saw you draw from your pocket a purse which appeared not only full, but I should say bloated.”
“Ah,” said Coconnas, “that is to defray an old debt which I am compelled to pay to an old friend of my father, whom I suspect to be, like yourself, somewhat of a Huguenot. Yes, there are here a hundred rose nobles,” he added, slapping his pocket, “but these hundred rose nobles belong to Maître Mercandon. My personal patrimony, as I tell you, is limited to six crowns.”
“How, then, can you play?”
“Why, it is because of that I wished to play. Besides, an idea occurs to me.”
“What is it?”
“We
