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, my God! my God!” she ejaculated, “have pity on him!”
At this moment a violent knocking was heard at the door. Marguerite half raised herself, still supporting La Mole.
“Who is there?” she cried.
“Madame, it is I— it is I,” replied a woman’s voice, “the Duchesse de Nevers.”
“Henriette!” cried Marguerite. “There is no danger; it is a friend of mine! Do you hear, sir?”
La Mole with some effort got up on one knee.
“Try to support yourself while I go and open the door,” said the queen.
La Mole rested his hand on the floor and succeeded in holding himself upright.
Marguerite took one step toward the door, but suddenly stopped, shivering with terror.
“Ah, you are not alone!” she said, hearing the clash of arms outside.
“No, I have twelve guards which my brother-inlaw, Monsieur de Guise, assigned me.”
“Monsieur de Guise!” murmured La Mole. “The assassin — the assassin!”
“Silence!” said Marguerite. “Not a word!”
And she looked round to see where she could conceal the wounded man.
“A sword! a dagger!” muttered La Mole.
“To defend yourself — useless! Did you not hear? There are twelve of them, and you are alone.”
“Not to defend myself, but that I may not fall alive into their hands.”
“No, no!” said Marguerite. “No, I will save you. Ah! this cabinet! Come! come.”
La Mole made an effort, and, supported by Marguerite, dragged himself to the cabinet. Marguerite locked the door upon him, and hid the key in her alms-purse.
“Not a cry, not a groan, not a sigh,” whispered she, through the panelling, “and you are saved.”
Then hastily throwing a night-robe over her shoulders, she opened the door for her friend, who tenderly embraced her.
“Ah!” cried Madame Nevers, “then nothing has happened to you, madame!”
“No, nothing at all,” replied Marguerite, wrapping the mantle still more closely round her to conceal the spots of blood on her peignoir.
“’Tis well. However, as Monsieur de Guise has given me twelve of his guards to escort me to his hôtel, and as I do not need such a large company, I am going to leave six with your majesty. Six of the duke’s guards are worth a regiment of the King’s to-night.”
Marguerite dared not refuse; she placed the soldiers in the corridor, and embraced the duchess, who then returned to the Hôtel de Guise, where she resided in her husband’s absence.
Chapter 9.
The Murderers.
Coconnas
