other gems, leaned half out of the window, in order to direct the newcomers, pointing her arm toward Coconnas.
“There! there! in front of me — a gentleman in a red doublet. There! — that is he — yes, that is he.”
Chapter 10.
Death, Mass, or the Bastille.
Marguerite, as we have said, had shut the door and returned to her chamber. But as she entered, panting, she saw Gillonne, who, terror-struck, was leaning against the door of the closet, staring at the traces of blood on the bed, the furniture, and the carpet.
“Ah! madame!” she cried when she saw the queen. “Oh! madame! tell me, is he dead?”
“Silence!” said Marguerite in that tone of voice which gives some indication of the importance of the command.
Gillonne was silent.
Marguerite then took from her purse a tiny gilded key, opened the closet door, and showed the young man to the servant. La Mole had succeeded in getting to his feet and making his way to the window. A small poniard, such as women at that time were in the habit of carrying, was at hand, and when he heard the door opening he had seized it.
“Fear nothing, sir,” said Marguerite; “for, on my soul, you are in safety!”
La Mole sank on his knees.
“Oh, madame,” he cried, “you are more than a queen — you are a goddess!”
“Do not agitate yourself, sir,” said Marguerite, “your blood is still flowing. Oh, look, Gillonne, how pale he is — let us see where you are wounded.”
“Madame,” said La Mole, trying to fix on certain parts of his body the pain which pervaded his whole frame, “I think I have a dagger-thrust in my shoulder, another in my chest — the other wounds are not worth bothering about.”
“We will see,” said Marguerite. “Gillonne, bring me my balsam casket.”
Gillonne obeyed, and returned holding in one hand a casket, and in the other a silver-gilt ewer and some fine Holland linen.
“Help me to lift him, Gillonne,” said Queen Marguerite; “for in attempting to get up the poor gentleman has lost all his strength.”
“But, madame,” said La Mole, “I am wholly confused. Indeed, I cannot allow”—
“But, sir, you will let us do for you, I think,” said Marguerite. “When we may save you, it would be a crime to let you die.”
“Oh!” cried La Mole, “I would rather die than see you, the queen, stain your hands with blood as unworthy as mine. Oh, never, never!”
And he drew back respectfully.
“Your blood, sir,” replied Gillonne, with a smile, “has already stained her majesty’s bed and chamber.”
Marguerite folded her mantle over her cambric peignoir, all bespattered with small red spots. This movement, so expressive of feminine modesty, caused La Mole to remember that he had held in his arms and pressed to his heart this beautiful, beloved queen, and at the recollection a fugitive glow of color came into his pallid cheeks.
“Madame,” stammered La Mole, “can you not leave me to the care of the surgeon?”
“Of a Catholic surgeon, perhaps,” said the queen, with an expression which La Mole understood and which made him shudder. “Do you not know,” continued the queen in a voice and with a smile of incomparable sweetness, “that we daughters of France are trained to know the qualities of herbs and to make balsams? for our duty as women and as queens has always been to soften pain. Therefore we are equal to the best surgeons in the world; so our flatterers say! Has not my reputation in this regard come to your ears? Come, Gillonne, let us to work!”
La Mole again endeavored to resist; he repeated that he would rather die than occasion the queen labor which, though begun in pity, might end in disgust; but this exertion completely exhausted his strength, and falling back, he fainted a second time.
Marguerite, then seizing the poniard which he had dropped, quickly cut the lace of his doublet; while Gillonne, with another blade, ripped open the sleeves.
Next Gillonne, with a cloth dipped in fresh water, stanched the blood which escaped from his shoulder and breast, and Marguerite, with a silver needle with a round point, probed the wounds with all the delicacy and skill that Maître Ambroise Paré could have displayed in such a case.
“A dangerous but not mortal wound, acerrimum humeri vulnus, non autem lethale,” murmured the lovely and learned lady-surgeon; “hand me the salve, Gillonne, and get the lint ready.”
Meantime Gillonne, to whom the queen had just given this new order, had already dried and perfumed the young man’s chest and arms, which were like an antique model, as well as his shoulders, which fell gracefully back; his neck shaded by thick, curling locks, and which seemed rather to belong to a statue of Parian marble than the mangled frame of a dying man.
“Poor young man!” whispered Gillonne, looking not so much at her work as at the object of it.
“Is he not handsome?” said Marguerite, with royal frankness.
“Yes, madame; but it seems to me that instead of leaving him lying there on the floor, we should lift him on this couch against which he is leaning.”
“Yes,” said Marguerite, “you are right.”
And the two women, bending over, uniting their strength, raised La Mole, and laid him on a kind of great sofa in front of the window, which they opened in order to give them fresh air.
This movement aroused La Mole, who drew a long sigh, and opening his eyes, began to experience that indescribable sensation of well-being which comes to a wounded man when on his return to consciousness he finds coolness instead of burning heat, and the perfumes of balsams instead of the nauseating odor of blood.
He muttered some disconnected words, to which Marguerite replied with a smile, placing her finger on her lips.
At this moment several raps on the door were heard.
“Some one knocks at the secret passage,” said Marguerite.
“Who can be coming, madame?” asked Gillonne, in a panic.
“I will go and see who it is,” said Marguerite; “remain here, and do not leave him for a single instant.”
Marguerite went into the chamber, and closing the closet door, opened that of the passage which led to the King’s and queen mother’s apartments.
“Madame de Sauve!” she exclaimed, suddenly drawing back with an expression which resembled hatred, if not terror, so true it is that a woman never forgives another for taking from her even a man whom she does not love — “Madame de Sauve!”
“Yes, your majesty!”
