you know better than any one, François, for he has spent his days almost constantly in your society, either hunting or playing mall or tennis.”
“Yes, his days, no doubt,” replied the duke; “his days — but his nights?”
Marguerite was silent; it was now her turn to cast down her eyes.
“His nights,” persisted the Duc d’Alençon, “his nights?”
“Well?” inquired Marguerite, feeling that it was requisite that she should say something in reply.
“Well, he has been spending them with Madame de Sauve!”
“How do you know that?” exclaimed Marguerite.
“I know it because I have an interest in knowing it,” replied the young prince, growing pale and picking the embroidery of his sleeves.
Marguerite began to understand what Catharine had whispered to Charles, but pretended to remain in ignorance.
“Why do you tell me this, brother?” she replied, with a well-affected air of melancholy; “was it to remind me that no one here loves me or takes my part, neither those whom nature gave me as protectors nor the man whom the Church gave me as my husband?”
“You are unjust,” said the Duc d’Alençon, drawing his armchair still nearer to his sister, “I love you and protect you!”
“Brother,” said Marguerite, looking at him sharply, “have you anything to say to me from the queen mother?”
“I! you mistake, sister. I swear to you — what can make you think that?”
“What can make me think that? — why, because you are breaking off the intimacy that binds you to my husband, because you are abandoning the cause of the King of Navarre.”
“The cause of the King of Navarre!” replied the Duc d’Alençon, wholly at his wits’ end.
“Yes, certainly. Now look here, François; let us speak frankly. You have come to an agreement a score of times; you cannot raise yourself or even hold your own except by mutual help. This alliance”—
“Has now become impossible, sister,” interrupted the Duc d’Alençon.
“And why so?”
“Because the King has designs on your husband! Pardon me, when I said your husband, I erred; I meant Henry of Navarre. Our mother has seen through the whole thing. I entered into an alliance with the Huguenots because I believed the Huguenots were in favor; but now they are killing the Huguenots, and in another week there will not remain fifty in the whole kingdom. I gave my hand to the King of Navarre because he was — your husband; but now he is not your husband. What can you say to that — you who are not only the loveliest woman in France, but have the clearest head in the kingdom?”
“Why, I have this to say,” replied Marguerite, “I know our brother Charles; I saw him yesterday in one of those fits of frenzy, every one of which shortens his life ten years. I have to say that unfortunately these attacks are very frequent, and that thus, in all probability, our brother Charles has not very long to live; and, finally, I have to say that the King of Poland has just died, and the question of electing a prince of the house of France in his stead is much discussed; and when circumstances are thus, it is not the moment to abandon allies who, in the moment of struggle, might support us with the strength of a nation and the power of a kingdom.”
“And you!” exclaimed the duke, “do you not act much more treasonably to me in preferring a foreigner to your own brother?”
“Explain yourself, François! In what have I acted treasonably to you?”
“You yesterday begged the life of the King of Navarre from King Charles.”
“Well?” said Marguerite, with pretended innocence.
The duke rose hastily, paced round the chamber twice or thrice with a bewildered air, then came back and took Marguerite’s hand.
It was cold and unresponsive.
“Good-by, sister!” he said at last. “You will not understand me; do not, therefore, complain of whatever misfortunes may happen to you.”
Marguerite grew pale, but remained motionless in her place. She saw the Duc d’Alençon go away, without making any attempt to detain him; but he had scarcely more than disappeared down the corridor when he returned.
“Listen, 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
