the farther end of the gallery. He remained stationary on the spot, his eyes fastened on the Circe who enthralled him as if by magic chains, and instead of proceeding towards his wife, by a movement of hesitation which betrayed more astonishment than alarm he advanced to meet Madame de Sauve.
The courtiers, seeing the King of Navarre, whose inflammable heart they knew, approach the beautiful Charlotte, had not the courage to prevent their meeting, but drew aside complaisantly; so that at the very moment when Marguerite de Valois and Monsieur de Guise exchanged the few words in Latin which we have noted above, Henry, having approached Madame de Sauve, began, in very intelligible French, although with somewhat of a Gascon accent, a conversation by no means so mysterious.
“Ah, ma mie!” he said, “you have, then, come at the very moment when they assured me that you were ill, and I had lost all hope of seeing you.”
“Would your majesty perhaps wish me to believe that it had cost you something to lose this hope?” replied Madame de Sauve.
“By Heaven! I believe it!” replied the Béarnais; “know you not that you are my sun by day and my star by night? By my faith, I was in deepest darkness till you appeared and suddenly illumined all.”
“Then, monseigneur, I serve you a very ill turn.”
“What do you mean, ma mie?” inquired Henry.
“I mean that he who is master of the handsomest woman in France should only have one desire — that the light should disappear and give way to darkness, for happiness awaits you in the darkness.”
“You know, cruel one, that my happiness is in the hands of one woman only, and that she laughs at poor Henry.”
“Oh!” replied the baroness, “I believed, on the contrary, that it was this person who was the sport and jest of the King of Navarre.” Henry was alarmed at this hostile attitude, and yet he bethought him that it betrayed jealous spite, and that jealous spite is only the mask of love.
“Indeed, dear Charlotte, you reproach me very unjustly, and I do not comprehend how so lovely a mouth can be so cruel. Do you suppose for a moment that it is I who give myself in marriage? No, ventre saint gris, it is not I!”
“It is I, perhaps,” said the baroness, sharply — if ever the voice of the woman who loves us and reproaches us for not loving her can seem sharp.
“With your lovely eyes have you not seen farther, baroness? No, no; Henry of Navarre is not marrying Marguerite de Valois.”
“And who, pray, is?”
“Why, by Heaven! it is the reformed religion marrying the pope — that’s all.”
“No, no, I cannot be deceived by your jests. Monseigneur loves Madame Marguerite. And can I blame you? Heaven forbid! She is beautiful enough to be adored.”
Henry reflected for a moment, and, as he reflected, a meaning smile curled the corner of his lips.
“Baroness,” said he, “you seem to be seeking a quarrel with me, but you have no right to do so. What have you done to prevent me from marrying Madame Marguerite? Nothing. On the contrary, you have always driven me to despair.”
“And well for me that I have, monseigneur,” replied Madame de Sauve.
“How so?”
“Why, of course, because you are marrying another woman!”
“I marry her because you love me not.”
“If I had loved you, sire, I must have died in an hour.”
“In an hour? What do you mean? And of what death would you have died?”
“Of jealousy! — for in an hour the Queen of Navarre will send away her women, and your majesty your gentlemen.”
“Is that really the thought that is uppermost in your mind, ma mie?”
“I did not say so. I only say, that if I loved you it would be uppermost in my mind most tormentingly.”
“Very well,” said Henry, at the height of joy on hearing this confession, the first which she had made to him, “suppose the King of Navarre should not send away his gentlemen this evening?”
“Sire,” replied Madame de Sauve, looking at the king with astonishment for once unfeigned, “you say things impossible and incredible.”
“What must I do to make you believe them?”
“Give me a proof — and that proof you cannot give me.”
“Yes, baroness, yes! By Saint Henry, I will give it you!” exclaimed the king, gazing at the young woman with eyes hot with love.
“Oh, your majesty!” exclaimed the lovely Charlotte in an undertone and with downcast eyes, “I do not understand — No! no, it is impossible for you to turn your back on the happiness awaiting you.”
“There are four Henrys in this room, my adorable!” replied the king, “Henry de France, Henry de Condé, Henry de Guise, but there is only one Henry of Navarre.”
“Well?”
“Well; if this Henry of Navarre is with you all night”—
“All night!”
“Yes; will that be a certain proof to you that he is not with any other?”
“Ah! if you do that, sire,” cried Madame Sauve.
“On the honor of a gentleman I will do it!”
Madame de Sauve raised her great eyes dewy with voluptuous promises and looked at the king, whose heart was filled with an intoxicating joy.
“And then,” said Henry, “what will you say?”
“I will say,” replied Charlotte, “that your majesty really loves me.”
“Ventre saint gris! then you shall say it, baroness, for it is true.”
“But how can you manage it?” murmured Madame de Sauve.
“Oh! by Heaven! baroness, have you not about you some waiting-woman, some girl whom you can trust?”
“Yes, Dariole is so devoted to me that she would let herself be cut in pieces for me; she is a real treasure.”
“By Heaven! then say to her that I will make her fortune when I am King of France, as the astrologers prophesy.”
Charlotte smiled, for even at this period the Gascon reputation of the Béarnais was already established with respect to his promises.
“Well, then, what do you want Dariole to do?”
“Little for her, a great deal for me. Your apartment is over mine?”
“Yes.”
“Let her wait behind the door. I will knock gently three times; she
