same moment a curtain of violet velvet covered with golden fleurs-delis was raised, and the duke made out the form of the queen, who in her impatience had come to meet him.
“I am here, madame,” he then said; and he passed the curtain, which fell behind him. So Marguerite de Valois herself now became the prince’s guide, leading him into the room which, however, he knew already, while Gillonne, standing at the door, had raised her finger to her lips and reassured her royal mistress.
As if she understood the duke’s jealous apprehensions, Marguerite led him to the bedchamber, and there paused.
“Well,” she said, “are you satisfied, duke?”
“Satisfied, madame?” was the reply, “and with what?”
“Of the proof I give you,” retorted Marguerite, with a slight tone of vexation in her voice, “that I belong to a man who, on the very night of his marriage, makes me of such small importance that he does not even come to thank me for the honor I have done him, not in selecting, but in accepting him for my husband.”
“Oh! madame,” said the duke, sorrowfully, “be assured he will come if you desire it.”
“And do you say that, Henry?” cried Marguerite; “you, who better than any know the contrary of what you say? If I had that desire, should I have asked you to come to the Louvre?”
“You have asked me to come to the Louvre, Marguerite, because you are anxious to destroy every vestige of our past, and because that past lives not only in my memory, but in this silver casket which I bring to you.”
“Henry, shall I say one thing to you?” replied Marguerite, gazing earnestly at the duke; “it is that you are more like a schoolboy than a prince. I deny that I have loved you! I desire to quench a flame which will die, perhaps, but the reflection of which will never die! For the loves of persons of my rank illumine and frequently devour the whole epoch contemporary with them. No, no, duke; you may keep the letters of your Marguerite, and the casket she has given you. She asks but one of these letters, and that only because it is as dangerous for you as for herself.”
“It is all yours,” said the duke. “Take the one that you wish to destroy.”
Marguerite searched anxiously in the open casket, and with a tremulous hand took, one after the other, a dozen letters, only the addresses of which she examined, as if by merely glancing at these she could recall to her memory what the letters themselves contained; but after a close scrutiny she looked at the duke, pale and agitated.
“Sir,” she said, “what I seek is not here. Can you have lost it, by any accident? for if it should fall into the hands of”—
“What letter do you seek, madame?”
“That in which I told you to marry without delay.”
“As an excuse for your infidelity?”
Marguerite shrugged her shoulders.
“No; but to save your life. The one in which I told you that the king, seeing our love and my exertions to break off your proposed marriage with the Infanta of Portugal, had sent for his brother, the Bastard of Angoulême, and said to him, pointing to two swords, ‘With this slay Henry de Guise this night, or with the other I will slay thee in the morning.’ Where is that letter?”
“Here,” said the duke, drawing it from his breast.
Marguerite almost snatched it from his hands, opened it anxiously, assured herself that it was really the one she desired, uttered an exclamation of joy, and applying the lighted candle to it, the flames instantly consumed the paper; then, as if Marguerite feared that her imprudent words might be read in the very ashes, she trampled them under foot.
During all this the Duc de Guise had watched his mistress attentively.
“Well, Marguerite,” he said, when she had finished, “are you satisfied now?”
“Yes, for now that you have wedded the Princesse de Porcian, my brother will forgive me your love; while he would never have pardoned me for revealing a secret such as that which in my weakness for you I had not the strength to conceal from you.”
“True,” replied De Guise, “then you loved me.”
“And I love you still, Henry, as much — more than ever!”
“You”—
“I do; for never more than at this moment did I need a sincere and devoted friend. Queen, I have no throne; wife, I have no husband!”
The young prince shook his head sorrowfully.
“I tell you, I repeat to you, Henri, that my husband not only does not love me, but hates — despises me; indeed, it seems to me that your presence in the chamber in which he ought to be is proof of this hatred, this contempt.”
“It is not yet late, Madame, and the King of Navarre requires time to dismiss his gentlemen; if he has not already come, he will come soon.”
“And I tell you,” cried Marguerite, with increasing vexation — “I tell you that he will not come!”
“Madame!” exclaimed Gillonne, suddenly entering, “the King of Navarre is just leaving his apartments!”
“Oh, I knew he would come!” exclaimed the Duc de Guise.
“Henri,” said Marguerite, in a quick tone, and seizing the duke’s hand — “Henri, you shall see if I am a woman of my word, and if I may be relied on. Henri, enter that closet.”
“Madame, allow me to go while there is yet time, for reflect that the first mark of love you bestow on him, I shall quit the cabinet, and then woe to him!”
“Are you mad? Go in-go in, I say, and I will be responsible for all;” and she pushed the duke into the closet.
It was time. The door was scarcely closed behind the prince when the King of Navarre, escorted by two pages, who carried eight torches of yellow wax in two candelabra, appeared, smiling, on the threshold of the chamber. Marguerite concealed her trouble, and made a low bow.
“You are not yet in bed, Madame,” observed the Béarnais, with his frank and joyous look. “Were you by chance waiting for me?”
“No, Monsieur,” replied Marguerite; “for yesterday you repeated to me that our marriage was a political alliance, and that you would never thwart my wishes.”
“Assuredly; but that is no reason why we should not confer a little together. Gillonne, close the door, and leave us.”
Marguerite, who was sitting, then rose and extended her hand, as if to desire the pages to remain.
“Must I call your women?” inquired the king. “I will do so if such be your desire, although I confess that for what I have to say to you I should prefer our being alone;” and the King of Navarre advanced towards the closet.
“No!” exclaimed Marguerite, hastily going before him — “no! there is no occasion for that; I am ready to hear you.”
The Béarnais had learned what he desired to know; he threw
