have been vainly trying to find for three thousand years — at least as far as you are concerned, Charlotte?”
Madame de Sauve blushed.
“You love me,” pursued Henry, “consequently I have nothing else to ask you and I consider myself the happiest man in the world. But you know happiness is always accompanied by some lack. Adam, in the midst of Eden, was not perfectly happy, and he bit into that miserable apple which imposed upon us all that love for novelty that makes every one spend his life in the search for something unknown. Tell me, my darling, in order to help me to find mine, didn’t Queen Catharine at first bid you love me?”
“Henry,” exclaimed Madame de Sauve, “speak lower when you speak of the queen mother!”
“Oh!” exclaimed Henry, with a spontaneity and boldness which deceived Madame de Sauve herself, “it was a good thing formerly to distrust her, kind mother that she is, but then we were not on good terms; but now that I am her daughter’s husband”—
“Madame Marguerite’s husband!” exclaimed Charlotte, flushing with jealousy.
“Speak low in your turn,” said Henry; “now that I am her daughter’s husband we are the best friends in the world. What was it they wanted? For me to become a Catholic, so it seems. Well, grace has touched me, and by the intercession of Saint Bartholomew I have become one. We live together like brethren in a happy family — like good Christians.”
“And Queen Marguerite?”
“Queen Marguerite?” repeated Henry; “oh, well, she is the link uniting us.”
“But, Henry, you said that the Queen of Navarre, as a reward for the devotion I showed her, had been generous to me. If what you say is true, if this generosity, for which I have cherished deep gratitude toward her, is genuine, she is a connecting link easy to break. So you cannot trust to this support, for you have not made your pretended intimacy impose on any one.”
“Still I do rest on it, and for three months it has been the bolster on which I have slept.”
“Then, Henry!” cried Madame de Sauve, “you have deceived me, and Madame Marguerite is really your wife.”
Henry smiled.
“There, Henry,” said Madame de Sauve, “you have given me one of those exasperating smiles which make me feel the cruel desire to scratch your eyes out, king though you are.”
“Then,” said Henry, “I seem to be imposing now by means of this pretended friendship, since there are moments when, king though I am, you desire to scratch out my eyes, because you believe that it exists!”
“Henry! Henry!” said Madame de Sauve, “I believe that God himself does not know what your thoughts are.”
“My sweetheart,” said Henry, “I think that Catharine first told you to love me, next, that your heart told you the same thing, and that when those two voices are speaking to you, you hear only your heart’s. Now here I am. I love you and love you with my whole heart, and that is the very reason why if ever I should have secrets I should not confide them to you — for fear of compromising you, of course — for the queen’s friendship is changeable, it is a mother-inlaw’s.”
This was not what Charlotte expected; it seemed to her that the thickening veil between her and her lover every time she tried to sound the depths of his bottomless heart was assuming the consistency of a wall, and was separating them from each other. So she felt the tears springing to her eyes as he made this answer, and as it struck ten o’clock just at that moment:
“Sire,” said Charlotte, “it is my bed-time; my duties call me very early tomorrow morning to the queen mother.”
“So you drive me away to-night, do you, sweetheart?”
“Henry, I am sad. As I am sad, you would find me tedious and you would not like me any more. You see that it is better for you to withdraw.”
“Very good,” said Henry, “I will withdraw if you insist upon it, only, ventre saint gris! you must at least grant me the favor of staying for your toilet.”
“But Queen Marguerite, sire! won’t you keep her waiting if you remain?”
“Charlotte,” replied Henry, gravely, “it was agreed between us that we should never mention the Queen of Navarre, but it seems to me that this evening we have talked about nothing but her.”
Madame de Sauve sighed; then she went and sat down before her toilet-table. Henry took a chair, pulled it along toward the one that served as his mistress’s seat, and setting one knee on it while he leaned on the back of the other, he said:
“Come, my good little Charlotte, let me see you make yourself beautiful, and beautiful for me whatever you said. Heavens! What things! What scent-bottles, what powders, what phials, what perfumery boxes!”
“It seems a good deal,” said Charlotte, with a sigh, “and yet it is too little, since with it all I have not as yet found the means of reigning exclusively over your majesty’s heart.”
“There!” exclaimed Henry; “let us not fall back on politics! What is that little fine delicate brush? Should it not be for painting the eyebrows of my Olympian Jupiter?”
“Yes, sire,” replied Madame de Sauve, “and you have guessed at the first shot!”
“And that pretty little ivory rake?”
“’Tis for parting the hair!”
“And that charming little silver box with a chased cover?”
“Oh, that is something Réné sent, sire; ’tis the famous opiate which he has been promising me so long — to make still sweeter the lips which your majesty has been good enough sometimes to find rather sweet.”
And Henry, as if to test what the charming woman said, touched his lips to the ones which she was looking at so attentively in the mirror. Now that they were returning to the field of coquetry, the cloud began to lift from the baroness’s brow. She took up the box which had thus been explained, and was just going to show Henry how the vermilion salve was used, when a sharp rap at the antechamber door startled the two lovers.
“Some one is knocking, madame,” said Dariole, thrusting her head through the opening of the portière.
“Go and find out who it is, and come back,” said Madame de Sauve. Henry and Charlotte looked at each other anxiously, and Henry was beginning to think of retiring to the oratory, in which he had already more than once taken refuge, when Dariole reappeared.
“Madame,” said she, “it is Maître Réné, the perfumer.”
At this name Henry frowned, and involuntarily bit his lips.
“Do you want me to refuse him admission?” asked Charlotte.
“No!” said Henry; “Maître Réné never does anything without having previously thought about it. If he comes to you, it is because he has a reason for coming.”
“In that case, do you wish to hide?”
“I shall be careful not to,” said Henry, “for Maître
