“you know that in public I hate you, for I am horribly jealous of you.”
“But in private?” asked Madame de Sauve.
“Oh! in private, not only do I forgive you, but more than that, I thank you.”
“Then your majesty will permit me”—
Marguerite held out her hand, the baroness kissed it respectfully, made a low courtesy and went out.
While Madame de Sauve ascended her stairway, bounding like a deer whose tether has been broken, Madame de Nevers was exchanging a few formal words with the queen, which gave time to the gentlemen who had accompanied her to retire.
“Gillonne,” cried Marguerite when the door was closed behind the last, “Gillonne, see that no one interrupts us.”
“Yes,” said the duchess, “for we have matters of grave importance to discuss.”
Taking a chair she seated herself without ceremony in the best place near the fire and in the sunlight, sure that no one would interrupt the pleasant intimacy between herself and the Queen of Navarre.
“Well,” said Marguerite, with a smile, “what about our famous slaughterer?”
“My dear queen,” said the duchess, “he is a mythological creature, upon my word. He is incomparable, so far as his mind is concerned, and never dries up. He makes witty remarks that would make a saint in her shrine die of laughing. In other respects he is the maddest heathen who ever walked in the skin of a Catholic! I dote on him! And you, what are you doing with your Apollo?”
“Alas!” said Marguerite with a sigh.
“Oh, how that ‘alas!’ frightens me, dear queen! Is the gentle La Mole too respectful or too sentimental? In that, I am forced to admit he would be exactly the opposite of his friend Coconnas.”
“Oh, no, he has his moments,” said Marguerite, “but this ‘alas!’ concerned only myself.”
“What does it mean, then?”
“It means, dear duchess, that I am terribly afraid I am actually in love.”
“Really?”
“On my honor!”
“Oh! so much the better! What a merry life we can lead!” cried Henriette. “To love a little is my dream; to love much, is yours. It is so sweet, dear and learned queen, to rest the mind by the heart, is it not? and to have the smile after the delirium. Ah, Marguerite, I have a feeling that we are going to have a glorious year!”
“Do you think so?” said the queen. “I, on the contrary, do not know how that may be; I see things through a veil. All these politics occupy me so much. By the way, do you know if your Annibal is as devoted to my brother as he seems to be? Find out for me. I must know.”
“He, devoted to anybody or anything! It is easy to see that you do not know him as I do. If he ever is devoted to anything it will be his ambition, and that is all. If your brother is a man to make great promises to him, well, he will be devoted to your brother; but let your brother, son of France that he is, be careful not to break the promises he makes him. If he does, my faith, look out for your brother!”
“Really?”
“It is just as I say. Truly, Marguerite, there are times when this tiger whom I have tamed frightens me. The other day I said to him, ‘Annibal, be careful, do not deceive me, for if you do!’— I said it, however, with my emerald eyes which prompted Ronsard’s lines:
“‘La Duchesse de Nevers,11 Aux yeux verts, Qui, sous leur paupière blonde Lancent sur nous plus d’éclairs Que ne font vingt Jupiters Dans les airs Lorsque la tempête gronde.’”
“Well?”
“Well, I supposed he would answer me: ‘I deceive you! I! never! etc., etc.’ But do you know what he did answer?”
“No.”
“Well, judge of the man! ‘And you,’ he replied, ‘if you deceive me, you take care too, for, princess that you are’— and as he said this he threatened me not only with his eyes, but with his slender pointed finger, with its nail cut like a steel lance, which he held before my nose. At that moment, my poor queen, I confess he looked so fierce that I trembled, and yet you know I am no coward.”
“He threatened you, Henriette, he dared?”
“Well, I had threatened him! For that matter he was right. So you see he is devoted up to a certain point, or rather to a very uncertain point.”
“In that case we shall see,” said Marguerite thoughtfully; “I will speak to La Mole. Have you nothing else to tell me?”
“Yes; something most interesting for which I came. But, the idea, you have told me more interesting things still. I have received news.”
“From Rome?”
“Yes, through a courier from my husband.”
“Ah! the Poland affair?”
“It is progressing beautifully, and probably in a day or two you will be rid of your brother of Anjou.”
“So the pope has ratified his election?”
“Yes, my dear.”
“And you never told me!” cried Marguerite. “Well, quick, quick, the details.”
“Oh, mercy, I have none except those I have given you. But wait, I will give you the letter from Monsieur de Nevers. Here it is. Oh, no, those are some verses from Annibal, atrocious ones too, my poor Marguerite. He can not write any other kind. But wait, here it is. No, it isn’t, that is a note of my own which I brought for you to have La Mole give him. Ah! at last, here it is.” And Madame de Nevers handed the letter to the queen.
Marguerite opened it hastily and read it; but it told nothing more than she had already learned from her friend.
“How did you receive this?” continued the queen.
“From a courier of my husband, who had orders to stop at the Hôtel de Guise before going to the Louvre, and to deliver this letter to me before delivering that of the King. I knew the importance my queen would attach to this news, and I had written to Monsieur de Nevers to act thus. He obeyed, you see; he is not like that monster of a Coconnas. Now there is no one in the whole of Paris, except the King, you, and I, who knows this news; except the man who followed our courier”—
“What man?”
“Oh! the horrid business! Imagine how tired, worn out, and dusty the wretched messenger was when he arrived! He rode seven days, day and night, without stopping an instant.”
“But the man you spoke of just now?”
“Wait a minute. Constantly followed by a wild-looking fellow who had relays like himself and who rode as far as he did for the four hundred leagues, the poor courier constantly
