“And consequently he will refuse to obey it?”
“I fear so.”
“And he will resist?”
“Probably.”
“Ah! the devil!” said Maurevel; “and in that case”—
“In what case?” said Catharine, not moving her eyes from him.
“Why, in case he resists, what is to be done?”
“What do you do when you are given an order from the King, that is, when you represent the King, and when there is any resistance, Monsieur de Maurevel?”
“Why, madame,” said the sbirro, “when I am honored with such an order, and when this order refers to a simple gentleman, I kill him.”
“I told you, monsieur,” said Catharine, “and I scarcely think that sufficient time has elapsed for you to have forgotten it, that the King of France recognizes no position in his kingdom, and that after him the greatest are simple gentlemen.”
Maurevel grew pale, for he was beginning to comprehend.
“Oh! oh!” he cried, “kill the King of Navarre?”
“Why, who is speaking of killing him? Where is the order to kill him? The King wishes him taken to the Bastille, and the order contains nothing more. If he lets himself be arrested, very good; but as he will not let himself be arrested, as he will resist, as he will endeavor to kill you”—
Maurevel grew paler.
“You will defend yourself,” continued Catharine. “One cannot ask a brave man like you to let himself be killed without defending himself; and in defending yourself, what can you expect? You must let come what may. You understand me, do you not?”
“Yes, madame; and yet”—
“Come, do you want me to write dead or alive after the words order to arrest?”
“I confess, madame, that that would do away with my scruples.”
“Well, it must be done, of course, since you do not think the order can be carried out without it.”
And Catharine shrugged her shoulders, unrolled the parchment with one hand, and wrote with the other: “dead or alive.”
“Now,” said she, “do you consider the order all right?”
“Yes, madame,” replied Maurevel; “but I beg your majesty to leave the carrying out of the entire affair to me.”
“What have I said that will interfere with it?”
“Your majesty told me to take a dozen men.”
“Yes, to make sure”—
“Well, I ask permission to take only six.”
“Why so?”
“Because, madame, if anything happens to the prince, as it probably will, it would be easy to excuse six men for having been afraid of losing the prisoner, but no one would excuse a dozen guards for not having let half of their number be killed before laying hands on royalty.”
“Fine royalty, in truth, which has no kingdom.”
“Madame,” said Maurevel, “it is not the kingdom which makes the king: it is birth.”
“Very well,” said Catharine; “do as you please. Only I must warn you that I do not wish you to leave the Louvre.”
“But, madame, to get my men together?”
“Have you not a sort of sergeant whom you can charge with this duty?”
“I have my lackey, who not only is a faithful fellow, but who has even occasionally aided me in this sort of thing.”
“Send for him, and confer with him. You know the chamber hung with the King’s arms, do you not? Well, your breakfast shall be served there; and from there you shall give your orders. The place will aid you to collect your wits in case they are scattered. Then when my son returns from the hunt, you are to go into my oratory, and wait until the time comes.”
“But how are we to get into the room? Probably the king suspects something, and he will shut himself up in it.”
“I have a duplicate key to every door,” said Catharine, “and the bolts have been removed from Henry’s room. Adieu, Monsieur de Maurevel, for a while. I will have you taken to the King’s armory. Ah! by the way! remember that the order of a King must be carried out before anything else. No excuse is admissible; a defeat, even a failure, would compromise the honor of the King. It is a serious matter.”
And Catharine, without giving Maurevel time to answer, called Monsieur de Nancey, the captain of the guards, and ordered him to conduct Maurevel to the king’s armory.
“My God!” exclaimed Maurevel as he followed his guide, “I have risen to the hierarchy of assassination; from a simple gentleman to a captain, from a captain to an admiral, from an admiral to a king without a crown. Who knows if I shall not some day be a king with a crown!”
Chapter 31.
The Hunt.
The outrider who had turned aside the boar and who had told the King that the animal had not left the place was not mistaken. Scarcely were the bloodhounds put on the trail before it plunged into the thickets, and from a cluster of thorn bushes drove out the boar which the outrider had recognized by its track. It was a recluse; that is, the strangest kind of animal.
It started straight ahead and crossed the road fifty feet from the King, followed only by the bloodhound which had driven it back. The first relay of dogs was at once let loose, twenty in number, which sprang after it.
Hunting was Charles’ chief passion. Scarcely had the animal crossed the road before he started after it, followed by the Duc d’Alençon and Henry, to whom a sign had indicated that he must not leave Charles.
The rest of the hunters followed the King.
At the time of which we are writing, the royal forests were far from being what they are today, great parks intersected by carriage roads. Then traffic was almost wanting. Kings had not yet conceived the idea of being merchants, and of dividing their woods into fellings, copses, and forests. The trees, planted, not by learned foresters, but by the hand of God, who threw the grain to the will of the winds, were not arranged in quincunxes, but grew as they pleased, as they do today in any virginal forest of America. In short, a forest in those days was a den of the wild boar, the stag, the wolf, and robbers; and a dozen paths starting from one point starred that of Bondy, surrounded by a circular road as the circle of a wheel surrounds its fellies.
To carry the comparison further, the nave would not be a bad representation of
