THE ANAGRAM.
The Rue Garnier sur l'Eau runs into the Rue Geoffroy Lasnier, and the
Rue des Barres lies at right angles to the former.
On the right, a short distance down the Rue de la Mortellerie, stands a
small house in the centre of a garden surrounded by a high wall, which
has but one entrance. Charles drew a key from his pocket and inserted
it into the lock. The gate was unbolted and immediately opened. Telling
Henry and the lackey bearing the torch to enter, the King closed and
locked the gate behind him.
Light came from one small window which Charles smilingly pointed out to
Henry.
"Sire, I do not understand," said the latter.
"But you will, Henriot."
The King of Navarre looked at Charles in amazement. His voice and his
face had assumed an expression of gentleness so different from usual
that Henry scarcely recognized him.
"Henriot," said the King, "I told you that when I left the Louvre I came
out of hell. When I enter here I am in paradise."
"Sire," said Henry, "I am happy that your Majesty has thought me worthy
of taking this trip to Heaven with you."
"The road thither is a narrow one," said the King, turning to a small
stairway, "but nothing can be compared to it."
"Who is the angel who guards the entrance to your Eden, sire?"
"You shall see," replied Charles IX.
Signing to Henry to follow him noiselessly, he opened first one door,
then another, and finally paused on a threshold.
"Look!" said he.
Henry approached and gazed on one of the most beautiful pictures he had
ever seen.
A young woman of eighteen or nineteen lay sleeping, her head resting on
the foot of a little bed in which a child was asleep. The woman held its
little feet close to her lips, while her long hair fell over her
shoulders like a flood of gold. It was like one of Albane's pictures of
the Virgin and the Child Jesus.
"Oh, sire," said the King of Navarre, "who is this lovely creature?"
"The angel of my paradise, Henriot, the only one who loves me."
Henry smiled.
"Yes," said Charles, "for she loved me before she knew I was King."
"And since she has known it?"
"Well, since she has known it," said Charles, with a smile which showed
that royalty sometimes weighed heavily on him, "since she has known it
she loves me still; so you may judge."
The King approached the woman softly and pressed a kiss as light as that
which a bee gives to a lily on her rosy cheek.
Yet, light as it was, she awakened at once.
"Charles!" she murmured, opening her eyes.
"You see," said the King, "she calls me Charles. The queen says 'sire'!"
"Oh!" cried the young woman, "you are not alone, my King."
"No, my sweet Marie, I wanted to bring you another king, happier than
myself because he has no crown; more unhappy than I because he has no
Marie Touchet. God makes compensation for everything."
"Sire, is it the King of Navarre?" asked Marie.
"Yes, my child; come here, Henriot." The King of Navarre drew near;
Charles took him by the hand.
"See this hand, Marie," said he, "it is the hand of a good brother and a
loyal friend. Were it not for this hand"--
"Well, sire?"
"Well, had it not been for this hand to-day, Marie, our child would have
no father."
Marie uttered a cry, fell on her knees, and seizing Henry's hand covered
it with kisses.
"Very good, Marie, very good," said Charles.
"What have you done to thank him, sire?"
"I have done for him what he did for me."
Henry looked at Charles in astonishment.
"Some day you will know what I mean, Henriot; meanwhile come here and
see." He approached the bed, on which the child still slept.
"Ah!" said he, "if this little fellow were in the Louvre instead of here
in this little house in the Rue des Barres, many things would be changed
for the present as well as for the future perhaps."[13]
"Sire," said Marie, "if your Majesty is willing, I prefer him to stay
here; he sleeps better."
"Let us not disturb his slumber, then," said the King; "it is so sweet
to sleep when one does not dream!"
"Well, sire," said Marie, pointing to a door opening out of the room.
"Yes, you are right, Marie," said Charles IX., "let us have supper."
"My well-beloved Charles," said Marie, "you will ask the king your
brother to excuse me, will you not?"
"Why?"
"For having dismissed our servants, sire," continued Marie, turning to
the King of Navarre; "you must know that Charles wants to be served by
me alone."
"_Ventre saint gris!_" said Henry, "I should think so!"
Both men entered the dining-room. The mother, anxious and careful, laid
a warm blanket over the little Charles, who, thanks to the sound sleep
of childhood, so envied by his father, had not wakened.
Marie rejoined them.
"There are only two covers!" said the King.
"Permit me," said Marie, "to serve your majesties."
"Now," said Charles, "this is where you cause me trouble, Henriot."
"How so, sire?"
"Did you not hear?"
"Forgive me, Charles, forgive me."
"Yes, I will forgive you. But sit here, near me, between us."
"I will obey," said Marie.
She brought a plate, sat down between the two kings, and served them.
"Is it not good, Henriot," said Charles, "to have one place in the world
in which one can eat and drink without needing any one to taste the
meats and wines beforehand?"
"Sire," said Henry, smiling, and by the smile replying to the constant
fear in his own mind, "believe me, I appreciate your happiness more than
any one."
"And tell her, Henriot, that in order for us to live happily, she must
not mingle in politics. Above all, she must not become acquainted with
my mother."
"Queen Catharine loves your Majesty so passionately that she would be
jealous of any other love," replied Henry, finding by a subterfuge the
means of avoiding the dangerous confidence of the King.
"Marie," said the latter, "I have brought you one of the finest and the
wittiest men I know. At court, you see, and this is saying a great deal,
he puts every one in the shade. I alone have clearly understood, not his
heart, perhaps, but his mind."
"Sire," said Henry, "I am sorry that in exaggerating the one as you do,
you mistrust the other."
"I exaggerate nothing, Henriot," said the King; "besides, you will be
known some day."
Then turning to the young woman:
"He makes delightful anagrams. Ask him to make one of your name. I will
answer that he will do it."
"Oh, what could you expect to find in the name of a poor girl like me?
What gentle thought could there be in the letters with which chance
spelled Marie Touchet?"
"Oh! the anagram from this name, sire," said Henry, "is so easy that
there is no great merit in finding it."
"Ah! ah! it is already found," said Charles. "You see--Marie."
Henry drew his tablets from the pocket of his doublet, tore out a paper,
and below the name _Marie Touchet_ wrote _Je charme tout_. Then he
handed the paper to the young woman.
"Truly," she cried, "it is impossible!"
"What has he found?" asked Charles.
"Sire, I dare not repeat it."
"Sire," said Henry, "in the name Marie Touchet there is, letter for
letter, by changing the 'i' into a 'j,' as is often done, _Je charme
tout_." (I charm all.)
"Yes," exclaimed Charles, "letter for letter. I want this to be your
motto, Marie, do you hear? Never was one better deserved. Thanks,
Henriot. Marie, I will give it to you written in diamonds."
The supper over, two o'clock struck from Notre-Dame.
"Now," said Charles, "in return for this compliment, Marie, you will
give the king an armchair, in which he can sleep until daybreak; but let
it be some distance from us, because he snores frightfully. Then if you
waken before I do, you will rouse me, for at six o'clock we have to be
at the Bastille. Good-night, Henriot. Make yourself as comfortable as
possible. But," he added, approaching the King of Navarre and laying his
hand on his shoulder, "for your life, Henry,--do you hear? for your
life,--do not leave here without me, especially to return to the
Louvre."
Henry had suspected too many things in what still remained unexplained
to him to disobey such advice. Charles IX. entered his room, and Henry,
the sturdy mountaineer, settled himself in an armchair, in which he soon
justified the precaution taken by his brother-in-law in keeping at a
distance.
At dawn he was awakened by Charles. As he had not undressed, it did not
take him long to finish his toilet. The King was more happy and smiling
than he ever was at the Louvre. The hours spent by him in that little
house in the Rue des Barres were his hours of sunshine.
Both men went out through the sleeping-room. The young woman was still
in bed. The child was asleep in its cradle. Both were smiling.
Charles looked at them for a moment with infinite tenderness.
Then turning to the King of Navarre:
"Henriot," said he, "if you ever hear what I did for you last night, or
if misfortune come to me, remember this child asleep in its cradle."
Then kissing both mother and child on the forehead, without giving Henry
time to question him:
"Good-by, my angels," said he, and went out.
Henry followed, deep in thought. The horses were waiting for them at the
Bastille, held by the gentlemen to whom Charles IX. had given the order.
Charles signed to Henry to mount, sprang into his own saddle, and riding
through the garden of the Arbalite, followed the outside highways.
"Where are we going?" asked Henry.
"We are going to see if the Duc d'Anjou returned for Madame de Condé
alone," replied Charles, "and if there is as much ambition as love in
his heart, which I greatly doubt."
Henry did not understand the answer, but followed Charles in silence.
They reached the Marais, and as from the shadow of the palisades they
could see all which at that time was called the Faubourg Saint Laurent,
Charles pointed out to Henry through the grayish mist of the morning
some men wrapped in great cloaks and wearing fur caps. They were on
horseback, and rode ahead of a wagon which was heavily laden. As they
drew near they became outlined more clearly, and one could see another
man in a long brown cloak, his face hidden by a French hat, riding and
talking with them.
"Ah! ah!" said Charles, smiling, "I thought so."
"Well, sire," said Henry, "if I am not mistaken, that rider in the brown
cloak is the Duc d'Anjou."
"Yes," said Charles IX. "Turn out a little, Henriot, I do not want him
to see us."
"But," asked Henry, "who are the men in gray cloaks with fur caps?"
"Those men," said Charles, "are Polish ambassadors, and in that wagon is
a crown. And now," said he, urging his horse to a gallop, and turning
into the road of the Porte du Temple, "come, Henriot, I have seen all
that I wanted to see."