“Yes,” said the queen, looking at the two Gondi, “I made a blunder.”

“A blunder of the gods,” replied Charles de Gondi.

“Gentlemen,” said Catherine, “if I go over openly to the Reformers I

shall become the slave of a party.”

“Madame,” said Chiverni, eagerly, “I approve entirely of your meaning.

You must use them, but not serve them.”

“Though your support does, undoubtedly, for the time being lie there,”

said Charles de Gondi, “we must not conceal from ourselves that success

and defeat are both equally perilous.”

“I know it,” said the queen; “a single false step would be a pretext on

which the Guises would seize at once to get rid of me.”

“The niece of a Pope, the mother of four Valois, a queen of France,

the widow of the most ardent persecutor of the Huguenots, an Italian

Catholic, the aunt of Leo X.,--can _she_ ally herself with the

Reformation?” asked Charles de Gondi.

“But,” said his brother Albert, “if she seconds the Guises does she not

play into the hands of a usurpation? We have to do with men who see a

crown to seize in the coming struggle between Catholicism and Reform. It

is possible to support the Reformers without abjuring.”

“Reflect, madame, that your family, which ought to have been wholly

devoted to the king of France, is at this moment the servant of the

king of Spain; and to-morrow it will be that of the Reformation if the

Reformation could make a king of the Duke of Florence.”

“I am certainly disposed to lend a hand, for a time, to the Huguenots,”

said Catherine, “if only to revenge myself on that soldier and that

priest and that woman!” As she spoke, she called attention with her

subtile Italian glance to the duke and cardinal, and then to the second

floor of the chateau on which were the apartments of her son and Mary

Stuart. “That trio has taken from my hands the reins of State, for which

I waited long while the old woman filled my place,” she said gloomily,

glancing toward Chenonceaux, the chateau she had lately exchanged

with Diane de Poitiers against that of Chaumont. “_Ma_,” she added in

Italian, “it seems that these reforming gentry in Geneva have not the

wit to address themselves to me; and, on my conscience, I cannot go to

them. Not one of you would dare to risk carrying them a message!”

She stamped her foot. “I did hope you would have met the cripple at

Ecouen--_he_ has sense,” she said to Chiverni.

“The Prince de Conde was there, madame,” said Chiverni, “but he could

not persuade the Connetable to join him. Monsieur de Montmorency wants

to overthrow the Guises, who have sent him into exile, but he will not

encourage heresy.”

“What will ever break these individual wills which are forever thwarting

royalty? God’s truth!” exclaimed the queen, “the great nobles must be

made to destroy each other, as Louis XI., the greatest of your kings,

did with those of his time. There are four or five parties now in this

kingdom, and the weakest of them is that of my children.”

“The Reformation is an _idea_,” said Charles de Gondi; “the parties that

Louis XI. crushed were moved by self-interests only.”

“Ideas are behind selfish interests,” replied Chiverni. “Under Louis XI.

the idea was the great Fiefs--”

“Make heresy an axe,” said Albert de Gondi, “and you will escape the

odium of executions.”

“Ah!” cried the queen, “but I am ignorant of the strength and also of

the plans of the Reformers; and I have no safe way of communicating with

them. If I were detected in any manoeuvre of that kind, either by

the queen, who watches me like an infant in a cradle, or by those two

jailers over there, I should be banished from France and sent back to

Florence with a terrible escort, commanded by Guise minions. Thank you,

no, my daughter-in-law!--but I wish _you_ the fate of being a prisoner

in your own home, that you may know what you have made me suffer.”

“Their plans!” exclaimed Chiverni; “the duke and the cardinal know what

they are, but those two foxes will not divulge them. If you could induce

them to do so, madame, I would sacrifice myself for your sake and come

to an understanding with the Prince de Conde.”

“How much of the Guises’ own plans have they been forced to reveal to

you?” asked the queen, with a glance at the two brothers.

“Monsieur de Vieilleville and Monsieur de Saint-Andre have just received

fresh orders, the nature of which is concealed from us; but I think

the duke is intending to concentrate his best troops on the left bank.

Within a few days you will all be moved to Amboise. The duke has been

studying the position from this terrace and decides that Blois is not a

propitious spot for his secret schemes. What can he want better?” added

Chiverni, pointing to the precipices which surrounded the chateau.

“There is no place in the world where the court is more secure from

attack than it is here.”

“Abdicate or reign,” said Albert in a low voice to the queen, who stood

motionless and thoughtful.

A terrible expression of inward rage passed over the fine ivory face of

Catherine de’ Medici, who was not yet forty years old, though she had

lived for twenty-six years at the court of France,--without power, she,

who from the moment of her arrival intended to play a leading part!

Then, in her native language, the language of Dante, these terrible

words came slowly from her lips:--

“Nothing so long as that son lives!--His little wife bewitches him,” she

added after a pause.

Catherine’s exclamation was inspired by a prophecy which had been made

to her a few days earlier at the chateau de Chaumont on the opposite

bank of the river; where she had been taken by Ruggieri, her astrologer,

to obtain information as to the lives of her four children from a

celebrated female seer, secretly brought there by Nostradamus (chief

among the physicians of that great sixteenth century) who practised,

like the Ruggieri, the Cardans, Paracelsus, and others, the occult

sciences. This woman, whose name and life have eluded history, foretold

one year as the length of Francois’s reign.

“Give me your opinion on all this,” said Catherine to Chiverni.

“We shall have a battle,” replied the prudent courtier. “The king of

Navarre--”

“Oh! say the queen,” interrupted Catherine.

“True, the queen,” said Chiverni, smiling, “the queen has given the

Prince de Conde as leader to the Reformers, and he, in his position

of younger son, can venture all; consequently the cardinal talks of

ordering him here.”

“If he comes,” cried the queen, “I am saved!”

Thus the leaders of the great movement of the Reformation in France were

justified in hoping for an ally in Catherine de’ Medici.

“There is one thing to be considered,” said the queen. “The Bourbons

may fool the Huguenots and the Sieurs Calvin and de Beze may fool the

Bourbons, but are we strong enough to fool Huguenots, Bourbons, and

Guises? In presence of three such enemies it is allowable to feel one’s

pulse.”

“But they have not the king,” said Albert de Gondi. “You will always

triumph, having the king on your side.”

“_Maladetta Maria_!” muttered Catherine between her teeth.

“The Lorrains are, even now, endeavoring to turn the burghers against

you,” remarked Birago.

V. THE COURT

The hope of gaining the crown was not the result of a premeditated plan

in the minds of the restless Guises. Nothing warranted such a hope

or such a plan. Circumstances alone inspired their audacity. The two

cardinals and the two Balafres were four ambitious minds, superior in

talents to all the other politicians who surrounded them. This family

was never really brought low except by Henri IV.; a factionist himself,

trained in the great school of which Catherine and the Guises were

masters,--by whose lessons he had profited but too well.

At this moment the two brothers, the duke and cardinal, were the

arbiters of the greatest revolution attempted in Europe since that

of Henry VIII. in England, which was the direct consequence of the

invention of printing. Adversaries to the Reformation, they meant to

stifle it, power being in their hands. But their opponent, Calvin,

though less famous than Luther, was far the stronger of the two. Calvin

saw government where Luther saw dogma only. While the stout beer-drinker

and amorous German fought with the devil and flung an inkbottle at his

head, the man from Picardy, a sickly celibate, made plans of campaign,

directed battles, armed princes, and roused whole peoples by sowing

republican doctrines in the hearts of the burghers--recouping his

continual defeats in the field by fresh progress in the mind of the

nations.

The Cardinal de Lorraine and the Duc de Guise, like Philip the Second

and the Duke of Alba, knew where and when the monarchy was threatened,

and how close the alliance ought to be between Catholicism and Royalty.

Charles the Fifth, drunk with the wine of Charlemagne’s cup, believing

too blindly in the strength of his monarchy, and confident of sharing

the world with Suleiman, did not at first feel the blow at his head;

but no sooner had Cardinal Granvelle made him aware of the extent of

the wound than he abdicated. The Guises had but one scheme,--that

of annihilating heresy at a single blow. This blow they were now to

attempt, for the first time, to strike at Amboise; failing there they

tried it again, twelve years later, at the Saint-Bartholomew,--on the

latter occasion in conjunction with Catherine de’ Medici, enlightened by

that time by the flames of a twelve years’ war, enlightened above all

by the significant word “republic,” uttered later and printed by the

writers of the Reformation, but already foreseen (as we have said

before) by Lecamus, that type of the Parisian bourgeoisie.

The two Guises, now on the point of striking a murderous blow at the

heart of the French nobility, in order to separate it once for all from

a religious party whose triumph would be its ruin, still stood together

on the terrace, concerting as to the best means of revealing their

coup-d’Etat to the king, while Catherine was talking with her

counsellors.

“Jeanne d’Albret knew what she was about when she declared herself

protectress of the Huguenots! She has a battering-ram in the

Reformation, and she knows how to use it,” said the duke, who fathomed

the deep designs of the Queen of Navarre, one of the great minds of the

century.

“Theodore de Beze is now at Nerac,” remarked the cardinal, “after first

going to Geneva to take Calvin’s orders.”

“What men these burghers know how to find!” exclaimed the duke.

“Ah! we have none on our side of the quality of La Renaudie!” cried the

cardinal. “He is a true Catiline.”

“Such men always act for their own interests,” replied the duke. “Didn’t

I fathom La Renaudie? I loaded him with favors; I helped him to escape

when he was condemned by the parliament of Bourgogne; I brought him back

from exile by obtaining a revision of his sentence; I intended to do far

more for him; and all the while he was plotting a diabolical conspiracy

against us! That rascal has united the Protestants of Germany with the

heretics of France by reconciling the differences that grew up

between the dogmas of Luther and those of Calvin. He has brought the

discontented great seigneurs into the party of the Reformation without

obliging them to abjure Catholicism openly. For the last year he has

had thirty captains under him! He is everywhere at once,--at Lyon,

in Languedoc, at Nantes! It was he who drew up those minutes of

a consultation which were hawked about all Germany, in which the

theologians declared that force might be resorted to in order to

withdraw the king from our rule and tutelage; the paper is now being

circulated from town to town. Wherever we look for him we never find

him! And yet I have never done him anything but good! It comes to this,

that we must now either thrash him like a dog, or try to throw him a

golden bridge by which he will cross into our camp.”

“Bretagne, Languedoc, in fact the whole kingdom is in league to deal us

a mortal blow,” said the cardinal. “After the fete was over yesterday I

spent the rest of the night in reading the reports sent me by the monks;

in which I found that the only persons who have compromised themselves

are poor gentlemen, artisans, as to whom it doesn’t signify whether you

hang them or let them live. The Colignys and Condes do not show their

hand as yet, though they hold the threads of the whole conspiracy.”

“Yes,” replied the duke, “and, therefore, as soon as that lawyer

Avenelles sold the secret of the plot, I told Braguelonne to let the

conspirators carry it out. They have no suspicion that we know it;

they are so sure of surprising us that the leaders may possibly show

themselves then. My advice is to allow ourselves to be beaten for

forty-eight hours.”

“Half an hour would be too much,” cried the cardinal, alarmed.

“So this is your courage, is it?” retorted the Balafre.

The cardinal, quite unmoved, replied: “Whether the Prince de Conde is

compromised or not, if we are certain that he is the leader, we should

strike him down at once and secure tranquillity. We need judges rather

than soldiers for this business--and judges are never lacking. Victory

is always more certain in the parliament than on the field, and it costs

less.”

“I consent, willingly,” said the duke; “but do you think the Prince

de Conde is powerful enough to inspire, himself alone, the audacity

of those who are making this first attack upon us? Isn’t there, behind

him--”

“The king of Navarre,” said the cardinal.

“Pooh! a fool who speaks to me cap in hand!” replied the duke. “The

coquetries of that Florentine woman seem to blind your eyes--”

“Oh! as for that,” exclaimed the priest, “if I do play the gallant with

her it is only that I may read to the bottom of her heart.”

“She has no heart,” said the duke, sharply; “she is even more ambitious

than you and I.”

“You are a brave soldier,” said the cardinal; “but, believe me, I

distance you in this matter. I have had Catherine watched by Mary Stuart

long before you even suspected her. She has no more religion than my

shoe; if she is not the soul of this plot it is not for want of will.

But we shall now be able to test her on the scene itself, and find out

then how she stands by us. Up to this time, however, I am certain she

has held no communication whatever with the heretics.”

“Well, it is time now to reveal the whole plot to the king, and to the

queen-mother, who, you say, knows nothing of it,--that is the sole proof

of her innocence; perhaps the conspirators have waited till the last

moment, expecting to dazzle her with the probabilities of success. La

Renaudie must soon discover by my arrangements that we are warned. Last

night Nemours was to follow detachments of the Reformers who are pouring

in along the cross-roads, and the conspirators will be forced to attack

us at Amboise, which place I intend to let them enter. Here,” added the

duke, pointing to three sides of the rock on which the chateau de Blois

is built; “we should have an assault without any result; the Huguenots

could come and go at will. Blois is an open hall with four entrances;

whereas Amboise is a sack with a single mouth.”

“I shall not leave Catherine’s side,” said the cardinal.

“We have made a blunder,” remarked the duke, who was playing with his

dagger, tossing it into the air and catching it by the hilt. “We ought

to have treated her as we did the Reformers,--given her complete freedom

of action and caught her in the act.”

The cardinal looked at his brother for an instant and shook his head.

“What does Pardaillan want?” said the duke, observing the approach of

the young nobleman who was later to become celebrated by his encounter

with La Renaudie, in which they both lost their lives.

“Monseigneur, a man sent by the queen’s furrier is at the gate, and says

he has an ermine suit to convey to her. Am I to let him enter?”

“Ah! yes,--the ermine coat she spoke of yesterday,” returned the

cardinal; “let the shop-fellow pass; she will want the garment for the

voyage down the Loire.”

“How did he get here without being stopped until he reached the gate?”

asked the duke.

“I do not know,” replied Pardaillan.

“I’ll ask to see him when he is with the queen,” thought the Balafre.

“Let him wait in the _salle des gardes_,” he said aloud. “Is he young,

Pardaillan?”

“Yes, monseigneur; he says he is a son of Lecamus the furrier.”

“Lecamus is a good Catholic,” remarked the cardinal, who, like his

brother the duke, was endowed with Caesar’s memory. “The rector of

Saint-Pierre-aux-Boeufs relies upon him; he is the provost of that

quarter.”

“Nevertheless,” said the duke, “make the son talk with the captain of

the Scotch guard,” laying an emphasis on the verb which was readily

understood. “Ambroise is in the chateau; he can tell us whether the

fellow is really the son of Lecamus, for the old man did him good

service in times past. Send for Ambroise Pare.”

It was at this moment that Queen Catherine went, unattended, toward the

two brothers, who hastened to meet her with their accustomed show of

respect, in which the Italian princess detected constant irony.

“Messieurs,” she said, “will you deign to inform me of what is about

to take place? Is the widow of your former master of less importance in

your esteem than the Sieurs Vieilleville, Birago, and Chiverni?”

“Madame,” replied the cardinal, in a tone of gallantry, “our duty as

men, taking precedence of that of statecraft, forbids us to alarm the

fair sex by false reports. But this morning there is indeed good reason

to confer with you on the affairs of the country. You must excuse

my brother for having already given orders to the gentlemen you

mention,--orders which were purely military, and therefore did not

concern you; the matters of real importance are still to be decided. If

you are willing, we will now go the _lever_ of the king and queen; it is

nearly time.”

“But what is all this, Monsieur le duc?” cried Catherine, pretending

alarm. “Is anything the matter?”

“The Reformation, madame, is no longer a mere heresy; it is a party,

which has taken arms and is coming here to snatch the king away from

you.”

Catherine, the cardinal, the duke, and the three gentlemen made their

way to the staircase through the gallery, which was crowded with

courtiers who, being off duty, no longer had the right of entrance to

the royal apartments, and stood in two hedges on either side. Gondi, who

watched them while the queen-mother talked with the Lorraine princes,

whispered in her ear, in good Tuscan, two words which afterwards became

proverbs,--words which are the keynote to one aspect of her regal

character: “Odiate e aspettate”--“Hate and wait.”

Pardaillan, who had gone to order the officer of the guard at the gate

of the chateau to let the clerk of the queen’s furrier enter, found

Christophe open-mouthed before the portal, staring at the facade built

by the good king Louis XII., on which there was at that time a

much greater number of grotesque carvings than we see there

to-day,--grotesque, that is to say, if we may judge by those that remain

to us. For instance, persons curious in such matters may remark the

figurine of a woman carved on the capital of one of the portal columns,

with her robe caught up to show to a stout monk crouching in the capital

of the corresponding column “that which Brunelle showed to Marphise”;

while above this portal stood, at the time of which we write, the statue

of Louis XII. Several of the window-casings of this facade, carved in

the same style, and now, unfortunately, destroyed, amused, or seemed

to amuse Christophe, on whom the arquebusiers of the guard were raining

jests.

“He would like to live there,” said the sub-corporal, playing with the

cartridges of his weapon, which were prepared for use in the shape of

little sugar-loaves, and slung to the baldricks of the men.

“Hey, Parisian!” said another; “you never saw the like of that, did

you?”

“He recognizes the good King Louis XII.,” said a third.

Christophe pretended not to hear, and tried to exaggerate his amazement,

the result being that his silly attitude and his behavior before the

guard proved an excellent passport to the eyes of Pardaillan.

“The queen has not yet risen,” said the young captain; “come and wait

for her in the _salle des gardes_.”

Christophe followed Pardaillan rather slowly. On the way he stopped to

admire the pretty gallery in the form of an arcade, where the courtiers

of Louis XII. awaited the reception-hour when it rained, and where, at

the present moment, were several seigneurs attached to the Guises; for

the staircase (so well preserved to the present day) which led to their

apartments is at the end of this gallery in a tower, the architecture of

which commends itself to the admiration of intelligent beholders.

“Well, well! did you come here to study the carving of images?” cried

Pardaillan, as Christophe stopped before the charming sculptures of the

balustrade which unites, or, if you prefer it, separates the columns of

each arcade.

Christophe followed the young officer to the grand staircase, not

without a glance of ecstasy at the semi-Moorish tower. The weather

was fine, and the court was crowded with staff-officers and seigneurs,

talking together in little groups,--their dazzling uniforms and

court-dresses brightening a spot which the marvels of architecture, then

fresh and new, had already made so brilliant.

“Come in here,” said Pardaillan, making Lecamus a sign to follow him

through a carved wooden door leading to the second floor, which the

door-keeper opened on recognizing the young officer.

It is easy to imagine Christophe’s amazement as he entered the great

_salle des gardes_, then so vast that military necessity has since

divided it by a partition into two chambers. It occupied on the second

floor (that of the king), as did the corresponding hall on the first

floor (that of the queen-mother), one third of the whole front of the

chateau facing the courtyard; and it was lighted by two windows to right

and two to left of the tower in which the famous staircase winds up. The

young captain went to the door of the royal chamber, which opened upon

this vast hall, and told one of the two pages on duty to inform Madame

Dayelles, the queen’s bedchamber woman, that the furrier was in the hall

with her surcoat.

On a sign from Pardaillan Christophe placed himself near an officer,

who was seated on a stool at the corner of a fireplace as large as his

father’s whole shop, which was at the end of the great hall, opposite

to a precisely similar fireplace at the other end. While talking to this

officer, a lieutenant, he contrived to interest him with an account of

the stagnation of trade. Christophe seemed so thoroughly a shopkeeper

that the officer imparted that conviction to the captain of the Scotch

guard, who came in from the courtyard to question Lecamus, all the while

watching him covertly and narrowly.

However much Christophe Lecamus had been warned, it was impossible for

him to really apprehend the cold ferocity of the interests between which

Chaudieu had slipped him. To an observer of this scene, who had known

the secrets of it as the historian understands it in the light of

to-day, there was indeed cause to tremble for this young man,--the hope

of two families,--thrust between those powerful and pitiless machines,

Catherine and the Guises. But do courageous beings, as a rule, measure

the full extent of their dangers? By the way in which the port of Blois,

the chateau, and the town were guarded, Christophe was prepared to find

spies and traps everywhere; and he therefore resolved to conceal

the importance of his mission and the tension of his mind under the

empty-headed and shopkeeping appearance with which he presented himself

to the eyes of young Pardaillan, the officer of the guard, and the

Scottish captain.

The agitation which, in a royal castle, always attends the hour of the

king’s rising, was beginning to show itself. The great lords, whose

horses, pages, or grooms remained in the outer courtyard,--for no

one, except the king and the queens, had the right to enter the inner

courtyard on horseback,--were mounting by groups the magnificent

staircase, and filling by degrees the vast hall, the beams of which are

now stripped of the decorations that then adorned them. Miserable little

red tiles have replaced the ingenious mosaics of the floors; and the

thick walls, then draped with the crown tapestries and glowing with all

the arts of that unique period of the splendors of humanity, are now

denuded and whitewashed! Reformers and Catholics were pressing in to

hear the news and to watch faces, quite as much as to pay their duty

to the king. Francois II.’s excessive love for Mary Stuart, to which

neither the queen-mother nor the Guises made any opposition, and the

politic compliance of Mary Stuart herself, deprived the king of all

regal power. At seventeen years of age he knew nothing of royalty but

its pleasures, or of marriage beyond the indulgence of first passion. As

a matter of fact, all present paid their court to Queen Mary and to her

uncles, the Cardinal de Lorraine and the Duc de Guise, rather than to

the king.

This stir took place before Christophe, who watched the arrival of each

new personage with natural eagerness. A magnificent portiere, on either

side of which stood two pages and two soldiers of the Scotch guard, then

on duty, showed him the entrance to the royal chamber,--the chamber so

fatal to the son of the present Duc de Guise, the second Balafre, who

fell at the foot of the bed now occupied by Mary Stuart and Francois

II. The queen’s maids of honor surrounded the fireplace opposite to that

where Christophe was being “talked with” by the captain of the guard.

This second fireplace was considered the _chimney of honor_. It was

built in the thick wall of the Salle de Conseil, between the door of the

royal chamber and that of the council-hall, so that the maids of honor

and the lords in waiting who had the right to be there were on the

direct passage of the king and queen. The courtiers were certain on this

occasion of seeing Catherine, for her maids of honor, dressed like

the rest of the court ladies, in black, came up the staircase from

the queen-mother’s apartment, and took their places, marshalled by the

Comtesse de Fiesque, on the side toward the council-hall and opposite to

the maids of honor of the young queen, led by the Duchesse de Guise,

who occupied the other side of the fireplace on the side of the royal

bedroom. The courtiers left an open space between the ranks of these

young ladies (who all belonged to the first families of the kingdom),

which none but the greatest lords had the right to enter. The Comtesse

de Fiesque and the Duchesse de Guise were, in virtue of their office,

seated in the midst of these noble maids, who were all standing.

The first gentleman who approached the dangerous ranks was the Duc

d’Orleans, the king’s brother, who had come down from his apartment on

the third floor, accompanied by Monsieur de Cypierre, his governor. This

young prince, destined before the end of the year to reign under the

title of Charles IX., was only ten years old and extremely timid.

The Duc d’Anjou and the Duc d’Alencon, his younger brothers, also

the Princesse Marguerite, afterwards the wife of Henri IV. (la Reine

Margot), were too young to come to court, and were therefore kept by

their mother in her own apartments. The Duc d’Orleans, richly dressed

after the fashion of the times, in silken trunk-hose, a close-fitting

jacket of cloth of gold embroidered with black flowers, and a little

mantle of embroidered velvet, all black, for he still wore mourning for

his father, bowed to the two ladies of honor and took his place beside

his mother’s maids. Already full of antipathy for the adherents of the

house of Guise, he replied coldly to the remarks of the duchess and

leaned his arm on the back of the chair of the Comtesse de Fiesque. His

governor, Monsieur de Cypierre, one of the noblest characters of that

day, stood beside him like a shield. Amyot (afterwards Bishop of Auxerre

and translator of Plutarch), in the simple soutane of an abbe, also

accompanied the young prince, being his tutor, as he was of the two

other princes, whose affection became so profitable to him.

Between the “chimney of honor” and the other chimney at the end of

the hall, around which were grouped the guards, their captain, a few

courtiers, and Christophe carrying his box of furs, the Chancellor

Olivier, protector and predecessor of l’Hopital, in the robes which the

chancellors of France have always worn, was walking up and down with the

Cardinal de Tournon, who had recently returned from Rome. The pair were

exchanging a few whispered sentences in the midst of great attention

from the lords of the court, massed against the wall which separated the

_salle des gardes_ from the royal bedroom, like a living tapestry backed

by the rich tapestry of art crowded by a thousand personages. In spite

of the present grave events, the court presented the appearance of all

courts in all lands, at all epochs, and in the midst of the greatest

dangers. The courtiers talked of trivial matters, thinking of serious

ones; they jested as they studied faces, and apparently concerned

themselves about love and the marriage of rich heiresses amid the

bloodiest catastrophes.

“What did you think of yesterday’s fete?” asked Bourdeilles, seigneur of

Brantome, approaching Mademoiselle de Piennes, one of the queen-mother’s

maids of honor.

“Messieurs du Baif et du Bellay were inspired with delightful ideas,”

she replied, indicating the organizers of the fete, who were standing

near. “I thought it all in the worst taste,” she added in a low voice.

“You had no part to play in it, I think?” remarked Mademoiselle de

Lewiston from the opposite ranks of Queen Mary’s maids.

“What are you reading there, madame?” asked Amyot of the Comtesse de

Fiesque.

“‘Amadis de Gaule,’ by the Seigneur des Essarts, commissary in ordinary

to the king’s artillery,” she replied.

“A charming work,” remarked the beautiful girl who was afterwards so

celebrated under the name of Fosseuse when she was lady of honor to

Queen Marguerite of Navarre.

“The style is a novelty in form,” said Amyot. “Do you accept such

barbarisms?” he added, addressing Brantome.

“They please the ladies, you know,” said Brantome, crossing over to the

Duchesse de Guise, who held the “Decamerone” in her hand. “Some of the

women of your house must appear in the book, madame,” he said. “It is

a pity that the Sieur Boccaccio did not live in our day; he would have

known plenty of ladies to swell his volume--”

“How shrewd that Monsieur de Brantome is,” said the beautiful

Mademoiselle de Limueil to the Comtesse de Fiesque; “he came to us

first, but he means to remain in the Guise quarters.”

“Hush!” said Madame de Fiesque glancing at the beautiful Limueil.

“Attend to what concerns yourself.”

The young girl turned her eyes to the door. She was expecting Sardini,

a noble Italian, with whom the queen-mother, her relative, married her

after an “accident” which happened in the dressing-room of Catherine de’

Medici herself; but which the young lady won the honor of having a queen

as midwife.

“By the holy Alipantin! Mademoiselle Davila seems to me prettier and

prettier every morning,” said Monsieur de Robertet, secretary of State,

bowing to the ladies of the queen-mother.

The arrival of the secretary of State made no commotion whatever, though

his office was precisely what that of a minister is in these days.

“If you really think so, monsieur,” said the beauty, “lend me the squib

which was written against the Messieurs de Guise; I know it was lent to

you.”

“It is no longer in my possession,” replied the secretary, turning round

to bow to the Duchesse de Guise.

“I have it,” said the Comte de Grammont to Mademoiselle Davila, “but I

will give it you on one condition only.”

“Condition! fie!” exclaimed Madame de Fiesque.

“You don’t know what it is,” replied Grammont.

“Oh! it is easy to guess,” remarked la Limueil.

The Italian custom of calling ladies, as peasants call their wives,

“_la_ Such-a-one” was then the fashion at the court of France.

“You are mistaken,” said the count, hastily, “the matter is simply to

give a letter from my cousin de Jarnac to one of the maids on the other

side, Mademoiselle de Matha.”

“You must not compromise my young ladies,” said the Comtesse de Fiesque.

“I will deliver the letter myself.--Do you know what is happening in

Flanders?” she continued, turning to the Cardinal de Tournon. “It seems

that Monsieur d’Egmont is given to surprises.”

“He and the Prince of Orange,” remarked Cypierre, with a significant

shrug of his shoulders.

“The Duke of Alba and Cardinal Granvelle are going there, are they not,

monsieur?” said Amyot to the Cardinal de Tournon, who remained standing,

gloomy and anxious between the opposing groups after his conversation

with the chancellor.

“Happily we are at peace; we need only conquer heresy on the stage,”

remarked the young Duc d’Orleans, alluding to a part he had played the

night before,--that of a knight subduing a hydra which bore upon its

foreheads the word “Reformation.”

Catherine de’ Medici, agreeing in this with her daughter-in-law, had

allowed a theatre to be made of the great hall (afterwards arranged for

the Parliament of Blois), which, as we have already said, connected the

chateau of Francois I. with that of Louis XII.

The cardinal made no answer to Amyot’s question, but resumed his walk

through the centre of the hall, talking in low tones with Monsieur

de Robertet and the chancellor. Many persons are ignorant of the

difficulties which secretaries of State (subsequently called ministers)

met with at the first establishment of their office, and how much

trouble the kings of France had in creating it. At this epoch a

secretary of State like Robertet was purely and simply a writer; he

counted for almost nothing among the princes and grandees who decided

the affairs of State. His functions were little more than those of the

superintendent of finances, the chancellor, and the keeper of the seals.

The kings granted seats at the council by letters-patent to those of

their subjects whose advice seemed to them useful in the management

of public affairs. Entrance to the council was given in this way to a

president of the Chamber of Parliament, to a bishop, or to an untitled

favorite. Once admitted to the council, the subject strengthened his

position there by obtaining various crown offices on which devolved such

prerogatives as the sword of a Constable, the government of provinces,

the grand-mastership of artillery, the baton of a marshal, a leading

rank in the army, or the admiralty, or a captaincy of the galleys, often

some office at court, like that of grand-master of the household, now

held, as we have already said, by the Duc de Guise.

“Do you think that the Duc de Nemours will marry Francoise?” said Madame

de Guise to the tutor of the Duc d’Orleans.

“Ah, madame,” he replied, “I know nothing but Latin.”

This answer made all who were within hearing of it smile. The seduction

of Francoise de Rohan by the Duc de Nemours was the topic of all

conversations; but, as the duke was cousin to Francois II., and doubly

allied to the house of Valois through his mother, the Guises regarded

him more as the seduced than the seducer. Nevertheless, the power of the

house of Rohan was such that the Duc de Nemours was obliged, after the

death of Francois II., to leave France on consequence of suits brought

against him by the Rohans; which suits the Guises settled. The duke’s

marriage with the Duchesse de Guise after Poltrot’s assassination of

her husband in 1563, may explain the question which she put to Amyot,

by revealing the rivalry which must have existed between Mademoiselle de

Rohan and the duchess.

“Do see that group of the discontented over there?” said the Comte de

Grammont, motioning toward the Messieurs de Coligny, the Cardinal de

Chatillon, Danville, Thore, Moret, and several other seigneurs suspected

of tampering with the Reformation, who were standing between two windows

on the other side of the fireplace.

“The Huguenots are bestirring themselves,” said Cypierre. “We know that

Theodore de Beze has gone to Nerac to induce the Queen of Navarre to

declare for the Reformers--by abjuring publicly,” he added, looking at

the _bailli_ of Orleans, who held the office of chancellor to the Queen

of Navarre, and was watching the court attentively.

“She will do it!” said the _bailli_, dryly.

This personage, the Orleans Jacques Coeur, one of the richest burghers

of the day, was named Groslot, and had charge of Jeanne d’Albret’s

business with the court of France.

“Do you really think so?” said the chancellor of France, appreciating

the full importance of Groslot’s declaration.

“Are you not aware,” said the burgher, “that the Queen of Navarre has

nothing of the woman in her except sex? She is wholly for things virile;

her powerful mind turns to the great affairs of State; her heart is

invincible under adversity.”

“Monsieur le cardinal,” whispered the Chancellor Olivier to Monsieur

de Tournon, who had overheard Groslot, “what do you think of that

audacity?”

“The Queen of Navarre did well in choosing for her chancellor a man from

whom the house of Lorraine borrows money, and who offers his house to

the king, if his Majesty visits Orleans,” replied the cardinal.

The chancellor and the cardinal looked at each other, without venturing

to further communicate their thoughts; but Robertet expressed them, for

he thought it necessary to show more devotion to the Guises than these

great personages, inasmuch as he was smaller than they.

“It is a great misfortune that the house of Navarre, instead of abjuring

the religion of its fathers, does not abjure the spirit of vengeance

and rebellion which the Connetable de Bourbon breathed into it,” he said

aloud. “We shall see the quarrels of the Armagnacs and the Bourguignons

revive in our day.”

“No,” said Groslot, “there’s another Louis XI. in the Cardinal de

Lorraine.”

“And also in Queen Catherine,” replied Robertet.

At this moment Madame Dayelle, the favorite bedchamber woman of Queen

Mary Stuart, crossed the hall, and went toward the royal chamber. Her

passage caused a general commotion.

“We shall soon enter,” said Madame de Fisque.

“I don’t think so,” replied the Duchesse de Guise. “Their Majesties will

come out; a grand council is to be held.”

VI. THE LITTLE LEVER OF FRANCOIS II.

Madame Dayelle glided into the royal chamber after scratching on the

door,--a respectful custom, invented by Catherine de’ Medici and adopted

by the court of France.

“How is the weather, my dear Dayelle?” said Queen Mary, showing her

fresh young face out of the bed, and shaking the curtains.

“Ah! madame--”

“What’s the matter, my Dayelle? You look as if the archers of the guard

were after you.”

“Oh! madame, is the king still asleep?”

“Yes.”

“We are to leave the chateau; Monsieur le cardinal requests me to tell

you so, and to ask you to make the king agree to it.

“Do you know why, my good Dayelle?”

“The Reformers want to seize you and carry you off.”

“Ah! that new religion does not leave me a minute’s peace! I dreamed

last night that I was in prison,--I, who will some day unite the crowns

of the three noblest kingdoms in the world!”

“Therefore it could only be a dream, madame.”

“Carry me off! well, ‘twould be rather pleasant; but on account of

religion, and by heretics--oh, that would be horrid.”

The queen sprang from the bed and placed herself in a large arm-chair

of red velvet before the fireplace, after Dayelle had given her a

dressing-gown of black velvet, which she fastened loosely round her

waist by a silken cord. Dayelle lit the fire, for the mornings are cool

on the banks of the Loire in the month of May.

“My uncles must have received some news during the night?” said the

queen, inquiringly to Dayelle, whom she treated with great familiarity.

“Messieurs de Guise have been walking together from early morning on the

terrace, so as not to be overheard by any one; and there they received

messengers, who came in hot haste from all the different points of the

kingdom where the Reformers are stirring. Madame la reine mere was there

too, with her Italians, hoping she would be consulted; but no, she was

not admitted to the council.”

“She must have been furious.”

“All the more because she was so angry yesterday,” replied Dayelle.

“They say that when she saw your Majesty appear in that beautiful dress

of woven gold, with the charming veil of tan-colored crape, she was none

too pleased--”

“Leave us, my good Dayelle, the king is waking up. Let no one, even

those who have the little _entrees_, disturb us; an affair of State is

in hand, and my uncles will not disturb us.”

“Why! my dear Mary, already out of bed? Is it daylight?” said the young

king, waking up.

“My dear darling, while we were asleep the wicked waked, and now they

are forcing us to leave this delightful place.”

“What makes you think of wicked people, my treasure? I am sure we

enjoyed the prettiest fete in the world last night--if it were not for

the Latin words those gentlemen will put into our French.”

“Ah!” said Mary, “your language is really in very good taste, and

Rabelais exhibits it finely.”

“You are such a learned woman! I am so vexed that I can’t sing your

praises in verse. If I were not the king, I would take my brother’s

tutor, Amyot, and let him make me as accomplished as Charles.”

“You need not envy your brother, who writes verses and shows them to me,

asking for mine in return. You are the best of the four, and will make

as good a king as you are the dearest of lovers. Perhaps that is why

your mother does not like you! But never mind! I, dear heart, will love

you for all the world.”

“I have no great merit in loving such a perfect queen,” said the little

king. “I don’t know what prevented me from kissing you before the whole

court when you danced the _branle_ with the torches last night! I saw

plainly that all the other women were mere servants compared to you, my

beautiful Mary.”

“It may be only prose you speak, but it is ravishing speech, dear

darling, for it is love that says those words. And you--you know well,

my beloved, that were you only a poor little page, I should love you as

much as I do now. And yet, there is nothing so sweet as to whisper to

one’s self: ‘My lover is king!’”

“Oh! the pretty arm! Why must we dress ourselves? I love to pass my

fingers through your silky hair and tangle its blond curls. Ah ca!

sweet one, don’t let your women kiss that pretty throat and those white

shoulders any more; don’t allow it, I say. It is too much that the fogs

of Scotland ever touched them!”

“Won’t you come with me to see my dear country? The Scotch love you;

there are no rebellions _there_!”

“Who rebels in this our kingdom?” said Francois, crossing his

dressing-gown and taking Mary Stuart on his knee.

“Oh! ‘tis all very charming, I know that,” she said, withdrawing her

cheek from the king; “but it is your business to reign, if you please,

my sweet sire.”

“Why talk of reigning? This morning I wish--”

“Why say _wish_ when you have only to will all? That’s not the speech of

a king, nor that of a lover.--But no more of love just now; let us drop

it! We have business more important to speak of.”

“Oh!” cried the king, “it is long since we have had any business. Is it

amusing?”

“No,” said Mary, “not at all; we are to move from Blois.”

“I’ll wager, darling, you have seen your uncles, who manage so well that

I, at seventeen years of age, am no better than a _roi faineant_. In

fact, I don’t know why I have attended any of the councils since the

first. They could manage matters just as well by putting the crown in my

chair; I see only through their eyes, and am forced to consent to things

blindly.”

“Oh! monsieur,” said the queen, rising from the king’s knee with a

little air of indignation, “you said you would never worry me again on

this subject, and that my uncles used the royal power only for the good

of your people. Your people!--they are so nice! They would gobble you

up like a strawberry if you tried to rule them yourself. You want

a warrior, a rough master with mailed hands; whereas you--you are a

darling whom I love as you are; whom I should never love otherwise,--do

you hear me, monsieur?” she added, kissing the forehead of the lad, who

seemed inclined to rebel at her speech, but softened at her kisses.

“Oh! how I wish they were not your uncles!” cried Francois II. “I

particularly dislike the cardinal; and when he puts on his wheedling air

and his submissive manner and says to me, bowing: ‘Sire, the honor of

the crown and the faith of your fathers forbid your Majesty to--this and

that,’ I am sure he is working only for his cursed house of Lorraine.”

“Oh, how well you mimicked him!” cried the queen. “But why don’t you

make the Guises inform you of what is going on, so that when you attain

your grand majority you may know how to reign yourself? I am your wife,

and your honor is mine. Trust me! we will reign together, my darling;

but it won’t be a bed of roses for us until the day comes when we have

our own wills. There is nothing so difficult for a king as to reign. Am

I a queen, for example? Don’t you know that your mother returns me evil

for all the good my uncles do to raise the splendor of your throne? Hey!

what difference between them! My uncles are great princes, nephews of

Charlemagne, filled with ardor and ready to die for you; whereas this

daughter of a doctor or a shopkeeper, queen of France by accident,

scolds like a burgher-woman who can’t manage her own household. She is

discontented because she can’t set every one by the ears; and then she

looks at me with a sour, pale face, and says from her pinched lips: ‘My

daughter, you are a queen; I am only the second woman in the kingdom’

(she is really furious, you know, my darling), ‘but if I were in

your place I should not wear crimson velvet while all the court is in

mourning; neither should I appear in public with my own hair and no

jewels, because what is not becoming in a simple lady is still less

becoming in a queen. Also I should not dance myself, I should content

myself with seeing others dance.’--that is what she says to me--”

“Heavens!” cried the king, “I think I hear her coming. If she were to

know--”

“Oh, how you tremble before her. She worries you. Only say so, and

we will send her away. Faith, she’s Florentine and we can’t help her

tricking you, but when it comes to worrying--”

“For Heaven’s sake, Mary, hold your tongue!” said Francois, frightened

and also pleased; “I don’t want you to lose her good-will.”

“Don’t be afraid that she will ever break with _me_, who will some day

wear the three noblest crowns in the world, my dearest little king,”

cried Mary Stuart. “Though she hates me for a thousand reasons she is

always caressing me in the hope of turning me against my uncles.”

“Hates you!”

“Yes, my angel; and if I had not proofs of that feeling such as women

only understand, for they alone know its malignity, I would forgive her

perpetual opposition to our dear love, my darling. Is it my fault that

your father could not endure Mademoiselle Medici or that his son loves

me? The truth is, she hates me so much that if you had not put

yourself into a rage, we should each have had our separate chamber at

Saint-Germain, and also here. She pretended it was the custom of the

kings and queens of France. Custom, indeed! it was your father’s custom,

and that is easily understood. As for your grandfather, Francois, the

good man set up the custom for the convenience of his loves. Therefore,

I say, take care. And if we have to leave this place, be sure that we

are not separated.”

“Leave Blois! Mary, what do you mean? I don’t wish to leave this

beautiful chateau, where we can see the Loire and the country all round

us, with a town at our feet and all these pretty gardens. If I go

away it will be to Italy with you, to see St. Peter’s, and Raffaelle’s

pictures.”

“And the orange-trees? Oh! my darling king, if you knew the longing your

Mary has to ramble among the orange-groves in fruit and flower!”

“Let us go, then!” cried the king.

“Go!” exclaimed the grand-master as he entered the room. “Yes, sire,

you must leave Blois. Pardon my boldness in entering your chamber; but

circumstances are stronger than etiquette, and I come to entreat you to

hold a council.”

Finding themselves thus surprised, Mary and Francois hastily separated,

and on their faces was the same expression of offended royal majesty.

“You are too much of a grand-master, Monsieur de Guise,” said the king,

though controlling his anger.

“The devil take lovers,” murmured the cardinal in Catherine’s ear.

“My son,” said the queen-mother, appearing behind the cardinal; “it is a

matter concerning your safety and that of your kingdom.”

“Heresy wakes while you have slept, sire,” said the cardinal.

“Withdraw into the hall,” cried the little king, “and then we will hold

a council.”

“Madame,” said the grand-master to the young queen; “the son of your

furrier has brought some furs, which was just in time for the journey,

for it is probable we shall sail down the Loire. But,” he added, turning

to the queen-mother, “he also wishes to speak to you, madame. While the

king dresses, you and Madame la reine had better see and dismiss him, so

that we may not be delayed and harassed by this trifle.”

“Certainly,” said Catherine, thinking to herself, “If he expects to get

rid of me by any such trick he little knows me.”

The cardinal and the duke withdrew, leaving the two queens and the king

alone together. As they crossed the _salle des gardes_ to enter the

council-chamber, the grand-master told the usher to bring the queen’s

furrier to him. When Christophe saw the usher approaching from the

farther end of the great hall, he took him, on account of his uniform,

for some great personage, and his heart sank within him. But that

sensation, natural as it was at the approach of the critical moment,

grew terrible when the usher, whose movement had attracted the eyes of

all that brilliant assembly upon Christophe, his homely face and his

bundles, said to him:--

“Messeigneurs the Cardinal de Lorraine and the Grand-master wish to

speak to you in the council chamber.”

“Can I have been betrayed?” thought the helpless ambassador of the

Reformers.

Christophe followed the usher with lowered eyes, which he did not raise

till he stood in the great council-chamber, the size of which is almost

equal to that of the _salle des gardes_. The two Lorrain princes were

there alone, standing before the magnificent fireplace, which backs

against that in the _salle des gardes_ around which the ladies of the

two queens were grouped.

“You have come from Paris; which route did you take?” said the cardinal.

“I came by water, monseigneur,” replied the reformer.

“How did you enter Blois?” asked the grand-master.

“By the docks, monseigneur.”

“Did no one question you?” exclaimed the duke, who was watching the

young man closely.

“No, monseigneur. To the first soldier who looked as if he meant to

stop me I said I came on duty to the two queens, to whom my father was

furrier.”

“What is happening in Paris?” asked the cardinal.

“They are still looking for the murderer of the President Minard.”

“Are you not the son of my surgeon’s greatest friend?” said the Duc de

Guise, misled by the candor of Christophe’s expression after his first

alarm had passed away.

“Yes, monseigneur.”

The Grand-master turned aside, abruptly raised the portiere which

concealed the double door of the council-chamber, and showed his face to

the whole assembly, among whom he was searching for the king’s surgeon.

Ambroise Pare, standing in a corner, caught a glance which the duke

cast upon him, and immediately advanced. Ambroise, who at this time

was inclined to the reformed religion, eventually adopted it; but the

friendship of the Guises and that of the kings of France guaranteed

him against the evils which overtook his co-religionists. The duke,

who considered himself under obligations for life to Ambroise Pare, had

lately caused him to be appointed chief-surgeon to the king.

“What is it, monseigneur?” said Ambroise. “Is the king ill? I think it

likely.”

“Likely? Why?”

“The queen is too pretty,” replied the surgeon.

“Ah!” exclaimed the duke in astonishment. “However, that is not the

matter now,” he added after a pause. “Ambroise, I want you to see a

friend of yours.” So saying he drew him to the door of the council-room,

and showed him Christophe.

“Ha! true, monseigneur,” cried the surgeon, extending his hand to the

young furrier. “How is your father, my lad?”

“Very well, Maitre Ambroise,” replied Christophe.

“What are you doing at court?” asked the surgeon. “It is not your

business to carry parcels; your father intends you for the law. Do you

want the protection of these two great princes to make you a solicitor?”

“Indeed I do!” said Christophe; “but I am here only in the interests of

my father; and if you could intercede for us, please do so,” he added

in a piteous tone; “and ask the Grand Master for an order to pay certain

sums that are due to my father, for he is at his wit’s end just now for

money.”

The cardinal and the duke glanced at each other and seemed satisfied.

“Now leave us,” said the duke to the surgeon, making him a sign. “And

you my friend,” turning to Christophe; “do your errand quickly and

return to Paris. My secretary will give you a pass, for it is not safe,

_mordieu_, to be travelling on the high-roads!”

Neither of the brothers formed the slightest suspicion of the grave

importance of Christophe’s errand, convinced, as they now were, that he

was really the son of the good Catholic Lecamus, the court furrier, sent

to collect payment for their wares.

“Take him close to the door of the queen’s chamber; she will probably

ask for him soon,” said the cardinal to the surgeon, motioning to

Christophe.

While the son of the furrier was undergoing this brief examination in

the council-chamber, the king, leaving the queen in company with her

mother-in-law, had passed into his dressing-room, which was entered

through another small room next to the chamber.

Standing in the wide recess of an immense window, Catherine looked at

the gardens, her mind a prey to painful thoughts. She saw that in all

probability one of the greatest captains of the age would be foisted

that very day into the place and power of her son, the king of France,

under the formidable title of lieutenant-general of the kingdom. Before

this peril she stood alone, without power of action, without defence.

She might have been likened to a phantom, as she stood there in her

mourning garments (which she had not quitted since the death of Henri

II.) so motionless was her pallid face in the grasp of her bitter

reflections. Her black eyes floated in that species of indecision for

which great statesmen are so often blamed, though it comes from the vast

extent of the glance with which they embrace all difficulties,--setting

one against the other, and adding up, as it were, all chances before

deciding on a course. Her ears rang, her blood tingled, and yet she

stood there calm and dignified, all the while measuring in her soul the

depths of the political abyss which lay before her, like the natural

depths which rolled away at her feet. This day was the second of those

terrible days (that of the arrest of the Vidame of Chartres being the

first) which she was destined to meet in so great numbers throughout her

regal life; it also witnessed her last blunder in the school of power.

Though the sceptre seemed escaping from her hands, she wished to seize

it; and she did seize it by a flash of that power of will which was

never relaxed by either the disdain of her father-in-law, Francois I.,

and his court,--where, in spite of her rank of dauphiness, she had been

of no account,--or the constant repulses of her husband, Henri II., and

the terrible opposition of her rival, Diane de Poitiers. A man would

never have fathomed this thwarted queen; but the fair-haired Mary--so

subtle, so clever, so girlish, and already so well-trained--examined her

out of the corners of her eyes as she hummed an Italian air and assumed

a careless countenance. Without being able to guess the storms of

repressed ambition which sent the dew of a cold sweat to the forehead of

the Florentine, the pretty Scotch girl, with her wilful, piquant face,

knew very well that the advancement of her uncle the Duc de Guise to the

lieutenant-generalship of the kingdom was filling the queen-mother with

inward rage. Nothing amused her more than to watch her mother-in-law,

in whom she saw only an intriguing woman of low birth, always ready to

avenge herself. The face of the one was grave and gloomy, and somewhat

terrible, by reason of the livid tones which transform the skin of

Italian women to yellow ivory by daylight, though it recovers its

dazzling brilliancy under candlelight; the face of the other was fair

and fresh and gay. At sixteen, Mary Stuart’s skin had that exquisite

blond whiteness which made her beauty so celebrated. Her fresh and

piquant face, with its pure lines, shone with the roguish mischief of

childhood, expressed in the regular eyebrows, the vivacious eyes, and

the archness of the pretty mouth. Already she displayed those feline

graces which nothing, not even captivity nor the sight of her dreadful

scaffold, could lessen. The two queens--one at the dawn, the other in

the midsummer of life--presented at this moment the utmost contrast.

Catherine was an imposing queen, an impenetrable widow, without other

passion than that of power. Mary was a light-hearted, careless

bride, making playthings of her triple crowns. One foreboded great

evils,--foreseeing the assassination of the Guises as the only means of

suppressing enemies who were resolved to rise above the Throne and the

Parliament; foreseeing also the bloodshed of a long and bitter struggle;

while the other little anticipated her own judicial murder. A sudden and

strange reflection calmed the mind of the Italian.

“That sorceress and Ruggiero both declare this reign is coming to an

end; my difficulties will not last long,” she thought.

And so, strangely enough, an occult science forgotten in our day--that

of astrology--supported Catherine at this moment, as it did, in fact,

throughout her life; for, as she witnessed the minute fulfilment of the

prophecies of those who practised the art, her belief in it steadily

increased.

“You are very gloomy, madame,” said Mary Stuart, taking from the hands

of her waiting-woman, Dayelle, a little cap and placing the point of it

on the parting of her hair, while two wings of rich lace surrounded the

tufts of blond curls which clustered on her temples.

The pencil of many painters have so frequently represented this

head-dress that it is thought to have belonged exclusively to Mary Queen

of Scots; whereas it was really invented by Catherine de’ Medici, when

she put on mourning for Henri II. But she never knew how to wear it

with the grace of her daughter-in-law, to whom it was becoming. This

annoyance was not the least among the many which the queen-mother

cherished against the young queen.

“Is the queen reproving me?” said Catherine, turning to Mary.

“I owe you all respect, and should not dare to do so,” said the Scottish

queen, maliciously, glancing at Dayelle.

Placed between the rival queens, the favorite waiting-woman stood rigid

as an andiron; a smile of comprehension might have cost her her life.

“Can I be as gay as you, after losing the late king, and now beholding

my son’s kingdom about to burst into flames?”

“Public affairs do not concern women,” said Mary Stuart. “Besides, my

uncles are there.”

These words were, under the circumstances, like so many poisoned arrows.

“Let us look at our furs, madame,” replied the Italian, sarcastically;

“that will employ us on our legitimate female affairs while your uncles

decide those of the kingdom.”

“Oh! but we will go the Council, madame; we shall be more useful than

you think.”

“We!” said Catherine, with an air of astonishment. “But I do not

understand Latin, myself.”

“You think me very learned,” cried Mary Stuart, laughing, “but I assure

you, madame, I study only to reach the level of the Medici, and learn

how to _cure_ the wounds of the kingdom.”

Catherine was silenced by this sharp thrust, which referred to the

origin of the Medici, who were descended, some said, from a doctor

of medicine, others from a rich druggist. She made no direct answer.

Dayelle colored as her mistress looked at her, asking for the applause

that even queens demand from their inferiors if there are no other

spectators.

“Your charming speeches, madame, will unfortunately cure the wounds of

neither Church nor State,” said Catherine at last, with her calm and

cold dignity. “The science of my fathers in that direction gave them

thrones; whereas if you continue to trifle in the midst of danger you

are liable to lose yours.”

It was at this moment that Ambroise Pare, the chief surgeon, scratched

softly on the door, and Madame Dayelle, opening it, admitted Christophe.

VII. A DRAMA IN A SURCOAT

The young reformer intended to study Catherine’s face, all the while

affecting a natural embarrassment at finding himself in such a place;

but his proceedings were much hastened by the eagerness with which the

younger queen darted to the cartons to see her surcoat.

“Madame,” said Christophe, addressing Catherine.

He turned his back on the other queen and on Dayelle, instantly

profiting by the attention the two women were eager to bestow upon the

furs to play a bold stroke.

“What do you want of me?” said Catherine giving him a searching look.

Christophe had put the treaty proposed by the Prince de Conde, the plan

of the Reformers, and the detail of their forces in his bosom between

his shirt and his cloth jacket, folding them, however, within the bill

which Catherine owed to the furrier.

“Madame,” he said, “my father is in horrible need of money, and if you

will deign to cast your eyes over your bill,” here he unfolded the paper

and put the treaty on the top of it, “you will see that your Majesty

owes him six thousand crowns. Have the goodness to take pity on us. See,

madame!” and he held the treaty out to her. “Read it; the account dates

from the time the late king came to the throne.”

Catherine was bewildered by the preamble of the treaty which met her

eye, but she did not lose her head. She folded the paper quickly,

admiring the audacity and presence of mind of the youth, and feeling

sure that after performing such a masterly stroke he would not fail to

understand her. She therefore tapped him on the head with the folded

paper, saying:--

“It is very clumsy of you, my little friend, to present your bill before

the furs. Learn to know women. You must never ask us to pay until the

moment when we are satisfied.”

“Is that traditional?” said the young queen, turning to her

mother-in-law, who made no reply.

“Ah, mesdames, pray excuse my father,” said Christophe. “If he had not

had such need of money you would not have had your furs at all. The

country is in arms, and there are so many dangers to run in getting here

that nothing but our great distress would have brought me. No one but me

was willing to risk them.”

“The lad is new to his business,” said Mary Stuart, smiling.

It may not be useless, for the understanding of this trifling, but very

important scene, to remark that a surcoat was, as the name implies (_sur

cotte_), a species of close-fitting spencer which women wore over their

bodies and down to their thighs, defining the figure. This garment

protected the back, chest, and throat from cold. These surcoats were

lined with fur, a band of which, wide or narrow as the case might be,

bordered the outer material. Mary Stuart, as she tried the garment on,

looked at herself in a large Venetian mirror to see the effect behind,

thus leaving her mother-in-law an opportunity to examine the papers, the

bulk of which might have excited the young queen’s suspicions had she

noticed it.

“Never tell women of the dangers you have run when you have come out of

them safe and sound,” she said, turning to show herself to Christophe.

“Ah! madame, I have your bill, too,” he said, looking at her with

well-played simplicity.

The young queen eyed him, but did not take the paper; and she noticed,

though without at the moment drawing any conclusions, that he had taken

her bill from his pocket, whereas he had carried Queen Catherine’s

in his bosom. Neither did she find in the lad’s eyes that glance of

admiration which her presence invariably excited in all beholders. But

she was so engrossed by her surcoat that, for the moment, she did not

ask herself the meaning of such indifference.

“Take the bill, Dayelle,” she said to her waiting-woman; “give it to

Monsieur de Versailles (Lomenie) and tell him from me to pay it.”

“Oh! madame,” said Christophe, “if you do not ask the king or

monseigneur the grand-master to sign me an order your gracious word will

have no effect.”

“You are rather more eager than becomes a subject, my friend,” said Mary

Stuart. “Do you not believe my royal word?”

The king now appeared, in silk stockings and trunk-hose (the breeches

of that period), but without his doublet and mantle; he had, however, a

rich loose coat of velvet edged with minever.

“Who is the wretch who dares to doubt your word?” he said, overhearing,

in spite of his distance, his wife’s last words.

The door of the dressing-room was hidden by the royal bed. This room

was afterwards called “the old cabinet,” to distinguish it from the fine

cabinet of pictures which Henri III. constructed at the farther end of

the same suite of rooms, next to the hall of the States-general. It was

in the old cabinet that Henri III. hid the murderers when he sent for

the Duc de Guise, while he himself remained hidden in the new cabinet

during the murder, only emerging in time to see the overbearing subject

for whom there were no longer prisons, tribunals, judges, nor even laws,

draw his last breath. Were it not for these terrible circumstances the

historian of to-day could hardly trace the former occupation of these

cabinets, now filled with soldiers. A quartermaster writes to his

mistress on the very spot where the pensive Catherine once decided on

her course between the parties.

“Come with me, my friend,” said the queen-mother, “and I will see that

you are paid. Commerce must live, and money is its backbone.”

“Go, my lad,” cried the young queen, laughing; “my august mother knows

more than I do about commerce.”

Catherine was about to leave the room without replying to this last

taunt; but she remembered that her indifference to it might provoke

suspicion, and she answered hastily:--

“But you, my dear, understand the business of love.”

Then she descended to her own apartments.

“Put away these furs, Dayelle, and let us go to the Council, monsieur,”

said Mary to the young king, enchanted with the opportunity of deciding

in the absence of the queen-mother so important a question as the

lieutenant-generalship of the kingdom.

Mary Stuart took the king’s arm. Dayelle went out before them,

whispering to the pages; one of whom (it was young Teligny, who

afterwards perished so miserably during the Saint-Bartholomew) cried

out:--

“The king!”

Hearing the words, the two soldiers of the guard presented arms, and the

two pages went forward to the door of the Council-room through the lane

of courtiers and that of the maids of honor of the two queens. All the

members of the Council then grouped themselves about the door of their

chamber, which was not very far from the door to the staircase. The

grand-master, the cardinal, and the chancellor advanced to meet the

young sovereign, who smiled to several of the maids of honor and replied

to the remarks of a few courtiers more privileged than the rest. But

the queen, evidently impatient, drew Francois II. as quickly as possible

toward the Council-chamber. When the sound of arquebuses, dropping

heavily on the floor, had announced the entrance of the couple, the

pages replaced their caps upon their heads, and the private talk among

the courtiers on the gravity of the matters now about to be discussed

began again.

“They sent Chiverni to fetch the Connetable, but he has not come,” said

one.

“There is not a single prince of the blood present,” said another.

“The chancellor and Monsieur de Tournon looked anxious,” remarked a

third.

“The grand-master sent word to the keeper of the seals to be sure not

to miss this Council; therefore you may be certain they will issue

letters-patent.”

“Why does the queen-mother stay in her own apartments at such a time?”

“They’ll cut out plenty of work for us,” remarked Groslot to Cardinal de

Chatillon.

In short, everybody had a word to say. Some went and came, in and out of

the great hall; others hovered about the maids of honor of both queens,

as if it might be possible to catch a few words through a wall three

feet thick or through the double doors draped on each side with heavy

curtains.

Seated at the upper end of a long table covered with blue velvet, which

stood in the middle of the room, the king, near to whom the young

queen was seated in an arm-chair, waited for his mother. Robertet, the

secretary, was mending pens. The two cardinals, the grand-master, the

chancellor, the keeper of the seals, and all the rest of the council

looked at the little king, wondering why he did not give them the usual

order to sit down.

The two Lorrain princes attributed the queen-mother’s absence to some

trick of their niece. Incited presently by a significant glance, the

audacious cardinal said to his Majesty:--

“Is it the king’s good pleasure to begin the council without waiting for

Madame la reine-mere?”

Francois II., without daring to answer directly, said: “Messieurs, be

seated.”

The cardinal then explained succinctly the dangers of the situation.

This great political character, who showed extraordinary ability under

these pressing circumstances, led up to the question of the lieutenancy

of the kingdom in the midst of the deepest silence. The young king

doubtless felt the tyranny that was being exercised over him; he knew

that his mother had a deep sense of the rights of the Crown and was

fully aware of the danger that threatened his power; he therefore

replied to a positive question addressed to him by the cardinal by

saying:--

“We will wait for the queen, my mother.”

Suddenly enlightened by the queen-mother’s delay, Mary Stuart recalled,

in a flash of thought, three circumstances which now struck her vividly;

first, the bulk of the papers presented to her mother-in-law, which she

had noticed, absorbed as she was,--for a woman who seems to see nothing

is often a lynx; next, the place where Christophe had carried them to

keep them separate from hers: “Why so?” she thought to herself; and

thirdly, she remembered the cold, indifferent glance of the young man,

which she suddenly attributed to the hatred of the Reformers to a niece

of the Guises. A voice cried to her, “He may have been an emissary of

the Huguenots!” Obeying, like all excitable natures, her first impulse,

she exclaimed:--

“I will go and fetch my mother myself!”

Then she left the room hurriedly, ran down the staircase, to the

amazement of the courtiers and the ladies of honor, entered her

mother-in-law’s apartments, crossed the guard-room, opened the door of

the chamber with the caution of a thief, glided like a shadow over the

carpet, saw no one, and bethought her that she should surely surprise

the queen-mother in that magnificent dressing-room which comes between

the bedroom and the oratory. The arrangement of this oratory, to which

the manners of that period gave a role in private life like that of the

boudoirs of our day, can still be traced.

By an almost inexplicable chance, when we consider the state of

dilapidation into which the Crown has allowed the chateau of Blois to

fall, the admirable woodwork of Catherine’s cabinet still exists; and

in those delicately carved panels, persons interested in such things

may still see traces of Italian splendor, and discover the secret

hiding-places employed by the queen-mother. An exact description

of these curious arrangements is necessary in order to give a clear

understanding of what was now to happen. The woodwork of the oratory

then consisted of about a hundred and eighty oblong panels, one hundred

of which still exist, all presenting arabesques of different designs,

evidently suggested by the most beautiful arabesques of Italy. The wood

is live-oak. The red tones, seen through the layer of whitewash put

on to avert cholera (useless precaution!), shows very plainly that the

ground of the panels was formerly gilt. Certain portions of the design,

visible where the wash has fallen away, seem to show that they once

detached themselves from the gilded ground in colors, either blue, or

red, or green. The multitude of these panels shows an evident intention

to foil a search; but even if this could be doubted, the concierge of

the chateau, while devoting the memory of Catherine to the execration of

the humanity of our day, shows at the base of these panels and close to

the floor a rather heavy foot-board, which can be lifted, and beneath

which still remain the ingenious springs which move the panels. By

pressing a knob thus hidden, the queen was able to open certain panels

known to her alone, behind which, sunk in the wall, were hiding-places,

oblong like the panels, and more or less deep. It is difficult, even in

these days of dilapidation, for the best-trained eye to detect which of

those panels is thus hinged; but when the eye was distracted by colors

and gilding, cleverly used to conceal the joints, we can readily

conceive that to find one or two such panels among two hundred was

almost an impossible thing.

At the moment when Mary Stuart laid her hand on the somewhat complicated

lock of the door of this oratory, the queen-mother, who had just become

convinced of the greatness of the Prince de Conde’s plans, had touched

the spring hidden beneath the foot-board, and one of the mysterious

panels had turned over on its hinges. Catherine was in the act of

lifting the papers from the table to hide them, intending after that to

secure the safety of the devoted messenger who had brought them to her,

when, hearing the sudden opening of the door, she at once knew that none

but Queen Mary herself would dare thus to enter without announcement.

“You are lost!” she said to Christophe, perceiving that she could no

longer put away the papers, nor close with sufficient rapidity the open

panel, the secret of which was now betrayed.

Christophe answered her with a glance that was sublime.

“_Povero mio_!” said Catherine, before she looked at her

daughter-in-law. “Treason, madame! I hold the traitors at last,” she

cried. “Send for the duke and the cardinal; and see that that man,”

pointing to Christophe, “does not escape.”

In an instant the able woman had seen the necessity of sacrificing the

poor youth. She could not hide him; it was impossible to save him. Eight

days earlier it might have been done; but the Guises now knew of the

plot; they must already possess the lists she held in her hand, and were

evidently drawing the Reformers into a trap. Thus, rejoiced to find in

these adversaries the very spirit she desired them to have, her policy

now led her to make a merit of the discovery of their plot. These

horrible calculations were made during the rapid moment while the young

queen was opening the door. Mary Stuart stood dumb for an instant; the

gay look left her eyes, which took on the acuteness that suspicion

gives to the eyes of all, and which, in hers, became terrible from

the suddenness of the change. She glanced from Christophe to the

queen-mother and from the queen-mother back to Christophe,--her face

expressing malignant doubt. Then she seized a bell, at the sound of

which one of the queen-mother’s maids of honor came running in.

“Mademoiselle du Rouet, send for the captain of the guard,” said Mary

Stuart to the maid of honor, contrary to all etiquette, which was

necessarily violated under the circumstances.

While the young queen gave this order, Catherine looked intently at

Christophe, as if saying to him, “Courage!”

The Reformer understood, and replied by another glance, which seemed to

say, “Sacrifice me, as _they_ have sacrificed me!”

“Rely on me,” said Catherine by a gesture. Then she absorbed herself in

the documents as her daughter-in-law turned to him.

“You belong to the Reformed religion?” inquired Mary Stuart of

Christophe.

“Yes, madame,” he answered.

“I was not mistaken,” she murmured as she again noticed in the eyes

of the young Reformer the same cold glance in which dislike was hidden

beneath an expression of humility.

Pardaillan suddenly appeared, sent by the two Lorrain princes and by the

king to escort the queens. The captain of the guard called for by Mary

Stuart followed the young officer, who was devoted to the Guises.

“Go and tell the king and the grand-master and the cardinal, from me, to

come here at once, and say that I should not take the liberty of sending

for them if something of the utmost importance had not occurred. Go,

Pardaillan.--As for you, Lewiston, keep guard over that traitor of a

Reformer,” she said to the Scotchman in his mother-tongue, pointing to

Christophe.

The young queen and queen-mother maintained a total silence until the

arrival of the king and princes. The moments that elapsed were terrible.

Mary Stuart had betrayed to her mother-in-law, in its fullest extent,

the part her uncles were inducing her to play; her constant and habitual

distrust and espionage were now revealed, and her young conscience told

her how dishonoring to a great queen was the work that she was doing.

Catherine, on the other hand, had yielded out of fear; she was still

afraid of being rightly understood, and she trembled for her future.

Both women, one ashamed and angry, the other filled with hatred and yet

calm, went to the embrasure of the window and leaned against the

casing, one to right, the other to left, silent; but their feelings were

expressed in such speaking glances that they averted their eyes and,

with mutual artfulness, gazed through the window at the sky. These two

great and superior women had, at this crisis, no greater art of

behavior than the vulgarest of their sex. Perhaps it is always thus

when circumstances arise which overwhelm the human being. There is,

inevitably, a moment when genius itself feels its littleness in presence

of great catastrophes.

As for Christophe, he was like a man in the act of rolling down a

precipice. Lewiston, the Scotch captain, listened to this silence,

watching the son of the furrier and the two queens with soldierly

curiosity. The entrance of the king and Mary Stuart’s two uncles put an

end to the painful situation.

VIII. MARTYRDOM

The cardinal went straight to the queen-mother.

“I hold the threads of the conspiracy of the heretics,” said Catherine.

“They have sent me this treaty and these documents by the hands of that

child,” she added.

During the time that Catherine was explaining matters to the cardinal,

Queen Mary whispered a few words to the grand-master.

“What is all this about?” asked the young king, who was left alone in

the midst of the violent clash of interests.

“The proofs of what I was telling to your Majesty have not been long in

reaching us,” said the cardinal, who had grasped the papers.

The Duc de Guise drew his brother aside without caring that he

interrupted him, and said in his ear, “This makes me lieutenant-general

without opposition.”

A shrewd glance was the cardinal’s only answer; showing his brother that

he fully understood the advantages to be gained from Catherine’s false

position.

“Who sent you here?” said the duke to Christophe.

“Chaudieu, the minister,” he replied.

“Young man, you lie!” said the soldier, sharply; “it was the Prince de

Conde.”

“The Prince de Conde, monseigneur!” replied Christophe, with a puzzled

look. “I never met him. I am studying law with Monsieur de Thou; I

am his secretary, and he does not know that I belong to the Reformed

religion. I yielded only to the entreaties of the minister.”

“Enough!” exclaimed the cardinal. “Call Monsieur de Robertet,” he said

to Lewiston, “for this young scamp is slyer than an old statesman; he

has managed to deceive my brother, and me too; an hour ago I would have

given him the sacrament without confession.”

“You are not a child, _morbleu_!” cried the duke, “and we’ll treat you

as a man.”

“The heretics have attempted to beguile your august mother,” said the

cardinal, addressing the king, and trying to draw him apart to win him

over to their ends.

“Alas!” said the queen-mother to her son, assuming a reproachful look

and stopping the king at the moment when the cardinal was leading him

into the oratory to subject him to his dangerous eloquence, “you see the

result of the situation in which I am; they think me irritated by the

little influence that I have in public affairs,--I, the mother of four

princes of the house of Valois!”

The young king listened attentively. Mary Stuart, seeing the frown upon

his brow, took his arm and led him away into the recess of the window,

where she cajoled him with sweet speeches in a low voice, no doubt like

those she had used that morning in their chamber. The two Guises read

the documents given up to them by Catherine. Finding that they contained

information which their spies, and Monsieur Braguelonne, the lieutenant

of the Chatelet, had not obtained, they were inclined to believe in the

sincerity of Catherine de’ Medici. Robertet came and received certain

secret orders relative to Christophe. The youthful instrument of the

leaders of the Reformation was then led away by four soldiers of the

Scottish guard, who took him down the stairs and delivered him to

Monsieur de Montresor, provost of the chateau. That terrible personage

himself, accompanied by six of his men, conducted Christophe to the

prison in the vaulted cellar of the tower, now in ruins, which the

concierge of the chateau de Blois shows you with the information that

these were the dungeons.

After such an event the Council could be only a formality. The king, the

young queen, the Grand-master, and the cardinal returned to it, taking

with them the vanquished Catherine, who said no word except to approve

the measures proposed by the Guises. In spite of a slight opposition

from the Chancelier Olivier (the only person present who said one word

that expressed the independence to which his office bound him), the

Duc de Guise was appointed lieutenant-general of the kingdom. Robertet

brought the required documents, showing a devotion which might be called

collusion. The king, giving his arm to his mother, recrossed the _salle

des gardes_, announcing to the court as he passed along that on the

following day he should leave Blois for the chateau of Amboise. The

latter residence had been abandoned since the time when Charles VIII.

accidentally killed himself by striking his head against the casing of

a door on which he had ordered carvings, supposing that he could enter

without stooping below the scaffolding. Catherine, to mask the plans of

the Guises, remarked aloud that they intended to complete the chateau

of Amboise for the Crown at the same time that her own chateau of

Chemonceaux was finished. But no one was the dupe of that pretext, and

all present awaited great events.

After spending about two hours endeavoring to see where he was in the

obscurity of the dungeon, Christophe ended by discovering that the place

was sheathed in rough woodwork, thick enough to make the square hole

into which he was put both healthy and habitable. The door, like that

of a pig-pen, was so low that he stooped almost double on entering

it. Beside this door was a heavy iron grating, opening upon a sort of

corridor, which gave a little light and a little air. This arrangement,

in all respects like that of the dungeons of Venice, showed plainly

that the architecture of the chateau of Blois belonged to the Venetian

school, which during the Middle Ages, sent so many builders into all

parts of Europe. By tapping this species of pit above the woodwork

Christophe discovered that the walls which separated his cell to right

and left from the adjoining ones were made of brick. Striking one of

them to get an idea of its thickness, he was somewhat surprised to hear

return blows given on the other side.

“Who are you?” said his neighbor, speaking to him through the corridor.

“I am Christophe Lecamus.”

“I,” replied the voice, “am Captain Chaudieu, brother of the minister. I

was taken prisoner to-night at Beaugency; but, luckily, there is nothing

against me.”

“All is discovered,” said Christophe; “you are fortunate to be saved

from the fray.”

“We have three thousand men at this moment in the forests of the

Vendomois, all determined men, who mean to abduct the king and the

queen-mother during their journey. Happily La Renaudie was cleverer than

I; he managed to escape. You had only just left us when the Guise men

surprised us--”

“But I don’t know La Renaudie.”

“Pooh! my brother has told me all about it,” said the captain.

Hearing that, Christophe sat down upon his bench and made no further

answer to the pretended captain, for he knew enough of the police to

be aware how necessary it was to act with prudence in a prison. In the

middle of the night he saw the pale light of a lantern in the corridor,

after hearing the ponderous locks of the iron door which closed the

cellar groan as they were turned. The provost himself had come to fetch

Christophe. This attention to a prisoner who had been left in his dark

dungeon for hours without food, struck the poor lad as singular. One of

the provost’s men bound his hands with a rope and held him by the end

of it until they reached one of the lower halls of the chateau of Louis

XII., which was evidently the antechamber to the apartments of some

important personage. The provost and his men bade him sit upon a bench,

and the man then bound his feet as he had before bound his hands. On a

sign from Monsieur de Montresor the man left the room.

“Now listen to me, my friend,” said the provost-marshal, toying with the

collar of the Order; for, late as the hour was, he was in full uniform.

This little circumstance gave the young man several thoughts; he saw

that all was not over; on the contrary, it was evidently neither to hang

nor yet to condemn him that he was brought here.

“My friend, you may spare yourself cruel torture by telling me all you

know of the understanding between Monsieur le Prince de Conde and Queen

Catherine. Not only will no harm be done to you, but you shall enter the

service of Monseigneur the lieutenant-general of the kingdom, who

likes intelligent men and on whom your honest face has produced a good

impression. The queen-mother is about to be sent back to Florence, and

Monsieur de Conde will no doubt be brought to trial. Therefore, believe

me, humble folks ought to attach themselves to the great men who are in

power. Tell me all; and you will find your profit in it.”

“Alas, monsieur,” replied Christophe; “I have nothing to tell. I told

all I know to Messieurs de Guise in the queen’s chamber. Chaudieu

persuaded me to put those papers under the eyes of the queen-mother;

assuring me that they concerned the peace of the kingdom.”

“You have never seen the Prince de Conde?”

“Never.”

Thereupon Monsieur de Montresor left Christophe and went into the

adjoining room; but the youth was not left long alone. The door through

which he had been brought opened and gave entrance to several men, who

did not close it. Sounds that were far from reassuring were heard from

the courtyard; men were bringing wood and machinery, evidently intended

for the punishment of the Reformer’s messenger. Christophe’s anxiety

soon had matter for reflection in the preparations which were made in

the hall before his eyes.

Two coarse and ill-dressed serving-men obeyed the orders of a stout,

squat, vigorous man, who cast upon Christophe, as he entered, the

glance of a cannibal upon his victim; he looked him over and _estimated_

him,--measuring, like a connoisseur, the strength of his nerves, their

power and their endurance. The man was the executioner of Blois. Coming

and going, his assistants brought in a mattress, several mallets and

wooden wedges, also planks and other articles, the use of which was

not plain, nor their look comforting to the poor boy concerned in these

preparations, whose blood now curdled in his veins from a vague but most

terrible apprehension. Two personages entered the hall at the moment

when Monsieur de Montresor reappeared.

“Hey, nothing ready!” cried the provost-marshal, to whom the new-comers

bowed with great respect. “Don’t you know,” he said, addressing the

stout man and his two assistants, “that Monseigneur the cardinal thinks

you already at work? Doctor,” added the provost, turning to one of the

new-comers, “this is the man”; and he pointed to Christophe.

The doctor went straight to the prisoner, unbound his hands, and struck

him on the breast and back. Science now continued, in a serious manner,

the truculent examination of the executioner’s eye. During this time

a servant in the livery of the house of Guise brought in several

arm-chairs, a table, and writing-materials.

“Begin the _proces verbal_,” said Monsieur de Montresor, motioning

to the table the second personage, who was dressed in black, and was

evidently a clerk. Then the provost went up to Christophe, and said to

him in a very gentle way: “My friend, the chancellor, having learned

that you refuse to answer me in a satisfactory manner, decrees that you

be put to the question, ordinary and extraordinary.”

“Is he in good health, and can he bear it?” said the clerk to the

doctor.

“Yes,” replied the latter, who was one of the physicians of the house of

Lorraine.

“In that case, retire to the next room; we will send for you whenever we

require your advice.”

The physician left the hall.