MARGARET OF VALOIS.

On the eighteenth day of August 1572, a great festival was held in the

palace of the Louvre. It was to celebrate the nuptials of Henry of Navarre

and Margaret of Valois.

This alliance between the chief of the Protestant party in France, and the

sister of Charles IX. and daughter of Catharine of Medicis, perplexed, and

in some degree alarmed, the Catholics, whilst it filled the Huguenots with

joy and exultation. The king had declared that he knew and made no

difference between Romanist and Calvinist--that all were alike his

subjects, and equally beloved by him. He caressed the throng of Huguenot

nobles and gentlemen whom the marriage had attracted to the court, was

affectionate to his new brother-in-law, friendly with the prince of Conde,

almost respectful to the venerable Admiral de Coligny, to whom he proposed

to confide the command of an army in a projected war with Spain. The

chiefs of the Catholic party were not behind-hand in following the example

set them by Charles. Catharine of Medicis was all smiles and affability;

the Duke of Anjou, afterwards Henry III., received graciously the

compliments paid him by the Huguenots themselves on his successes at

Jarnac and Moncontour, battles which he had won before he was eighteen

years old; Henry of Guise, whose reputation as a leader already, at the

age of two-and-twenty, almost equalled that of his great father, was

courteous and friendly to those whose deadly foe he had so lately been.

The Duke of Mayenne and the Admiral, the Guise and the Conde, were seen

riding, conversing, and making parties of pleasure together. It was the

lion lying down with the lamb.

On the twenty-second of August, four days after the marriage, in which the

Huguenots saw a guarantee of the peaceful exercise of their religion, the

Admiral de Coligny was passing through the street of St Germain

l'Auxerrois, when he was shot at and wounded by a captain of _petardiers_,

one Maurevel, who went by the name of _Le Tueur du Roi_, literally, the

King's Killer. At midnight on the twenty-fourth of August, the tocsin

sounded, and the massacre of St Bartholomew began.

It is at this stirring period of French history, abounding in horrors and

bloodshed, and in plots and intrigues, both political and amorous, that M.

Alexandre Dumas commences one of his most recently published romances.

Beginning with the marriage of Henry and Margaret, he narrates, in his

spirited and attractive style, various episodes, real and imaginary, of

the great massacre, from the first fury of which, Henry himself, doomed to

death by the remorseless Catherine of Medicis, was only saved by his own

caution, by the indecision of Charles IX., and the energy of Margaret of

Valois. The marriage between the King of France's sister and the King of

Navarre, was merely one of _convenance_, agreed to by Henry for the sake

of his fellow Protestants, and used by Catherine and Charles as a lure to

bring "those of the religion," as they were called, to Paris, there to be

slaughtered unsuspecting, and defenceless. Margaret, then scarcely twenty

years of age, had already made herself talked of by her intrigues; Henry,

who was a few months younger, but who, even at that early period of his

life, possessed a large share of the shrewdness and prudence for which his

countrymen, the Bearnese, have at all times been noted, was, at the very

time of his marriage, deeply in love with the Baroness de Sauve, one of

Catharine de Medicis' ladies, by whom he was in his turn beloved. But

although little affection existed between the royal pair, the strong links

of interest and ambition bound them together; and no sooner were they

married than they entered into a treaty of political alliance, to which,

for some time, both steadily and truly adhered.

On the night of the St Bartholomew, a Huguenot gentleman, the Count Lerac

de la Mole, who has arrived that day at Paris with important letters for

the King of Navarre, seeks refuge in the apartments of the latter from the

assassins who pursue and have already wounded him. Unacquainted, however,

with the Louvre, he mistakes the door, and enters the apartment of the

Queen of Navarre, who, seized with pity, and struck also by the youth and

elegance of the fugitive, gives him shelter, and herself dresses his

wounds, employing in his behalf the surgical skill which she has acquired

from the celebrated Ambrose Pare, whose pupil she had been. One of the

most furious of La Mole's pursuers is a Piedmontese gentleman, Count

Hannibal de Coconnas, who has also arrived that day in the capital, and

put up at the same hotel as La Mole. When the latter is rescued by

Margaret, Coconnas wanders through Paris, killing all the Huguenots he can

find--such, at least, as will defend themselves. In a lonely part of the

town he is overpowered by numbers, and is rescued from imminent peril by

the Duke of Guise's sister-in-law, the Duchess of Nevers, that

golden-haired, emerald-eyed dame, of whom Ronsard sang--

"La Duchesse de Nevers

Aux yeux verts,

Qui sous leur paupiere blonde,

Lancent sur nous plus d'eclairs

Que ne font vingt Jupiters

Dans les airs

Lorsque la tempete gronde."

To cut the story short, La Mole falls violently in love with Margaret,

Coconnas does the same with the duchess; and these four personages play

important parts in the ensuing narrative, which extends over a space of

nearly two years, and into which the author, according to his custom,

introduces a vast array of characters, for the most part historical, all

spiritedly drawn and well sustained. M. Dumas may, in various respects, be

held up as an example to our history spoilers, self-styled writers of

historical romance, on this side the Channel. One does not find him

profaning public edifices by causing all sorts of absurdities to pass, and

of twaddle to be spoken, within their precincts; neither does he make his

kings and beggars, high-born dames and private soldiers, use the very same

language, all equally tame, colourless, and devoid of character. The

spirited and varied dialogue in which his romances abound, illustrates and

brings out the qualities and characteristics of his actors, and is not

used for the sole purpose of making a chapter out of what would be better

told in a page. In many instances, indeed, it would be difficult for him

to tell his story, by the barest narrative, in fewer words than he does by

pithy and pointed dialogue.

As the sole means of placing his life in comparative safety, Henry abjures

the Protestant faith, and remains in a sort of honourable captivity at the

court of France, suspected by Charles and detested by Catharine, to whom

Rene the Florentine, her astrologer and poisoner, has predicted that the

now powerless prince of Navarre shall one day reign over France. Some days

have passed, the massacres have nearly ceased, and the body of Admiral de

Coligny, discovered amongst a heap of slain, has been suspended to the

gibbet at Montfaucon. Charles IX., always greedy of spectacles of blood,

proposes to pay a visit to the corpse of his dead enemy, whom had called

his father, and affectionately embraced, upon their last meeting previous

to the attempted assassination of the admiral by Maurevel, an attempt

instigated by Charles himself. We will give the account of this visit in

the words of M. Dumas.

It was two in the afternoon, when a long train of cavaliers and ladies,

glittering with gold and jewels, appeared in the Rue St Denis, displaying

itself in the sun between the sombre lines of houses, like some huge

reptile with sparkling scales. Nothing that exists at the present day can

give an adequate idea of the splendour of this spectacle. The rich silken

costumes, of the most brilliant colours, which were in vogue during the

reign of Francis I., had not yet been replaced by the dark and graceless

attire that became the fashion in Henry III.'s time. The costume of the

reign of Charles IX. was perhaps less rich, but more elegant than that of

the preceding epoch.

In the rear, and on either side of this magnificent procession, came the

pages, esquires, gentlemen of low degree, dogs and horses, giving the

royal train the appearance of a small army. The cavalcade was followed by

a vast number of the populace.

That morning, in presence of Catharine and the Duke of Guise, and of Henry

of Navarre, Charles the Ninth had spoken, as if it were quite a natural

thing, of going to visit the gibbet at Montfaucon, or, in other words, the

mutilated body of the admiral, which was suspended from it. Henry's first

impulse had been to make an excuse for not joining the party. Catharine

was looking out for this, and at the very first word that he uttered

expressive of his repugnance, she exchanged a glance and a smile with the

Duke of Guise. Henry, whom nothing escaped, caught both smile and glance,

underwent them, and hastened to correct his blunder.

"After all," said he, "why should I not go? I am a Catholic, and owe as

much to my new religion." Then addressing himself to the king:--"Your

majesty may reckon upon me," said he; "I shall always be happy to

accompany you wherever you go."

In the whole procession, no one attracted so much curiosity and attention

as this king without a kingdom, this Huguenot who had become Catholic. His

long and strongly marked features, his somewhat common _tournure_, his

familiarity with his inferiors--a familiarity which was to be attributed

to the habits of his youth, and which he carried almost too far for a

king--caused him to be at once recognised by the spectators, some of whom

called out to him--"To mass, Henriot, to mass!"

To which Henry replied.

"I was there yesterday, I have been there to-day, I shall go again

to-morrow. _Ventre-saint-gris!_ I think that is enough."

As for Margaret, she was on horseback--so beautiful, so fresh and elegant,

that there was a perfect chorus of admiration around her, some few notes

of which, however, were addressed to her companion and intimate friend,

the Duchess of Nevers, who had just joined her, and whose snow-white

steed, as if proud of its lovely burden, tossed its head, and neighed

exultingly.

"Well, duchess," said the Queen of Navarre, "have you anything new to tell

me?"

"Nothing, madam, I believe," replied Henriette. Then, in a lower tone, she

added--"And the Huguenot, what is become of him?"

"He is in safety," replied Margaret. "And your Piedmontese hero? Where is

he?"

"He insisted upon being one of the party, and is riding M. de Nevers'

charger, a horse as big as an elephant. He is a superb cavalier. I allowed

him to come, because I thought that your Huguenot protege would be still

confined to his room, and that consequently there could be no risk of

their meeting."

"_Ma foi!_" replied Margaret, smiling, "if he were here, I do not think

there would be much danger of a single combat. The Huguenot is very

handsome, but nothing else--a dove, and not an eagle; he may coo, but he

will not bite. After all," added she, with a slight elevation of her

shoulders, "we perhaps take him for a Huguenot, whilst he is only a

Brahmin, and his religion may forbid his shedding blood. But see there,

duchess--there is one of your gentlemen, who will assuredly be ridden

over."

"Ah! it is my hero," cried the duchess; "look, look!"

It was Coconnas, who had left his place in the procession in order to get

nearer to the Duchess of Nevers; but, at the very moment that he was

crossing the sort of boulevard separating the street of St Denis from the

faubourg of the same name, a cavalier belonging to the suite of the Duke

of Alencon, who had just come up, was run away with by his horse; and,

being unable immediately to check the animal, came full tilt against

Coconnas. The Piedmontese reeled in his saddle, and his hat fell off. He

caught it in his hand, and turned furiously upon the person by whom he had

been so rudely, although accidentally, assailed.

"Good heavens!" said Margaret, in a whisper to her friend, "it is Monsieur

de la Mole!"

"That pale, handsome young man?" cried the duchess.

"Yes; he who so nearly upset your Piedmontese."

"Oh!" exclaimed the duchess, "something terrible will happen! They

recognise each other."

They had done so. Coconnas dropped the bridle of his horse in surprise at

meeting with his former acquaintance, whom he fully believed he had

killed, or at any rate disabled for a long time to come. As to La Mole,

when he recognised Coconnas, a flush of anger overspread his pallid

countenance. For a few seconds, the two men remained gazing at each other

with looks which made Margaret and the duchess tremble. Then La Mole,

glancing around him, and understanding, doubtless, that the place was not

a fit one for an explanation, spurred his horse, and rejoined the Duke of

Alencon. Coconnas remained for a moment stationary, twisting his mustache

till he brought the corner of it nearly into his eye, and then moved

onwards.

"Ha!" exclaimed Margaret, with mingled scorn and vexation; "I was not

mistaken then. Oh, this time it is too bad!" And she bit her lips in

anger.

"He is very handsome," said the duchess, in a tone of commiseration.

Just at this moment the Duke of Alencon took his place behind the king and

the queen-mother; so that his gentlemen, in order to follow him, had to

pass Margaret and the Duchess of Nevers. As La Mole went by, he removed

his hat, bowed low to the queen, and remained bareheaded, waiting till her

majesty should honour him with a look. But Margaret turned her head

proudly away. La Mole doubtless understood the scornful expression of her

features; his pale face became livid, and he grasped his horse's mane as

if to save himself from falling.

"Look at him, cruel that you are," said Henriette to the Queen; "he is

going to faint."

"Good," said Margaret, with a smile of immense contempt. "Have you no

salts to offer him?"

Madame de Nevers was mistaken. La Mole recovered himself, and took his

place behind the Duke of Alencon.

The royal party continued to advance, and presently came in sight of the

gallows at Montfaucon. The King and Catharine of Medicis were followed by

the Dukes of Anjou and Alencon, the King of Navarre, the Duke of Guise,

and their gentlemen; then came Margaret, the Duchess of Nevers, and the

ladies, composing what was called the Queen's flying squadron; finally,

the pages, esquires, lackeys, and the people--in all, ten thousand souls.

The guards, who marched in front, placed themselves in a large circle

round the enclosure in which stood the gibbet; and on their approach, the

ravens that had perched upon the instrument of death flew away with hoarse

and dismal croakings. To the principal gallows was hanging a shapeless

mass, a blackened corpse, covered with mud and coagulated blood. It was

suspended by the feet, for the head was wanting. In place of the latter,

the ingenuity of the people had substituted a bundle of straw, with a mask

fixed upon it; and in the mouth of the mask some scoffer, acquainted with

the admiral's habits, had placed a toothpick.

It was a sad and strange sight to behold all these elegant cavaliers and

beautiful women passing, like one of the processions which Goya has

painted, under the blackened skeletons and tall grim gibbets. The greater

the mirth of the visitors, the more striking was the contrast with the

mournful silence and cold insensibility of the corpses which were its

object. Many of the party supported with difficulty this horrible

spectacle; and Henry of Navarre especially, in spite of his powers of

dissimulation and habitual command over himself, was at last unable to

bear it longer. He took, as a pretext, the stench emitted by these human

remains; and approaching Charles, who, with Catharine of Medicis, had

paused before the body of the admiral--

"Sire," said he, "does not your Majesty find that the smell of this poor

corpse is too noxious to be longer endured?"

"Ha! think you so, Harry?" cried Charles, whose eyes were sparkling with a

ferocious joy.

"Yes, sire."

"Then I am not of your opinion. _The body of a dead enemy always smells

well._"

"By my faith! sire," said Monsieur de Tavannes, "your Majesty should have

invited Pierre Ronsard to accompany us on this little visit to the

admiral; he would have made an impromptu epitaph on old Gaspard."

"That will I make," said Charles. And after a moments reflection, "Listen,

gentlemen," said he--

"Ci-git, mais c'est mal entendu,

Pour lui le mot est trop honnete,

Ici l'amiral est pendu,

Par les pieds, a faute de tete."

"Bravo! bravo!" cried the Catholic gentlemen with one voice, whilst the

converted Huguenots there present maintained a gloomy silence. As to

Henry, he was talking to Margaret and the Duchess of Nevers, and pretended

not to hear.

"Come, sir," said Catharine, who, in spite of the perfumes with which she

was covered, began to have enough of this tainted atmosphere--"Come, sir,"

said she to the king, "the best of friends must part. Let us bid adieu to

the admiral, and return to Paris."

And bowing her head ironically to the corpse by way of a farewell, she

turned her horse and regained the road, whilst her suite filed past the

body of Coligny. The crowd followed the cavalcade, and ten minutes after

the king's departure, no one remained near the mutilated body of the

admiral.

When we say no one, we make a mistake. A gentleman, mounted on a black

horse, and who, probably, during the stay of the king, had been unable to

contemplate the disfigured corpse sufficiently at his ease, lingered

behind, and was amusing himself by examining, in all their details, the

chains, irons, stone pillars, in short, the whole paraphernalia of the

gibbet, which, no doubt, appeared to him, who had been but a few days at

Paris, and was not aware of the perfection to which all things are brought

in the metropolis, a paragon of hideous ingenuity. This person was our

friend Coconnas. A woman's quick eye had in vain sought him through the

ranks of the cavalcade. Monsieur de Coconnas remained in admiration before

the masterpiece of Enguerrand de Marigny.

But the woman in question was not the only person who sought Coconnas. A

cavalier, remarkable for his white satin doublet, and the elegance of his

plume, after looking before him, and on either side, had at last looked

back and perceived the tall form of the Piedmontese, and the gigantic

profile of his horse, sharply defined against the evening sky, now

reddened by the last rays of the setting sun. Then the gentleman in the

white satin doublet left the road which the cavalcade was following,

struck into a side path, and describing a curve, returned towards the

gibbet. He had scarcely done this, when the Duchess of Nevers approached

the Queen of Navarre, and said--

"We were mistaken, Margaret, for the Piedmontese has remained behind, and

Monsieur de la Mole has followed him."

"_Mordi!_" cried Margaret laughing, "is it so? I confess that I shall not

be sorry to have to alter my opinion."

She then looked round, and saw La Mole returning towards the gallows.

It was now the turn of the two princesses to quit the cavalcade. The

moment was favourable for so doing, for they were just crossing a road

bordered by high hedges, by following which they would get to within

thirty paces of the gibbet. Madame de Nevers said a word to the captain of

her guards, Margaret made a sign to Gillonne, her tirewoman and confidant;

and these four persons took the cross road, and hastened to place

themselves in ambuscade behind some bushes near the spot they were

desirous of observing. There they dismounted, and the captain held the

horses, whilst the three ladies found a pleasant seat upon the close fresh

turf, with which the place was overgrown. An opening in the bushes enabled

them to observe the smallest details of what was passing.

La Mole had completed his circuit, and, walking up behind Coconnas, he

stretched out his hand and touched him on the shoulder. The Piedmontese

turned his head.

"Oh!" said he, "it was no dream then. You are still alive?"

"Yes, sir," replied La Mole, "I am still alive. It is not your fault, but

such is the case."

"_Mordieu!_ I recognise you perfectly," said Coconnas, "in spite of your

pale cheeks. You were redder than that the last time I saw you."

"And I recognise you also," said La Mole, "in spite of that yellow cut

across your face. You were paler than you are now when I gave it to you."

Coconnas bit his lips, but continued in the same ironical tone.

"It is curious, is it not, Monsieur de la Mole, particularly for a

Huguenot, to see the admiral hung up to that iron hook?"

"Count," said La Mole with a bow, "I am no longer a Huguenot, I have the

honour to be a Catholic."

"Bah!" cried Coconnas, bursting into a laugh, "You are converted? How very

sly of you!"

"Sir," replied La Mole, with the same serious politeness, "I made a vow to

become a Catholic if I escaped the massacre."

"It was a very prudent vow," returned the Piedmontese, "and I congratulate

you on it; is it the only one you made?"

"No, sir, I made one other," replied La Mole, patting his horse with his

usual deliberate grace.

"And it was----" enquired Coconnas.

"To hang you up yonder, to that little hook which seems to be waiting for

you, just below Monsieur de Coligny."

"What!" cried Coconnas, "all alive, just as I am?"

"No, sir; after passing my sword through your body."

Coconnas became purple, and his grey eye flashed fire.

"Really," said he, with a sneer; "to yonder rail? You are not quite tall

enough for that, my little gentleman."

"Then I will get upon your horse," replied La Mole. "Ah! you think, my

dear M. Hannibal de Coconnas, that you may assassinate people with

impunity under the loyal and honourable pretext of being a hundred to one.

Not so. A day comes when every man finds his man, and for you that day is

come now. I am almost tempted to break your ugly head with a pistol shot;

but pshaw! I should perhaps miss you, for my hand still shakes with the

wounds you so treacherously gave me.

"My ugly head!" roared Coconnas, throwing himself off his horse. "On foot!

Monsieur le Compte--out with your blade!" And he drew his sword.

"I think your Huguenot called him ugly," whispered the Duchess of Nevers

to Margaret. "Do you find him so?"

"He is charming," cried Margaret laughing, "and Monsieur de la Mole's

anger renders him unjust. But hush! let us observe them."

La Mole got off his horse with as much deliberation as Coconnas had shown

haste, drew his sword, and put himself on guard.

"Ah!" cried he, as he extended his arm.

"Oh!" exclaimed Coconnas, as he stretched out his.

Both, it will be remembered, were wounded in the shoulder, and a sudden

movement still caused them acute suffering. A stifled laugh was audible

from behind the trees. The princesses had been unable to restrain it when

they saw the two champions rubbing their shoulders and grimacing with

pain. The laughed reached the ears of La Mole and Coconnas, who had been

hitherto unaware of the presence of witnesses, but who now, on looking

round, perceived the ladies. La Mole again put himself on guard, steady as

an automaton, and Coconnas, as their swords crossed, uttered an energetic

_Mordieu!_

"_Ah ca!_" exclaimed Margaret, "they are in earnest, and will kill one

another if we do not prevent it. This is going too far. Stop, gentlemen, I

entreat you."

"Let them go on," said Henriette, who, having already seen Coconnas make

head successfully against three antagonists at once, trusted that he would

have at least as easy a bargain of La Mole.

At the first clash of the steel, the combatants became silent. They were

neither of them confident in their strength, and, at each pass or parry,

their imperfectly healed wounds caused them sharp pain. Nevertheless, with

fixed and ardent eye, his lips slightly parted, his teeth firmly-set, La

Mole advanced with short steady steps upon his adversary; who, perceiving

that he had to do with a master of fence, retreated--gradually, it is

true, but still retreated. In this manner they reached the edge of the

moat, or dry ditch, on the other side of which the spectators had

stationed themselves. There, as if he had only retired with the view of

getting nearer to the duchess, Coconnas stopped, and made a rapid thrust.

At the same instant a sanguine spot, which grew each second larger,

appeared upon the white satin of La Mole's doublet.

"Courage!" cried the Duchess of Nevers.

"Poor La Mole!" exclaimed Margaret, with a cry of sorrow.

La Mole heard the exclamation, threw one expressive glance to the queen,

and making a skilful feint, followed it up by a pass of lightning

swiftness. This time both the women shrieked. The point of La Mole's

rapier had appeared, crimson with blood, behind the back of Coconnas.

Neither of the combatants fell; they remained on their feet, staring at

each other, each of them feeling that at the first movement he made he

should lose his balance. At last the Piedmontese, more dangerously wounded

than his antagonist, and feeling that his strength was ebbing away with

his blood, threw himself forward upon La Mole, and seized hill with one

arm, whilst with the other hand he felt for his dagger. La Mole mustered

all his remaining strength, raised his hand, and struck Coconnas on the

forehead with his sword-hilt. Coconnas fell, but in falling he dragged his

adversary after him, and both rolled into the ditch. Then Margaret and the

Duchess of Nevers, seeing that although, apparently dying, they still

sought to finish each other, sprang forward, preceded by the captain of

the guards. But before they reached the wounded men, the eyes of the

latter closed, their grasp was loosened, and, letting fall their weapons,

they stretched themselves out stiff and convulsed. A pool of blood had

already formed itself around them.

"Oh! brave, brave La Mole!" exclaimed Margaret, unable to repress her

admiration. "How can I forgive myself for having suspected you?" And her

eyes filled with tears.

"Alas! alas!" cried the duchess, sobbing violently. "Say, madam, did you

ever see such intrepid champions?"

"_Tudieu!_--What hard knocks!" exclaimed the captain, trying to stanch the

blood that flowed from the wounds. "Hola! you who are coming, come more

quickly."

A man, seated on the front of a sort of cart painted of a red colour, was

seen slowly approaching.

"Hola!" repeated the captain, "will you come, then, when you are called?

Do you not see that these gentlemen are in want of assistance?"

The man in the cart, whose appearance was in the highest degree coarse and

repulsive, stopped his horse, got down, and stepped over the two bodies.

"These are pretty wounds," said he, "but I make better ones."

"Who, then, are you?" said Margaret, experiencing, in spite of herself, a

vague and unconquerable sensation of terror.

"Madam," replied the man, bowing to the ground, "I an Maitre Caboche,

executioner of the city of Paris; and I am come to suspend to this gibbet

some companions for the admiral."

"And I am the Queen of Navarre; throw out your dead bodies, place our

horses' clothes in your cart, and bring these two gentlemen carefully to

the Louvre."

La Mole recovers from his wounds before Coconnas is out of danger. The

latter is, in great measure, restored to health through the care and

attention which his late antagonist generously lavishes on him; they

become intimate friends, and Coconnas is appointed to the household of the

Duke of Alencon, to which La Mole already belongs. The duke, out of

opposition to his brothers, the king and the Duke of Anjou, has a leaning

towards the Huguenot party. De Mouy, a Protestant leader, whose father has

been assassinated by Maurevel, comes in disguise to the Louvre, to

communicate with Henry of Navarre, in the sincerity of whose conversion

the Huguenots do not believe. Henry, however, who knows that the walls of

the Louvre have ears, refuses to listen to De Mouy, and declares himself

Catholic to the backbone; and De Mouy, despairing and indignant, leaves

the king's apartment. The Duke of Alencon, who has overheard their

conference, as Henry suspected, stops the Huguenot emissary, and shows a

disposition to put himself at the head of that party and become King of

Navarre. There is a great deal of intrigue and manoeuvring, very

skilfully managed by Henry, who makes D'Alencon believe that he has no

wish to become any thing more than a simple country-gentleman, and that he

is willing to aid him in his ambitious designs. He proposes that they

should watch for an opportunity of leaving Paris and repairing to Navarre.

Before the negotiations between the two princes are completed, however,

the Duke of Anjou has been elected King of Poland, and has had his

election ratified by the Pope; and D'Alencon then begins to think that it

would be advisable to remain at Paris on the chance of himself becoming

King of France. Charles IX. is delicate and sickly, subject to tremendous

outbursts of passion which leave him weak and exhausted; his life is not

likely to be a long one. Should he die, and even if the Poles should allow

their new king to return to France, D'Alencon would have time, he thinks,

before the arrival of the latter, to seize upon the vacant throne. Even

the reversion of the crown of Poland would perhaps be preferable to the

possession of that of Navarre. Whilst ruminating these plans, one of the

king's frequent hunting parties takes place in the forest of Bondy, and is

attended by all the royal family except the Duke of Anjou, then absent at

the siege of La Rochelle. At this hunting party the following striking

incidents occur.

The _piqueur_ who had told the king that the boar was still in the

enclosure, had spoken the truth. Hardly was the bloodhound put upon the

scent, when he plunged into a thicket, and drove the animal, an enormous

one of its kind, from its retreat in a cluster of thorn-bushes. The boar

made straight across the road, at about fifty paces from the king. The

leashes of a score of dogs were immediately slipped, and the eager hounds

rushed headlong in pursuit.

The chase was Charles's strongest passion. Scarcely had the boar crossed

the road, when he spurred after him, sounding the view upon his horn, and

followed by the Duke of Alencon, and by Henry of Navarre. All the other

chasseurs followed.

The royal forests, at the period referred to, were not, as at present,

extensive parks intersected by carriage roads. Kings had not yet had the

happy idea of becoming timber-merchants, and of dividing their woods into

_tailles_ and _futaies_. The trees, planted, not by scientific foresters

but by the hand of God, who let the seed fall where the wind chose to bear

it, were not arranged in quincunxes, but sprang up without order, and as

they now do in the virgin forests of America. Consequently a forest at

that period was a place in which boars and stags, wolves and robbers, were

to be found in abundance.

The wood of Bondy was surrounded by a circular road, like the tire of a

wheel and crossed by a dozen paths which might be called the spokes. To

complete the comparison, the axle, was represented by _carrefour_, or open

space, in the centre of the wood, whence all these paths diverged, and

whither any of the sportsmen who might be thrown out were in the habit of

repairing, till some sight or sound of the chase enabled them to rejoin

it.

At the end of a quarter of an hour, it happened, as it usually did at

these hunts, that insurmountable obstacles had opposed themselves to the

progress of the hunters, the baying of the hounds had become inaudible in

the distance, and the king himself had returned to the _carrefour_,

swearing and cursing according to his custom.

"Well, D'Alencon! Well, Henriot!" cried he--"here you are, _mordieu!_ as

calm and quiet as nuns following their abbess. That is not hunting. You,

D'Alencon--you look as if you had just come out of a band-box; and you are

so perfumed, that if you got between the boar and my dogs, you would make

them lose the scent. And you, Henriot--where is your boar-spear? Where

your arquebuss?"

"Sire," replied Henry, "an arquebuss would be useless to me. I know that

your majesty likes to shoot the boar himself when it is brought to bay. As

to the spear, I handle it very clumsily. We are not used to it in our

mountains, where we hunt the bear with nothing but a dagger."

"By the _mordieu_, Henry, when you return to your Pyrenees you shall send

me a cart-load of bears. It must be noble sport to contend with an animal

that can stifle you with a hug. But hark! I hear the dogs! No, I was

mistaken."

The king put his horn to his mouth and sounded fanfare. Several horns

replied to him. Suddenly a _piqueur_ appeared, sounding a different call.

"The view! the view!" cried the king; and he galloped off, followed by the

other sportsmen.

The _piqueur_ was not mistaken. As the king advanced he heard the baying

of the pack, which was now composed of more than sixty dogs, fresh relays

having been slipped at different places near which the boar had passed. At

last Charles caught a second glimpse of the animal, and, profiting by the

height of the adjacent trees, which enabled him to ride beneath their

branches, he turned into the wood, sounding his horn with all his

strength. The princes followed him for some time, but the king had so

vigorous a horse, and, carried away by his eagerness, he dashed over such

steep and broken ground, and through such dense thickets, that first the

ladies, then the Duke of Guise and his gentlemen, and at last the two

princes, were forced to abandon him. All the hunters therefore, with the

exception of Charles and a few _piqueurs_, found themselves reassembled at

the _carrefour_. D'Alencon and Henry were standing near each other in a

long alley. At about a hundred paces from them the Duke of Guise had

halted, with his retinue of twenty or thirty gentlemen, who were armed, it

might have been thought, rather for the battle-field than the

hunting-ground. The ladies were in the _carrefour_ itself.

"Would it not seem," said the Duke of Alencon to Henry, glancing at the

Duke of Guise with the corner of his eye, "that yonder man with his

steel-clad escort is the true king? He does not even vouchsafe a glance to

us poor princes."

"Why should he treat us better than our own relations do?" replied Henry.

"Are we not, you and I, prisoners at the court of France, hostages for our

party?"

The Duke Francis started, and looked at Henry as if to provoke a further

explanation; but Henry had gone further than was his wont, and he remained

silent.

"What do you mean, Henry?" enquired the duke, evidently vexed that his

brother-in-law, by his taciturnity, compelled him to put the question.

"I mean, brother," answered Henry, "that those armed men who seem so

careful not to lose sight of us, have quite the appearance of guards

charged to prevent us from escaping."

"Escaping! Why? How?" cried D'Alencon, with a well-feigned air of surprise

and simplicity.

"You have a magnificent jennet there, Francis," said Henry, following up

the subject, whilst appearing to change the conversation. "I am sure he

would get over seven leagues in an hour, and twenty from now till noon. It

is a fine day for a ride. Look at that cross-road--how level and pleasant

it is! Are you not tempted, Francis? For my part, my spurs are burning my

heels."

Francis made no answer. He turned red and pale alternately, and appeared

to be straining his hearing to catch some sound of the chase.

"The news from Poland have produced their effect," said Henry to himself,

"and my good brother-in-law has a plan of his own. He would like to see me

escape, but I shall not go alone."

He had scarcely made the reflection, when several of the recently

converted Huguenots, who within the last two or three months had returned

to the court and the Romish church, came up at a canter, and saluted the

two princes with a most engaging smile. The Duke of Alencon, already urged

on by Henry's overtures, had but to utter a word or make a sign, and it

was evident that his flight would be favoured by the thirty or forty

cavaliers who had collected around him, as if to oppose themselves to the

followers of the Duke of Guise. But that word he did not utter. He turned

away his head, and, putting his horn to his mouth, sounded the rally.

Nevertheless the new-comers, as if they thought that D'Alencon's

hesitation was occasioned by the vicinity of the Guisards, had gradually

placed themselves between the latter and the two princes, arraying

themselves in _echelon_ with a sort of strategic skill, which implied a

habit of military manoeuvres. Guise and his followers would have had to

ride over them to get at the Duke of Alencon and the King of Navarre;

whilst, on the other side, a long and unobstructed road lay open before

the brothers-in-law.

Suddenly, between the trees, at ten paces from the King of Navarre, there

appeared another horseman, whom the princes had not yet seen. Henry was

trying to guess who this person was, when the gentleman raised his hat and

disclosed the features of the Viscount of Turenne, one of the chiefs of

the Protestant party, and who was supposed to be then in Poitou. The

viscount even risked a sign, which meant to say--"Are you coming?" But

Henry, after consulting the inexpressive countenance and dull eyes of the

Duke of Alencon, turned his head two or three times upon his shoulders, as

if something in the collar of his doublet inconvenienced him. It as a

reply in the negative. The viscount understood it, gave his horse the

spur, and disappeared amongst the trees. At the same moment the pack was

heard approaching; then, at the end of the alley, the boar was seen to

pass, followed at a short distance by the dogs, whilst after them came

Charles IX., like some demon-huntsman bareheaded, his horn at his mouth,

sounding as though he would burst his lungs. Three or four _piqueurs_

followed him.

"The king!" cried D'Alencon, riding off to join in the chase. Henry,

encouraged by the presence of his partizans, signed to them to remain, and

approached the ladies.

"Well," said Margaret, advancing to meet him.

"Well madam," said Henry, "we are hunting the boar."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, the wind has changed since yesterday morning. I think I predicted

that such would be the case."

"These changes of wind are bad for hunting--are they not, sir?" enquired

Margaret.

"Yes," replied her husband, "they sometimes overturn previous

arrangements, and the plan has to be remade."

At this moment the baying of the pack was again heard near the

_carrefour_. The noise and tumult rapidly approaching, warned the hunters

to be on the alert. All heads were raised, every ear as strained, when

suddenly the boar burst out of the wood, and, instead of plunging into the

opposite thicket made straight for the _carrefour_. Close to the animal's

heels were thirty or forty of the strongest amongst the dogs, and at less

than twenty paces behind these came Charles himself, without cap or cloak,

his clothes torn by the thorns, his face and hands covered with blood.

Only one or two _piqueurs_ kept up with him. Alternately sounding his horn

and shouting encouragement to the dogs, the king pressed onwards, every

thing but the chase forgotten. If his horse had failed him at that moment,

he would have exclaimed, like Richard III., "My kingdom for a horse!" But

the horse appeared as eager as his rider. His feet scarce touched the

ground, and he seemed to snort fire from his blood-red nostrils. Boar,

dogs, and king dashed by like a whirlwind.

"Hallali! hallali!" cried the king as he passed. And again he applied his

horn to his bleeding lips. A short distance behind him came the Duke of

Alencon and two more _piqueurs_. The horses of the others were blown or

distanced.

Every body now joined in the pursuit, for it was evident that the boar

would soon turn to bay. Accordingly, at the end of ten minutes, the beast

left the path and entered the wood; but on reaching a neighbouring glade,

he turned his tail to a rock and made head against the dogs. The most

interesting moment of the hunt had arrived. The animal was evidently

prepared to make a desperate defence. The dogs, fierce and foaming after

their three hours' chase, precipitated themselves upon him with a fury

which was redoubled by the shouts and oaths of the king. The hunters

arranged themselves in a circle, Charles a little in front, having behind

him the Duke of Alencon, who carried an arquebuss, and Henry of Navarre,

who was armed only with a _couteau-de-chasse_. The duke unslung his

arquebuss and lit the match; Henry loosened his hunting-knife in the

scabbard. As to the Duke of Guise, who affected to despise field-sports,

he kept himself a little apart with his gentlemen; and on the other side

another little group was formed by the ladies. All eyes were fixed in

anxious expectation upon the boar.

A little apart stood a _piqueur_, exerting all his strength to resist the

efforts of two enormous dogs, who awaited, covered with their coats of

mail, howling savagely, and struggling as though they would break their

chains, the moment when they should be let loose upon the boar. The latter

did wonders. Attacked at one time by forty dogs, that covered him like a

living wave or many-coloured carpet, and strove on all sides to tear his

wrinkled and bristling hide, he, at each blow of his formidable tusk,

tossed one of his assailants ten feet into the air. The dogs fell to the

ground ripped up, and threw themselves, with their bowels hanging out of

their wounds, once more into the _melee_; whilst Charles, with hair on

end, inflamed eyes, and distended nostrils, bent forward over the neck of

his foaming steed and sounded a furious _hallali_. In less than ten

minutes twenty dogs were disabled.

"The mastiffs!" cried Charles; "the mastiffs!"

At the word, the _piqueur_ slipped the leashes, and the two dogs dashed

into the midst of the carnage, upsetting the smaller hounds, and with

their iron-coated sides forcing their way to the boar, whom they seized

each by an ear. The animal, feeling himself _coiffe_, as it is termed,

gnashed his teeth with pain and fury.

"Bravo, Duredent! Bravo, Risquetout!" vociferated Charles. "Courage, my

dogs! a spear! a spear!"

"Will you have my arquebuss?" said the Duke of Alencon.

"No," cried the king. "No--one does not feel the ball go in; there is no

pleasure in that. One feels the spear. A spear! a spear!"

A boar-spear made of wood hardened in the fire and tipped with iron, was

handed to the king. "Be cautious, brother!" exclaimed Margaret.

"_Sus, sus_, sire!" cried the Duchess of Nevers. "Do not miss him, sire. A

good thrust to the brute!"

"You may depend on that, duchess," replied Charles. And levelling his

spear, he charged the boar, who, being held down by the two dogs, could

not avoid the blow. Nevertheless, at the sight of the glittering point of

the weapon, the animal made a movement on one side, and the spear, instead

of piercing his breast, grazed his shoulder, and struck against the rock

in his rear.

"_Mille noms d'un diable!_" cried the king, "I have missed him. A spear!

a spear!" And backing his horse, like a knight in the lists, he pitched

away his weapon, of which the point had turned against the rock. A

_piqueur_ advanced to give him another. But at the same moment, as if he

had foreseen the fate that awaited him, and was determined to avoid it at

any cost, the boar, by a violent effort, wrenched his torn ears from the

jaws of the dogs, and with bloodshot eyes, bristling and hideous, his

respiration sounding like the bellows of a forge, and his teeth chattering

and grinding against each other, he lowered his head and made a rush at

the king's horse. Charles was too experienced a sportsman not to have

anticipated this attack, and he turned his horse quickly aside. But he had

pressed too hard upon the bit; the horse reared violently, and, either

terrified at the boar or compelled by the pull on the bridle, fell

backwards. The spectators uttered a terrible cry. The king's thigh was

under the horse.

"Slack your rein!" cried Henry, "slack your rein!"

The king relinquished his hold on the bridle, seized the saddle with his

left hand, and with his right tried to draw his hunting-knife; but the

blade, pressed upon by the weight of his body, would not leave its sheath.

"The boar! the boar!" cried Charles. "Help, D'Alencon! help!"

Nevertheless the horse, left to himself, and as if he had understood his

rider's peril, made an effort, and had already got up on three legs, when

Henry saw the Duke Francis grow deadly pale, bring his arquebuss to his

shoulder, and fire. The ball, instead of striking the boar, now but at two

paces from the king, broke the front leg of the horse, who again fell with

his nose upon the earth. At the same moment Charles's boot was torn by the

tusk of the boar.

"Oh!" murmured D'Alencon between his pallid lips, "I think that the Duke

of Anjou is King of France, and that I am King of Poland!"

It seemed indeed probable. The snout of the boar was rummaging Charles's

thigh, when the latter felt somebody seize and raise his arm--a keen

bright blade flashed before his eyes, and buried itself to the hilt in the

shoulder of the brute; whilst a gauntleted hand put aside the dangerous

tusks which were already disappearing under the King's garments. Charles,

who had taken advantage of the horse's movement to disengage his leg, rose

slowly to his feet, and, seeing himself covered with blood, became as pale

as a corpse.

"Sire," said Henry, who, still on his knees, held down the boar, which he

had stabbed to the heart--"Sire, there is no harm done. I put aside the

tusk, and your Majesty is unhurt." Then, getting up, he let go his hold of

the hunting-knife, and the boar fell, the blood flowing from his mouth

even more plentifully than from the wound.

Charles, surrounded by the alarmed throng, and assailed by cries of terror

that might well have bewildered the calmest courage, was for a moment on

the point of falling senseless near the dying animal. But he recovered

himself, and turning towards the King of Navarre, pressed his hand with a

look in which was visible the first gleam of kindly feeling that he had

shown during his twenty-four years of existence.

"Thanks, Henriot," said he.

"My poor brother!" cried D'Alencon, approaching the king.

"Ah! you are there, D'Alencon?" cried Charles. "Well, you famous marksman,

what is become of your bullet?"

"It must have flattened upon the hide of the boar," said the duke.

"_Eh! mon Dieu!_" cried Henry with a surprise that was admirably acted;

"see there, Francis--your ball has broken the leg of his Majesty's horse!"

"What!" said the king; "is that true?"

"It is possible," said the duke, in great confusion; "my hand trembled so

violently."

"The fact is, that for an expert marksman you have made a singular shot,

Francis," said Charles frowning. "For the second time, thanks, Henriot.

Gentlemen," continued the king, "we will return to Paris; I have had

enough for to-day."

Margaret came up to congratulate Henry.

"_Ma foi!_ yes, Margot," said Charles, "you may congratulate him, and very

sincerely too, for without him the King of France would now be Henry the

Third."

"Alas! madam," said the Bearnais, "the Duke of Anjou, already my enemy,

will hate me tenfold for this morning's work. But it cannot be helped. One

does what one can, as M. d'Alencon will tell you."

And stooping, he drew his hunting-knife from the carcass of the boar, and

plunged it thrice into the ground, to cleanse it from the blood.

Before leaving the Louvre, on the morning of the boar-hunt, Charles has

been prevailed upon by Catharine of Medicis, who, in consequence of the

prediction already referred to, has vowed Henry's destruction, to sign a

warrant for the King of Navarre's arrest and imprisonment in the Bastile.

In this warrant she inserts the words, "dead or alive," and entrusts its

execution to the assassin Maurevel, intimating to him that Henry's death

will be more agreeable to her than his capture. Charles, however, learns

that his mother has had an interview with Maurevel, guesses the fate

reserved for Henry, and, as the least troublesome way of rescuing the man

who had that day saved his life, he makes his brother-in-law accompany him

to sup and pass the night out of the Louvre. Henry does not dare to

refuse, although he is expecting a nocturnal visit from De Mouy in his

apartment, and the two kings leave the palace together. Here is what

passes after their departure.

It wanted two hours of midnight, and the most profound silence reigned in

the Louvre. Margaret and the Duchess of Nevers had betaken themselves to

their rendezvous in the Rue Tizon; Coconnas and La Mole had followed them;

the Duke of Alencon remained in his apartment in vague and anxious

expectation of the events which the queen-mother had predicted to him;

finally, Catharine herself had retired to rest, and Madame de Sauve,

seated at her bedside, was reading to her certain Italian tales, at which

the good queen laughed heartily. For a long time, Catharine had not been

in so complacent a humour. After making an excellent supper with her

ladies, after holding a consultation with her physician, and making up the

account of her day's expenditure, she had ordered prayers for the success

of an enterprise, highly important, she said, to the happiness of her

children. It was one of Catharine's Florentine habits to have prayers and

masses said for the success of projects, the nature of which was known but

to God and to herself.

Whilst Madame de Sauve is reading, a terrible cry and a pistol-shot are

heard, followed by the noise of a struggle from the direction of the King

of Navarre's apartment. All are greatly alarmed, except Catharine, who

affects not to have heard the sounds, and forbids enquiry as to their

cause, attributing them to some brawling guardsmen. At last the

disturbance appears to have ceased.

"It is over," said Catharine.--"Captain," she continued, addressing herself

to Monsieur de Nancey, "if there has been scandal in the palace, you will

not fail to-morrow to have it severely punished. Go on reading, Carlotta."

And Catharine fell back upon her pillows. Only those nearest to her

observed that large drops of perspiration were trickling down her face.

Madame de Sauve obeyed the formal order she had received, but with her

eyes and voice only. Her imagination represented to her some terrible

danger suspended over the head of him she loved. After a short struggle

between emotion and etiquette, the former prevailed; her voice died away,

the book fell from her hands, and she fainted. Just then a violent noise

was heard; a heavy hurried step shook the corridor; two pistol-shots

caused the windows to rattle in their frames, and Catharine, astonished at

this prolonged struggle, sprang from her couch, pale, and with dilated

eyeballs. The captain of the guard was hastening to the door, when she

seized his arm.

"Let no one leave the room," she cried; "I will go myself to see what is

occurring."

What was occurring, or rather what had occurred, was this: De Mouy had

received, that morning, from Henry's page, Orthon, the key of the King of

Navarre's apartment. In the hollow of the key was a small roll of paper,

which he drew out with a pin. It contained the password to be used that

night at the Louvre. Orthon had, moreover, delivered a verbal invitation

from Henry to De Mouy, to visit him at the Louvre that night at ten

o'clock.

At half-past nine, De Mouy donned a cuirass, of which the strength had

been more than once tested; over this he buttoned a silken doublet,

buckled on his sword, stuck his pistols in his belt, and covered the whole

with the counterpart of La Mole's famous crimson mantle. Thanks to this

well-known garment, and to the password with which he was provided, he

passed the guards undiscovered, and went straight to Henry's apartment,

imitating as usual, and as well as he could, La Mole's manner of walking.

In the antechamber he found Orthon waiting for him.

"Sire de Mouy," said the lad, "the king is out, but he begs of you to

wait, and, if agreeable, to throw yourself upon his bed till his return."

De Mouy entered without asking any further explanation, and by way of

passing the time, took a pen and ink, and began marking the different

stages from Paris to Pau upon a map of France that hung against the wall.

This he had completed, however, in a quarter of an hour; and after walking

two or three times round the room, and gaping twice as often, he took

advantage of Henry's permission, and stretched himself upon the large bed,

surrounded with dark hangings, which stood at the further end of the

apartment. He placed his pistols and a lamp upon a table near at hand,

laid his naked sword beside him, and certain not to be surprised, since

Orthon was keeping watch in the antechamber, he sank into a heavy slumber,

and was soon snoring in a manner worthy of the King of Navarre himself.

It was then that six men, with naked swords in their hands, and daggers in

their girdles, stealthily entered the corridor upon which the door of

Henry's apartment opened. A seventh man walked in front of the party,

having, besides his sword, and a dagger as broad and as strong as a

hunting-knife, a brace of pistols suspended to his belt by silver hooks.

This man was Maurevel. On reaching Henry's door, he paused, introduced

into the lock the key which he had received from the queen-mother, and,

leaving two men at the outer door, entered the antechamber with the four

others. "Ah, ha!" said he, as the loud breathing of the sleeper reached

his ears from the inner room, "he is there."

Just then Orthon, thinking it was his master who was coming in, went to

meet him, and found himself face to face with five armed men. At the sight

of that sinister countenance, of that Maurevel, whom men called _Tueur du

Roi_, the faithful lad stepped back, and placed himself before the second

door.

"In the king's name," said Maurevel, "where is your master?"

"My master?"

"Yes, the King of Navarre."

"The King of Navarre is not here," replied Orthon, still in front of the

door.

"'Tis a lie," replied Maurevel. "Come! out of the way!"

The Bearnese are a headstrong race; Orthon growled in reply to this

summons, like one of the dogs of his own mountains.

"You shall not go in," said he sturdily. "The king is absent." And he held

the door to.

Maurevel made a sign; the four men seized the lad, pulled him away from

the door-jambs to which he clung, and as he opened his mouth to cry out,

Maurevel placed his hand over it. Orthon bit him furiously; the assassin

snatched away his hand with a suppressed cry, and struck the boy on the

head with his sword-hilt. Orthon staggered.

"Alarm! alarm! alarm!" cried he, as he fell senseless to the ground.

The assassins passed over his body; two remained at the second door, and

the remaining two entered the bed-chamber, led on by Maurevel. By the

light of the lamp still burning upon the table, they distinguished the

bed, of which the curtains were closed.

"Oh, ho!" said the lieutenant of the little band, "he has left off

snoring, it seems."

"_Allons, sus!_" cried Maurevel.

At the sound of his voice, a hoarse cry, resembling rather the roar of a

lion than any human accents, issued from behind the curtains, which the

next instant were torn asunder. A man armed with a cuirass, and his head

covered with one of those _salades_, or head-pieces, that come down to the

eyes, appeared seated upon the bed, a pistol in either hand, and his drawn

sword upon his knees. No sooner did Maurevel perceive this figure, and

recognise the features of De Mouy, than he became frightfully pale, his

hair bristled up, his mouth filled with foam, and he made a step

backwards, as though terrified by some horrible and unexpected apparition.

At the same moment the armed figure rose from its seat and made a step

forwards, so that the assailed seemed to be pursuing, and the assailant to

fly.

"Ah! villain," exclaimed De Mouy, in the hollow tones of suppressed fury,

"do on come to kill me as you killed my father?"

The two men who had accompanied Maurevel into the chamber alone heard

these terrible words; but as they were spoken, De Mouy's pistol had been

brought to a level with Maurevel's head. Maurevel threw himself on his

knees at the very moment that De Mouy pulled the trigger. The bullet

passed over him, and one of the guards who stood behind, and who had been

uncovered by his movement, received it in his heart. At the same instant

Maurevel fired, but the ball rebounded from De Mouy's cuirass. Then De

Mouy, with one blow of his heavy sword, split the skull of the other

soldier, and, turning upon Maurevel, attacked him furiously. The combat

was terrible but short. At the fourth pass Maurevel felt the cold steel in

his throat; he uttered a stifled cry, fell backwards, and, in falling,

overturned the lamp. Immediately De Mouy, profiting by the darkness, and

vigorous and active as one of Homer's heroes, rushed into the outer room,

cut down one of the guards, pushed aside the other, and, passing like a

thunderbolt between the two men stationed at the door of the antechamber,

received their fire without injury. He had still got a loaded pistol,

besides the sword which he so well knew how to handle. For one second he

hesitated whether he should take refuge in Monsieur d'Alencon's apartment,

the door of which, he thought, was just then opened, or whether he should

endeavour to leave the Louvre. Deciding upon the latter course, he sprang

down the stairs, ten steps at a time, reached the wicket, uttered the

password, and darted out.

"Go up-stairs," he shouted as he passed the guardhouse; "they are slaying

there for the king's account."

And before he could be pursued, he had disappeared in the Rue du Coq,

without having received a scratch.

It was at this moment of time that Catharine had said to De

Nancey--"Remain here; I will go myself to see what is occurring."

"But, madam," replied the captain, "the danger to which your Majesty might

be exposed compels me to follow."

"Remain here, sir," said Catharine, in a more imperative tone than before.

"A higher power than that of the sword watches over the safety of kings."

The captain obeyed. Catharine took a lamp, thrust her naked feet into

velvet slippers, entered the corridor, which was still full of smoke, and

advanced, cold and unmoved, towards the apartment of the King of Navarre.

All was again dead silence. Catharine reached the outer door of Henry's

rooms, and passed into the antechamber, where Orthon was lying, still

insensible.

"Ah, ha!" said she, "here is the page to begin with; a little further we

shall doubtless find the master." And she passed through the second room.

Then her foot struck against a corpse: it was that of the soldier whose

skull had been split. He was quite dead. Three paces further she found the

lieutenant: a ball in his breast, and the death-rattle in his throat.

Finally, near the bed, lay a man bleeding profusely from a double wound

that had gone completely through his throat. He was making violent but

ineffectual efforts to raise himself from the ground. This was Maurevel.

Catharine's blood ran cold; she saw the bed empty; she looked round the

room, and sought in vain amongst the three bodies that lay weltering upon

the floor, that of him whom she would fain have seen there. Maurevel

recognised her; his eyes became horribly dilated, and he held out his arms

with a gesture of despair.

"Well," said she, in a low voice "where is he? What has become of him?

Wretch! have you let him escape?"

Maurevel endeavored to articulate; but an unintelligible hissing, which

issued from his wound, was the only sound he could give forth; a reddish

froth fringed his lips, and he shook his head in sign of impotence and

suffering.

"But speak, then!" cried Catharine; "speak, if it be only to say one

word."

Maurevel pointed to his wound and again uttered some inarticulate sounds,

made an effort which ended in a hoarse rattle, and swooned away. Catharine

then looked around her: she was surrounded by the dead and the dying;

blood was flowing in streams over the floor, and a gloomy silence

prevailed in the apartment. She spoke once more to Maurevel, but he could

not hear her voice; this time he remained not only silent, but motionless.

Whilst stooping over him, Catharine perceived the corner of a paper

protruding from the breast of his doublet: it was the order to arrest

Henry. The queen-mother seized it and hid it in her bosom. Then, in

despair at the failure of her murderous project, she called the captain of

her guard, ordered the dead men to be removed, and that Maurevel, who

still lived, should be conveyed to his house. She moreover particularly

commanded that the king should not be disturbed.

"Oh!" murmured she, as she reentered her apartment, her head bowed upon

her breast, "he has again escaped me! Surely the hand of God protects this

man. He will reign! he will reign!"

Then, as she opened the door of her bedroom, she passed her hand over her

forehead, and composed her features into a smile.

"What was the matter, madam?" enquired all her ladies, with the exception

of Madame de Sauve, who was too anxious and agitated to ask questions.

"Nothing," replied Catharine; "a great deal of noise and nothing else."

"Oh!" suddenly exclaimed Madame de Sauve, pointing to the ground with her

finger, "each one of your Majesty's footsteps leaves a trace of blood upon

the carpet!"

Thrice foiled in her designs upon Henry's life, the queen-mother does not

yet give in. Henry, whom the king has reproached with his ignorance of

falconry, has asked the Duke of Alencon to procure him a book on that

subject. Catharine hears of this request, and gives D'Alencon a book of

the kind required--a rare and valuable work, but of which the edges of the

leaves are stuck together, apparently from age, in reality by poison. The

idea is old, but its application is novel and very effective. The

queen-mother convinces D'Alencon that Henry is playing him false, and the

duke places the fatal book in the King of Navarre's room during his

absence, being afraid to give it into his hands. He then re-enters his

apartment, hears Henry, as he thinks, return to his, and passes half an

hour in the agonies of suspense and terror. To escape from himself and his

reflections, he goes to visit his brother Charles. We have only space for

a very short extract, showing the frightful and unexpected result of

Catharine's atrocious scheme.

Charles was seated at a table in a large carved arm-chair: his back was

turned to the door by which Francis had entered, and he appeared absorbed

in some very interesting occupation. The duke approached on tiptoe;

Charles was reading.

"_Pardieu!_" exclaimed the king on a sudden, "this is an admirable book. I

have heard speak of it, but I knew not that a copy existed in France."

D'Alencon made another step in advance.

"Curse the leaves!" cried the king, putting his thumb to his lips, and

pressing it on the page he had just read, in order to detach it from the

one he was about to read; "one would think they had been stuck together on

purpose, in order to conceal from men's eyes the wonders they contain."

D'Alencon made a bound forwards. The book Charles was reading was the one

he had left in Henry's room. A cry of horror escaped him.

"Ha! is it you, D'Alencon?" said Charles; "come here and look; at the most

admirable treatise on falconry that was ever produced by the pen of man."

D'Alencon's first impulse was to snatch the book from his brother's hands;

but an infernal thought paralysed the movement--a frightful smile passed

over his pallid lips; he drew his hand across his eyes as if something

dazzled him. Then gradually recovering himself--

"Sire," said he to the king, "how can this book have come into your

Majesty's hands?"

"In the most simple manner possible. I went up just now to Henriot's room,

to see if he was ready to go a-hawking. He was not there, but in his stead

I found this treasure, which I brought down with me to read at my ease."

And the king put his thumb to his lips and turned another page.

"Sire," stammered D'Alencon, who felt a horrible anguish come over him,

"Sire, I came to tell you----"

"Let me finish this chapter, Francis," interrupted Charles. "You shall

tell me whatever you like afterwards. I have read fifty pages already, or

devoured them, I should rather say."

"He has tasted the poison twenty-five times!" thought Francis. "My brother

is a dead man."

He wiped, with his trembling hand, the chill dew that stood upon his brow,

and waited, as the king had commanded, till the chapter was finished.

The end of Charles IX. is well known. A dreadful complaint, a sweat of

blood, which many historians attribute to poison, and which the Huguenots

maintained to be a punishment inflicted on him by Heaven for the massacre

of their brethren, rendered the latter months of his life a period of

horrible torture. At his death, Henry, having every thing to dread from

the animosity of Catharine, and from that of the Duke of Anjou, Charles's

successor, fled from Paris, and took refuge in his kingdom of Navarre.