Александр Дюма
Marguerite de Valois
"Speak!" cried Catharine, "speak! if only one word!"
Maurevel pointed to his wound, again made several inarticulate gasps, which ended in a hoarse rattle, and fainted.
Catharine looked around her. She was surrounded by the bodies of dead and dying; blood flowed in every direction, and the silence of death hovered over everything.
Once again she spoke to Maurevel, but failed to rouse him; he was not only silent but motionless; a paper was in his doublet. It was the order of arrest signed by the King. Catharine seized it and hid it in her breast. Just then she heard a light step behind her, and turning, she saw the Duc d'Alençon at the door. In spite of himself he had been drawn thither by the noise, and the sight before him fascinated him.
"You here?" said she.
"Yes, madame. For God's sake what has happened?"
"Go back to your room, François; you will know soon enough."
D'Alençon was not as ignorant of the affair as Catharine supposed.
At the sound of the first steps in the corridor he had listened. Seeing some men enter the apartments of the King of Navarre, and by connecting this with some words Catharine had uttered, he had guessed what was about to take place, and was rejoiced at having so dangerous an enemy destroyed by a hand stronger than his own. Before long the noises of pistol-shots and the rapid steps of a man running had attracted his attention, and he had seen disappearing in the light space caused by the opening of the door leading to the stairway the red cloak too well known not to be recognized.
"De Mouy!" he cried, "De Mouy in the apartments of the King of Navarre! Why, that is impossible! Can it be Monsieur de la Mole?"
He grew alarmed. Remembering that the young man had been recommended to him by Marguerite herself, and wishing to make sure that it was he whom he had just seen, he ascended hurriedly to the chamber of the two young men. It was vacant. But in a corner he found the famous red cloak hanging against the wall. His suspicions were confirmed. It was not La Mole, but De Mouy. Pale and trembling lest the Huguenot should be discovered, and would betray the secrets of the conspiracy, he rushed to the gate of the Louvre. There he was told that the red cloak had escaped safe and sound, shouting out as he passed that some one was being murdered in the Louvre by order of the King.
"He is mistaken," murmured D'Alençon; "it is by order of the queen mother."
Returning to the scene of combat, he found Catharine wandering like a hyena among the dead.
At the order from his mother the young man returned to his rooms, affecting calmness and obedience, in spite of the tumultuous thoughts which were passing through his mind.
In despair at the failure of this new attempt, Catharine called the captain of the guards, had the bodies removed, gave orders that Maurevel, who was only wounded, be carried to his home, and told them not to waken the King.
"Oh!" she murmured, as she returned to her rooms, her head sunk on her bosom, "he has again escaped. The hand of God is over this man. He will reign! he will reign!"
Entering her room, she passed her hand across her brow, and assumed an ordinary smile.
"What was the matter, madame?" asked every one except Madame de Sauve, who was too frightened to ask any questions.
"Nothing," replied Catharine; "a noise, that was all."
"Oh!" cried Madame de Sauve, suddenly pointing to the floor, "your majesty says there is nothing the matter, and every one of your majesty's steps leaves a trace of blood on the carpet!"
CHAPTER XXXV
A NIGHT OF KINGS
Charles IX. walked along with Henry leaning on his arm, followed by his four gentlemen and preceded by two torch-bearers.
"When I leave the Louvre," said the poor King, "I feel a pleasure similar to that which comes to me when I enter a beautiful forest. I breathe, I live, I am free."
Henry smiled.
"In that case," said he, "your Majesty would be in your element among the mountains of the Béarn."
"Yes, and I understand that you want to go back to them; but if you are very anxious to do so, Henriot," added Charles, laughing, "my advice is to be careful, for my mother Catharine loves you so dearly that it is absolutely impossible for her to get along without you."
"What does your Majesty plan to do this evening?" asked Henry, changing this dangerous conversation.
"I want to have you meet some one, Henriot, and you shall give me your opinion."
"I am at your Majesty's orders."
"To the right! to the right! We will take the Rue des Barres."
The two kings, followed by their escort, had passed the Rue de la Savonnerie, when in front of the Hôtel de Condé they saw two men, wrapped in large cloaks, coming out of a secret door which one of them noiselessly closed behind him.
"Oh! oh!" said the King to Henry, who as usual had seen everything, but had not spoken, "this deserves attention."
"Why do you say that, sire?" asked the King of Navarre.
"It is not on your account, Henriot. You are sure of your wife," added Charles with a smile; "but your cousin De Condé is not sure of his, or if so, he is making a mistake, the devil!"
"But how do you know, sire, that it is Madame de Condé whom these gentlemen have been visiting?"
"Instinct tells me. The fact that the men stood in the doorway without moving until they saw us; then the cut of the shorter one's cloak – by Heaven! that would be strange!"
"What?"
"Nothing. An idea I had, that is all; let us go on."
He walked up to the two men, who, seeing him, started to walk away.
"Hello, gentlemen!" cried the King; "stop!"
"Are you speaking to us?" asked a voice which made Charles and his companion tremble.
"Well, Henriot," said Charles, "do you recognize the voice now?"
"Sire," said Henry, "if your brother the Duc d'Anjou was not at La Rochelle, I would swear it was he speaking."
"Well," said Charles, "he is not at La Rochelle, that is all."
"But who is with him?"
"Do you not recognize his companion?"
"No, sire."
"Yet his figure is unmistakable. Wait, you shall see who he is – hello, there! I tell you," cried the King, "do you not hear, by Heaven?"
"Are you the watch, that you order us to stop?" said the taller of the two men, freeing his arm from the folds of his cloak.
"Pretend that we are the watch," said the King, "and stop when we tell you to do so."
Leaning over to Henry's ear, he added:
"Now you will see the volcano send forth its fire."
"There are eight of you," said the taller of the two men, this time showing not only his arm but his face, "but were you a hundred, pass on!"
"Ah! ah! the Duc de Guise!" said Henry.
"Ah! our cousin from Lorraine," said the King; "at last you will meet! How fortunate!"
"The King!" cried the duke.
At these words the other man covered himself with his cloak and stood motionless, having first uncovered out of respect.
"Sire," said the Duc de Guise, "I have just been paying a visit to my sister-in-law, Madame de Condé."
"Yes – and you brought one of your gentlemen with you? Which one?"
"Sire," replied the duke, "your Majesty does not know him."
"We will meet him, however," said the King.
Walking up to the other figure, he signed to one of the lackeys to bring a torch.
"Pardon me, brother!" said the Duc d'Anjou, opening his cloak and bowing with poorly disguised anger.
"Ah! ah! Henry, is it you? But no, it is not possible, I am mistaken – my brother of Anjou would not have gone to see any one else before first calling on me. He knows that for royal princes, returning to the capital, Paris has but one entrance, the gate of the Louvre."
"Pardon me, sire," said the Duc d'Anjou; "I beg your Majesty to excuse my thoughtlessness."
"Ah, yes!" replied the King, mockingly; "and what were you doing, brother, at the Hôtel de Condé?"
"Why," said the King of Navarre in his sly way, "what your Majesty intimated just now."
And leaning over to the King he ended his sentence in a burst of laughter.
"What is it?" asked the Duc de Guise, haughtily; for like every one else at court, he had a way of treating the poor King of Navarre very rudely, "why should I not go and see my sister-in-law. Does not Monsieur le Duc d'Alençon visit his?"
Henry flushed slightly.
"What sister-in-law?" asked Charles. "I know none except Queen Elizabeth."
"Pardon, sire! it was your sister I should have said – Madame Marguerite, whom we saw pass in her litter as we came by here half an hour ago. She was accompanied by two courtiers who rode on either side of her."
"Indeed!" said Charles. "What do you say to that, Henry?"
"That the Queen of Navarre is perfectly free to go where she pleases, but I doubt if she has left the Louvre."
"Well, I am sure she did," said the Duc de Guise.
"And I too," said the Duc d'Anjou, "from the fact that the litter stopped in the Rue Cloche Percée."
"Your sister-in-law, not this one," said Henry, pointing to the Hôtel de Condé, "but that one," turning in the direction of the Hôtel de Guise, "must also be of the party, for we left them together, and, as you know, they are inseparable."
"I do not know what your majesty means," replied the Duc de Guise.
"On the contrary," said the king, "nothing is simpler. That is why a courtier was riding at either side of the litter."
"Well!" said the duke, "if there is any scandal concerning my sisters-in-law, let us beg the King to withhold justice."
"Well, by Heaven," said Henry, "let us leave Madame de Condé and Madame de Nevers; the King is not anxious about his sister – and I have confidence in my wife."
"No, no," said Charles, "I want to make sure of it; but let us attend to the matter ourselves. The litter stopped in the Rue Cloche Percée, you say, cousin?"
"Yes, sire."
"Do you know the house?"
"Yes, sire."
"Well, let us go to it. And if in order to find out who is in it, it is necessary to burn it down, we will burn it."
It was with this end in view, which was rather discouraging for the tranquillity of those concerned, that the four chief lords of the Christian world set out to the Rue Saint Antoine.
They reached the Rue Cloche Percée. Charles, who wished to work privately, dismissed the gentlemen of his suite, saying that they might have the rest of the night to themselves, but for them to be at the Bastille with two horses at six o'clock in the morning.
There were only three houses in the Rue Cloche Percée. The search was much less difficult as two of the buildings were perfectly willing to open their doors. One of the houses faced the Rue Saint Antoine and the other the Rue du Roi de Sicile.
As to the third house, that was a different matter. It was the one which was guarded by the German janitor, and this janitor was not easily managed. That night Paris seemed destined to offer memorable examples of conjugal fidelity. In vain did Monsieur de Guise threaten in his purest Saxon; in vain did Henry of Anjou offer a purse filled with gold; in vain Charles went so far as to say that he was lieutenant of the watch; the brave German paid attention neither to the statement, the offer, nor the threats. Seeing that they insisted, and in a way that was becoming importunate, he slipped the nose of a gun under the iron bars, a move which brought forth bursts of laughter from three of the four visitors. Henry of Navarre stood apart, as if the affair had no interest for him. But as the weapon could not be turned between the bars, it was scarcely dangerous for any except a blind man, who might stand directly in front of it.
Seeing that the porter was neither to be intimidated, bribed, nor persuaded, the Duc de Guise pretended to leave with his companions; but the retreat did not last long. At the corner of the Rue Saint Antoine the duke found what he sought. This was a rock similar in size to those which three thousand years before had been moved by Ajax, son of Telamon, and Diomed. The duke raised it to his shoulder and came back, signing to his companions to follow. Just then the janitor, who had seen those he took for malefactors depart, closed the door. But he had not time to draw the bolts before the Duc de Guise took advantage of the moment, and hurled his veritable living catapult against the door. The lock broke, carrying away a portion of the wall to which it had been fastened. The door sprang open, knocking down the German, who, in falling, gave a terrible cry. This cry awakened the garrison, which otherwise would have run great risk of being surprised.
At that moment La Mole and Marguerite were translating an idyl of Theocritus, and Coconnas, pretending that he too was a Greek, was drinking some strong wine from Syracuse with Henriette. The scientific and bacchanalian conversation was violently interrupted.
La Mole and Coconnas at once extinguished the candles, and opening the windows, sprang out on the balcony. Then perceiving four men in the darkness, they set to work to hurl at them everything they had at hand, in the meantime making a frightful noise with blows from the flat of their swords, which, however, struck nothing but the wall. Charles, the most infuriated of the besiegers, received a sharp blow on the shoulder, the Duc d'Anjou a bowl full of orange and lemon marmalade, and the Duc de Guise a leg of venison. Henry received nothing. He was downstairs questioning the porter, whom Monsieur de Guise had strapped to the door, and who continued to answer by his eternal "Ich verstehe nicht." The women encouraged the besieged by handing them projectiles, which succeeded one another like hailstones.
"The devil!" exclaimed Charles IX., as a table struck his head, driving his hat over his eyes, "if they don't open the door pretty soon I will have them all hanged."
"My brother!" whispered Marguerite to La Mole.
"The King!" cried the latter to Henriette.
"The King! the King!" repeated Henriette to Coconnas, who was dragging a chest to the window, and who was trying to exterminate the Duc de Guise. Without knowing who the latter was he was having a private struggle with him.
"The King, I tell you," repeated Henriette.
Coconnas let go of the chest and looked up in amazement.
"The King?" said he.
"Yes, the King."
"Then let us hide."
"Yes. La Mole and Marguerite have already fled. Come!"
"Where?"
"Come, I tell you."
And seizing him by the hand, Henriette pushed Coconnas through the secret door which connected with the adjoining house, and all four, having locked this door behind them, escaped into the Rue Tizon.
"Oh! oh!" said Charles, "I think that the garrison has surrendered."
They waited a few minutes. No sound reached the besiegers.
"They are preparing some ruse," said the Duc de Guise.
"It is more likely that they have recognized my brother's voice and have fled," said the Duc d'Anjou.
"They would have to pass by here," said Charles.
"Yes," said the Duc d'Anjou, "unless the house has two exits."
"Cousin," said the King, "take up your stone again and hurl it against the other door as you did at this."
The duke thought it unnecessary to resort to such means, and as he had noticed that the second door was not as solid as the first he broke it down by a simple kick.
"The torches! the torches!" cried the King.
The lackeys approached. The torches were out, but the men had everything necessary for relighting them. This was done. Charles IX. took one and handed the other to the Duc d'Anjou.
The Duc de Guise entered first, sword in hand.
Henry brought up the rear.
They reached the first floor.
In the dining-room the table was set or rather upset, for it was the supper which had furnished the projectiles. The candlesticks were overturned, the furniture topsy-turvy, and everything which was not silver plate lay in fragments.
They entered the reception-room, but found no more clue there than in the other room as to the identity of the revellers. Some Greek and Latin books and several musical instruments were all they saw.
The sleeping-room was more silent still. A night lamp burned in an alabaster globe suspended from the ceiling; but it was evident that the room had not been occupied.
"There is a second door," said the King.
"Very likely," said the Duc d'Anjou.
"But where is it?" asked the Duc de Guise.
They looked everywhere, but could not find it.
"Where is the janitor?" asked the King.
"I bound him to the gate," said the Duc de Guise.
"Ask him, cousin."
"He will not answer."
"Bah! we will have a dry fire built around his legs," said the King, laughing, "then he will speak."
Henry glanced hurriedly out of the window.
"He is not there," said he.
"Who untied him?" asked the Duc de Guise, quickly.
"The devil!" exclaimed the King, "and we know nothing as yet."
"Well!" said Henry, "you see very clearly, sire, that there is nothing to prove that my wife and Monsieur de Guise's sister-in-law have been in this house."
"That is so," said Charles. "The Scriptures tell us that there are three things which leave no trace – the bird in the air, the fish in the sea, and the woman – no, I am wrong, the man, in" —
"So," interrupted Henry, "what we had better do is" —
"Yes," said Charles, "what we had better do is for me to look after my bruise, for you, D'Anjou, to wipe off your orange marmalade, and for you, De Guise, to get rid of the grease." Thereupon they left without even troubling to close the door. Reaching the Rue Saint Antoine:
"Where are you bound for, gentlemen?" asked the King of the Duc d'Anjou and the Duc de Guise.
"Sire, we are going to the house of Nantouillet, who is expecting my Lorraine cousin and myself to supper. Will your Majesty come with us?"
"No, thanks, we are going in a different direction. Will you take one of my torch-bearers?"
"Thank you, no, sire," said the Duc d'Anjou, hastily.
"Good; he is afraid I will spy on him," whispered Charles to the King of Navarre.
Then taking the latter by the arm:
"Come, Henriot," said he, "I will take you to supper to-night."
"Are we not going back to the Louvre?" asked Henry.
"No, I tell you, you stupid! Come with me, since I tell you to come. Come!"
And he dragged Henry down the Rue Geoffroy Lasnier.
CHAPTER XXXVI
THE ANAGRAM
The Rue Garnier sur l'Eau runs into the Rue Geoffroy Lasnier, and the Rue des Barres lies at right angles to the former.
On the right, a short distance down the Rue de la Mortellerie, stands a small house in the centre of a garden surrounded by a high wall, which has but one entrance. Charles drew a key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock. The gate was unbolted and immediately opened. Telling Henry and the lackey bearing the torch to enter, the King closed and locked the gate behind him.
Light came from one small window which Charles smilingly pointed out to Henry.
"Sire, I do not understand," said the latter.
"But you will, Henriot."
The King of Navarre looked at Charles in amazement. His voice and his face had assumed an expression of gentleness so different from usual that Henry scarcely recognized him.
"Henriot," said the King, "I told you that when I left the Louvre I came out of hell. When I enter here I am in paradise."
"Sire," said Henry, "I am happy that your Majesty has thought me worthy of taking this trip to Heaven with you."
"The road thither is a narrow one," said the King, turning to a small stairway, "but nothing can be compared to it."
"Who is the angel who guards the entrance to your Eden, sire?"
"You shall see," replied Charles IX.
Signing to Henry to follow him noiselessly, he opened first one door, then another, and finally paused on a threshold.
"Look!" said he.
Henry approached and gazed on one of the most beautiful pictures he had ever seen.
A young woman of eighteen or nineteen lay sleeping, her head resting on the foot of a little bed in which a child was asleep. The woman held its little feet close to her lips, while her long hair fell over her shoulders like a flood of gold. It was like one of Albane's pictures of the Virgin and the Child Jesus.
"Oh, sire," said the King of Navarre, "who is this lovely creature?"
"The angel of my paradise, Henriot, the only one who loves me."
Henry smiled.
"Yes," said Charles, "for she loved me before she knew I was King."
"And since she has known it?"
"Well, since she has known it," said Charles, with a smile which showed that royalty sometimes weighed heavily on him, "since she has known it she loves me still; so you may judge."
The King approached the woman softly and pressed a kiss as light as that which a bee gives to a lily on her rosy cheek.
Yet, light as it was, she awakened at once.
"Charles!" she murmured, opening her eyes.
"You see," said the King, "she calls me Charles. The queen says 'sire'!"
"Oh!" cried the young woman, "you are not alone, my King."
"No, my sweet Marie, I wanted to bring you another king, happier than myself because he has no crown; more unhappy than I because he has no Marie Touchet. God makes compensation for everything."
"Sire, is it the King of Navarre?" asked Marie.
"Yes, my child; come here, Henriot." The King of Navarre drew near; Charles took him by the hand.
"See this hand, Marie," said he, "it is the hand of a good brother and a loyal friend. Were it not for this hand" —
"Well, sire?"
"Well, had it not been for this hand to-day, Marie, our child would have no father."
Marie uttered a cry, fell on her knees, and seizing Henry's hand covered it with kisses.
"Very good, Marie, very good," said Charles.
"What have you done to thank him, sire?"
"I have done for him what he did for me."
Henry looked at Charles in astonishment.
"Some day you will know what I mean, Henriot; meanwhile come here and see." He approached the bed, on which the child still slept.
"Ah!" said he, "if this little fellow were in the Louvre instead of here in this little house in the Rue des Barres, many things would be changed for the present as well as for the future perhaps."13
"Sire," said Marie, "if your Majesty is willing, I prefer him to stay here; he sleeps better."
"Let us not disturb his slumber, then," said the King; "it is so sweet to sleep when one does not dream!"
"Well, sire," said Marie, pointing to a door opening out of the room.
"Yes, you are right, Marie," said Charles IX., "let us have supper."
"My well-beloved Charles," said Marie, "you will ask the king your brother to excuse me, will you not?"
"Why?"
"For having dismissed our servants, sire," continued Marie, turning to the King of Navarre; "you must know that Charles wants to be served by me alone."
"Ventre saint gris!" said Henry, "I should think so!"
Both men entered the dining-room. The mother, anxious and careful, laid a warm blanket over the little Charles, who, thanks to the sound sleep of childhood, so envied by his father, had not wakened.
Marie rejoined them.
"There are only two covers!" said the King.
"Permit me," said Marie, "to serve your majesties."
"Now," said Charles, "this is where you cause me trouble, Henriot."
"How so, sire?"
"Did you not hear?"
"Forgive me, Charles, forgive me."
"Yes, I will forgive you. But sit here, near me, between us."
"I will obey," said Marie.
She brought a plate, sat down between the two kings, and served them.
"Is it not good, Henriot," said Charles, "to have one place in the world in which one can eat and drink without needing any one to taste the meats and wines beforehand?"
"Sire," said Henry, smiling, and by the smile replying to the constant fear in his own mind, "believe me, I appreciate your happiness more than any one."
"And tell her, Henriot, that in order for us to live happily, she must not mingle in politics. Above all, she must not become acquainted with my mother."
"Queen Catharine loves your Majesty so passionately that she would be jealous of any other love," replied Henry, finding by a subterfuge the means of avoiding the dangerous confidence of the King.
"Marie," said the latter, "I have brought you one of the finest and the wittiest men I know. At court, you see, and this is saying a great deal, he puts every one in the shade. I alone have clearly understood, not his heart, perhaps, but his mind."
"Sire," said Henry, "I am sorry that in exaggerating the one as you do, you mistrust the other."
"I exaggerate nothing, Henriot," said the King; "besides, you will be known some day."
Then turning to the young woman:
"He makes delightful anagrams. Ask him to make one of your name. I will answer that he will do it."
"Oh, what could you expect to find in the name of a poor girl like me? What gentle thought could there be in the letters with which chance spelled Marie Touchet?"
"Oh! the anagram from this name, sire," said Henry, "is so easy that there is no great merit in finding it."
"Ah! ah! it is already found," said Charles. "You see – Marie."
Henry drew his tablets from the pocket of his doublet, tore out a paper, and below the name Marie Touchet wrote Je charme tout. Then he handed the paper to the young woman.
"Truly," she cried, "it is impossible!"
"What has he found?" asked Charles.
"Sire, I dare not repeat it."
"Sire," said Henry, "in the name Marie Touchet there is, letter for letter, by changing the 'i' into a 'j,' as is often done, Je charme tout." (I charm all.)
"Yes," exclaimed Charles, "letter for letter. I want this to be your motto, Marie, do you hear? Never was one better deserved. Thanks, Henriot. Marie, I will give it to you written in diamonds."
The supper over, two o'clock struck from Notre-Dame.
"Now," said Charles, "in return for this compliment, Marie, you will give the king an armchair, in which he can sleep until daybreak; but let it be some distance from us, because he snores frightfully. Then if you waken before I do, you will rouse me, for at six o'clock we have to be at the Bastille. Good-night, Henriot. Make yourself as comfortable as possible. But," he added, approaching the King of Navarre and laying his hand on his shoulder, "for your life, Henry, – do you hear? for your life, – do not leave here without me, especially to return to the Louvre."
Henry had suspected too many things in what still remained unexplained to him to disobey such advice. Charles IX. entered his room, and Henry, the sturdy mountaineer, settled himself in an armchair, in which he soon justified the precaution taken by his brother-in-law in keeping at a distance.
At dawn he was awakened by Charles. As he had not undressed, it did not take him long to finish his toilet. The King was more happy and smiling than he ever was at the Louvre. The hours spent by him in that little house in the Rue des Barres were his hours of sunshine.
Both men went out through the sleeping-room. The young woman was still in bed. The child was asleep in its cradle. Both were smiling.
Charles looked at them for a moment with infinite tenderness.
Then turning to the King of Navarre:
"Henriot," said he, "if you ever hear what I did for you last night, or if misfortune come to me, remember this child asleep in its cradle."
Then kissing both mother and child on the forehead, without giving Henry time to question him:
"Good-by, my angels," said he, and went out.
Henry followed, deep in thought. The horses were waiting for them at the Bastille, held by the gentlemen to whom Charles IX. had given the order.
Charles signed to Henry to mount, sprang into his own saddle, and riding through the garden of the Arbalite, followed the outside highways.
"Where are we going?" asked Henry.
"We are going to see if the Duc d'Anjou returned for Madame de Condé alone," replied Charles, "and if there is as much ambition as love in his heart, which I greatly doubt."
Henry did not understand the answer, but followed Charles in silence.
They reached the Marais, and as from the shadow of the palisades they could see all which at that time was called the Faubourg Saint Laurent, Charles pointed out to Henry through the grayish mist of the morning some men wrapped in great cloaks and wearing fur caps. They were on horseback, and rode ahead of a wagon which was heavily laden. As they drew near they became outlined more clearly, and one could see another man in a long brown cloak, his face hidden by a French hat, riding and talking with them.
"Ah! ah!" said Charles, smiling, "I thought so."
"Well, sire," said Henry, "if I am not mistaken, that rider in the brown cloak is the Duc d'Anjou."
"Yes," said Charles IX. "Turn out a little, Henriot, I do not want him to see us."
"But," asked Henry, "who are the men in gray cloaks with fur caps?"
"Those men," said Charles, "are Polish ambassadors, and in that wagon is a crown. And now," said he, urging his horse to a gallop, and turning into the road of the Porte du Temple, "come, Henriot, I have seen all that I wanted to see."
