Александр Дюма
Marguerite de Valois
CHAPTER XLI
THE HOROSCOPE
On leaving the oratory, in which she had just informed Henry all that had occurred, Catharine found Réné in her chamber. It was the first time that the queen and the astrologer had seen each other since the visit the queen had made to his shop at the Pont Saint Michel. But the previous evening she had written him, and Réné had brought the answer to her note in person.
"Well," said the queen, "have you seen him?"
"Yes."
"How is he?"
"Somewhat better."
"Can he speak?"
"No, the sword traversed his larynx."
"I told you in that case to have him write."
"I tried. He collected all his strength, but his hand could trace only two letters. They are almost illegible. Then he fainted. The jugular vein was cut and the blood he lost has taken away all his strength."
"Have you seen the letters?"
"Here they are."
Réné drew a paper from his pocket and handed it to Catharine, who hastily unfolded it.
"An m and an o," said she. "Could it have been La Mole, and was all that acting of Marguerite done to throw me off the track?"
"Madame," said Réné, "if I dared to express my opinion in a matter about which your majesty hesitates to give yours I should say that I believe Monsieur de la Mole is too much in love to be seriously interested in politics."
"You think so?"
"Yes, and above all too much in love with the Queen of Navarre to serve the King very devotedly; for there is no real love without jealousy."
"You think that he is very much in love, then?"
"I am sure of it."
"Has he been to you?"
"Yes."
"Did he ask you for some potion or philter?"
"No, we kept to the wax figure."
"Pierced to the heart?"
"To the heart."
"And this figure still exists?"
"Yes."
"Have you it?"
"It is in my rooms."
"It would be strange," said Catharine, "if these cabalistic preparations really had the power attributed to them."
"Your majesty is a better judge of that than I."
"Is the Queen of Navarre in love with Monsieur de la Mole?"
"She loves him enough to ruin herself for him. Yesterday she saved him from death at the risk of her honor and her life. You see, madame, and yet you still doubt."
"Doubt what?"
"Science."
"Science also deceives me," said Catharine, looking steadily at Réné, who bore her gaze without flinching.
"About what?"
"Oh! you know what I mean; unless, of course, it was the scholar and not science."
"I do not know what you mean, madame," replied the Florentine.
"Réné, have your perfumes lost their odor?"
"No, madame, not when I use them; but it is possible that in passing through the hands of others" —
Catharine smiled and shook her head.
"Your opiate has done wonders, Réné," said she; "Madame de Sauve's lips are fresher and rosier than ever."
"It is not my opiate that is responsible for that, madame. The Baroness de Sauve, using the privilege of every pretty woman to be capricious, has said nothing more to me about this opiate, and after the suggestion from your majesty I thought it best to send her no more of it. So that all the boxes are still in my house just as you left them, with the exception of one which disappeared, I know not how or why."
"That is well, Réné," said Catharine; "perhaps later we may return to this. In the meantime, let us speak of the other matter."
"I am all attention, madame."
"What is necessary to gain an idea of the length of any one's life?"
"In the first place to know the day of his birth, his age, and under what condition he first saw light."
"And then?"
"To have some of his blood and a lock of his hair."
"If I bring you some of his blood and a lock of his hair, if I tell you the circumstance connected with his birth, the time, and his present age, will you tell me the probable date of his death?"
"Yes, to within a few days."
"Very well; I have a lock of his hair and will get some of his blood."
"Was he born during the day or night?"
"At twenty-three minutes past five in the afternoon."
"Be at my room at five o'clock to-morrow. The experiment must be made at the hour of his birth."
"Very well," said Catharine, "we will be there."
Réné bowed, and withdrew without apparently noticing the "we will be there," which, however, contrary to her usual habit, indicated that Catharine would not go alone.
The following morning at dawn Catharine went to her son's apartments. At midnight she had sent to inquire after him, and had been told that Maître Ambroise Paré was with him, ready to bleed him if the nervous troubles continued.
Still starting up from his sleep, and still pale from loss of blood, Charles dozed on the shoulder of his faithful nurse, who leaning against the bed had not moved for three hours for fear of waking her dear child.
A slight foam appeared from time to time on the lips of the sick man, and the nurse wiped it off with a fine embroidered linen handkerchief. On the bed lay another handkerchief covered with great spots of blood.
For an instant Catharine thought she would take possession of the handkerchief; but she feared that this blood mixed with the saliva would be weak, and would not be efficacious. She asked the nurse if the doctor had bled her son as he had said he would do. The nurse answered "Yes" and that the flow of blood had been so great that Charles had fainted twice. The queen mother, who, like all princesses in those days, had some knowledge of medicine, asked to see the blood. Nothing was easier to do, as the physician had ordered that the blood be kept in order that he might examine it. It was in a basin in an adjoining closet. Catharine went in to look at it, poured some into a small bottle which she had brought for this purpose; and then came back, hiding in her pocket her fingers, the tips of which otherwise would have betrayed her.
Just as she came back from the closet Charles opened his eyes and saw his mother. Then remembering as in a dream all his bitter thoughts:
"Ah! is it you, madame?" said he. "Well, say to your well loved son, to your Henry of Anjou, that it shall be to-morrow."
"My dear Charles," said Catharine, "it shall be just when you please. Be quiet now and go to sleep."
As if yielding to this advice Charles closed his eyes; and Catharine, who had spoken to him as one does to calm a sick person or a child, left the room. But when he heard the door close Charles suddenly sat up, and in a voice still weak from suffering, said:
"My chancellor! The seals! the court! – send for them all."
The nurse, with gentle insistence, laid the head of the King back on her shoulder, and in order to put him to sleep strove to rock him as she would have done a child.
"No, no, nurse, I cannot sleep any more. Call my attendants. I must work this morning."
When Charles spoke in that way he was obeyed; and even the nurse, in spite of the privileges allowed her by her foster-child, dared not disobey. She sent for those whom the King wanted, and the council was planned, not for the next day, which was out of the question, but for five days from then.
At the hour agreed on, that is, at five o'clock, the queen mother and the Duc d'Anjou repaired to the rooms of Réné, who, expecting their visit, had everything ready for the mysterious seance. In the room to the right, that is, in the chamber of sacrifices, a steel blade was heating over a glowing brazier. From its fanciful arabesques this blade was intended to represent the events of the destiny about which the oracle was to be consulted. On the altar lay the Book of Fate, and during the night, which had been very clear, Réné had studied the course and the position of the stars.
Henry of Anjou entered first. He wore a wig, a mask concealed his face, and a long cloak hid his figure. His mother followed. Had she not known beforehand that the man who had preceded her was her son she never would have recognized him. Catharine removed her mask; the Duc d'Anjou kept his on.
"Did you make any observations last night?" asked Catharine.
"Yes, madame," said Réné; "and the answer of the stars has already told me the past. The one you wish to know about, like every one born under the sign of the Cancer, has a warm heart and great pride. He is powerful. He has lived nearly a quarter of a century. He has until now had glory and wealth. Is this so, madame?"
"Possibly," said Catharine.
"Have you a lock of his hair, and some of his blood?"
"Yes."
Catharine handed to the necromancer a lock of fair hair and a small bottle filled with blood.
Réné took the flask, shook it thoroughly, so that the fibrine and water would mix, and poured a large drop of it on the glowing steel. The living liquid boiled for an instant, and then spread out into fantastic figures.
"Oh, madame," cried Réné, "I see him twisting in awful agony. Hear how he groans, how he calls for help! Do you see how everything around him becomes blood? Do you see how about his death-bed great combats are taking place? See, here are the lances; and look, there are the swords!"
"Will it be long before this happens?" asked Catharine, trembling from an indescribable emotion and laying her hand on that of Henry of Anjou, who in his eager curiosity was leaning over the brazier.
Réné approached the altar and repeated a cabalistic prayer, putting such energy and conviction into the act that the veins of his temples swelled, and caused the prophetic convulsions and nervous twinges from which the ancient priestesses suffered before their tripods, and even on their death-beds.
At length he rose and announced that everything was ready, took the flask, still three-quarters full, in one hand, and in the other the lock of hair. Then telling Catharine to open the book at random, and to read the first words she looked at, he poured the rest of the blood on the steel blade, and threw the hair into the brazier, pronouncing a cabalistic sentence composed of Hebrew words which he himself did not understand.
Instantly the Duc d'Anjou and Catharine saw a white figure appear on the sword like that of a corpse wrapped in his shroud. Another figure, which seemed that of a woman, was leaning over the first.
At the same time the hair caught fire and threw out a single flame, clear, swift, and barbed like a fiery tongue.
"One year," cried Réné, "scarcely one year, and this man shall die. A woman alone shall weep for him. But no, there at the end of the sword is another woman, with a child in her arms."
Catharine looked at her son, and, mother though she was, seemed to ask him who these two women were.
But Réné had scarcely finished speaking before the steel became white and everything gradually disappeared from its surface. Then Catharine opened the book and read the following lines in a voice which, in spite of her effort at control, she could not keep from shaking:
"‘Ains a peri cil que l'on redoutoit,
Plus tôt, trop tôt, si prudence n'etoit.’"14
A deep silence reigned for some moments.
"For the one whom you know," asked Catharine, "what are the signs for this month?"
"As favorable as ever, madame; unless Providence interferes with his destiny he will be fortunate. And yet" —
"And yet what?"
"One of the stars in his pleiad was covered with a black cloud while I made my observations."
"Ah!" exclaimed Catharine, "a black cloud – there is some hope, then?"
"Of whom are you speaking, madame?" asked the Duc d'Anjou.
Catharine drew her son away from the light of the brazier and spoke to him in a low tone.
Meanwhile Réné knelt down, and in the glow of the flame poured into his hand the last drop of blood which had remained in the bottom of the flask.
"Strange contradiction," said he, "which proves how little to be depended on is the evidence of simple science practised by ordinary men! To any one but myself, a physician, a scholar, even for Maître Ambroise Paré, this blood would seem so pure, so healthy, so full of life and animal spirits, that it would promise long years of life; and yet all this vigor will soon disappear, all this life will be extinct within a year!"
Catharine and Henry of Anjou had turned round and were listening.
The eyes of the prince glowed through his mask.
"Ah!" continued Réné, "the present alone is known to ordinary mortals; while to us the past and the future are known."
"So," continued Catharine, "you still think he will die within the year?"
"As surely as we are three living persons who some day will rest in our coffins."
"Yet you said that the blood was pure and healthy, and that it indicated a long life."
"Yes, if things followed their natural course. But might not an accident" —
"Ah, yes, do you hear?" said Catharine to Henry, "an accident" —
"Alas!" said the latter, "all the more reason for my staying."
"Oh, think no more about that: it is not possible."
Then turning to Réné:
"Thanks," said the young man, disguising his voice, "thanks; take this purse."
"Come, count," said Catharine, intentionally giving her son this title to throw Réné off the track.
They left.
"Oh, mother, you see," said Henry, "an accident – and if an accident should happen, I shall not be on hand; I shall be four hundred leagues from you" —
"Four hundred leagues are accomplished in eight days, my son."
"Yes; but how do I know whether those Poles will let me come back? If I could only wait, mother!"
"Who knows?" said Catharine; "might not this accident of which Réné speaks be the one which since yesterday has laid the King on a bed of pain? Listen, return by yourself, my child. I shall go back by the private door of the monastery of the Augustines. My suite is waiting for me in this convent. Go, now, Henry, go, and keep from irritating your brother in case you see him."
CHAPTER XLII
CONFIDENCES
The first thing the Duc d'Anjou heard on arriving at the Louvre was that the formal reception of the ambassadors was arranged for the fifth day from that. The tailors and the jewellers were waiting for the prince with magnificent clothes and superb jewels which the King had ordered for him.
While the duke tried them on with an anger which brought the tears to his eyes, Henry of Navarre was very gay in a magnificent collar of emeralds, a sword with a gold handle, and a precious ring which Charles had sent him that morning.
D'Alençon had just received a letter and had shut himself up in his own room to read it.
As to Coconnas, he was searching every corner of the Louvre for his friend.
In fact, as may easily be imagined, he had been somewhat surprised at not seeing La Mole return that night, and by morning had begun to feel some anxiety.
Consequently he had started out to find his friend. He began his search at the Hôtel de la Belle Étoile, went from there to the Rue Cloche Percée, from the Rue Cloche Percée to the Rue Tizon, from there to the Pont Saint Michel, and finally from the Pont Saint Michel to the Louvre. This search, so far as those who had been questioned were concerned, had been carried on in a way so original and exacting (which may easily be believed when one realizes the eccentric character of Coconnas) that it had caused some explanations between him and three courtiers. These explanations had ended, as was the fashion of the times, on the ground. In these encounters Coconnas had been as conscientious as he usually was in affairs of that kind, and had killed the first man and wounded the two others, saying:
"Poor La Mole, he knew Latin so well!"
The last victim, who was the Baron de Boissey, said as he fell:
"Oh, for the love of Heaven, Coconnas, do vary a little and at least say that he knew Greek!"
At last the report of the adventure in the corridor leaked out. Coconnas was heartbroken over it; for an instant he thought that all these kings and princes had killed his friend and thrown him into some dungeon.
He learned that D'Alençon had been of the party; and overlooking the majesty which surrounded a prince of the blood, he went to him and demanded an explanation as he would have done of a simple gentleman.
At first D'Alençon was inclined to thrust out of the door the impertinent fellow who came and asked for an account of his actions. But Coconnas spoke so curtly, his eyes flashed with such brightness, and the affair of the three duels in less than twenty-four hours had raised the Piedmontese so high, that D'Alençon reflected, and instead of yielding to his first inclination, he answered the gentleman with a charming smile:
"My dear Coconnas, it is true that the King was furious at receiving a silver bowl on his shoulder, that the Duc d'Anjou was vexed at being hit on the head by some orange marmalade, and the Duc de Guise humiliated at having the breath knocked out of him by a haunch of venison, and so they were all determined to kill Monsieur de la Mole. But a friend of your friend's turned aside the blow. The party therefore failed in their attempt. I give you my word as prince."
"Ah!" said Coconnas, breathing as hard as a pair of bellows. "By Heaven, monseigneur, this is good news, and I should like to know this friend to show him my gratitude."
Monsieur d'Alençon made no reply, but smiled more pleasantly than he had yet done, implying to Coconnas that this friend was none other than the prince himself.
"Well, monseigneur!" said Coconnas, "since you have gone so far as to tell me the beginning of the story, crown your kindness by finishing it. They tried to kill him, but failed, you say. Well, what happened then? I am brave and can bear the news. Have they thrown him into some dungeon? So much the better. It will make him more careful in future. He never would listen to my advice; besides, we can get him out, by Heaven! Stone does not baffle every one."
D'Alençon shook his head.
"The worst of all this, my brave Coconnas," said he, "is that your friend disappeared after the affair, and no one knows where he went."
"By Heaven!" cried the Piedmontese, again growing pale, "had he gone to hell I should at least have known where he is."
"Listen," said D'Alençon, who, although for different reasons, was as anxious as Coconnas to know La Mole's whereabouts, "I will give you the advice of a friend."
"Give it, my lord," said Coconnas, eagerly.
"Go to Queen Marguerite. She must know what has become of the friend you mourn."
"I will confess to your highness," said Coconnas, "that I had thought of going to her, but I scarcely dared. Madame Marguerite has a way of making me feel somewhat uncomfortable at times, and besides this, I feared that I might find her in tears. But since your highness assures me that La Mole is not dead and that her majesty knows where he is I will take heart and go to her."
"Do so, my friend," said François. "And when you find out where La Mole is, let me know, for really I am as anxious as you are. But remember one thing, Coconnas" —
"What?"
"Do not say you have come at my suggestion, for if you do you will learn nothing."
"Monseigneur," said Coconnas, "since your highness recommends secrecy on this point, I shall be as silent as a tench or as the queen mother."
"What a kind, good, generous prince he is!" murmured Coconnas as he set out to find the Queen of Navarre.
Marguerite was expecting Coconnas, for the report of his despair had reached her, and on hearing by what exploits his grief had showed itself she almost forgave him for his somewhat rude treatment of her friend Madame la Duchesse de Nevers, to whom he had not spoken for two or three days, owing to some misunderstanding between them. Therefore as soon as he was announced to the queen he was admitted.
Coconnas entered the room, unable to overcome the constraint which he had mentioned to D'Alençon, and which he had always felt in the presence of the queen. It was caused more by her superior intellect than by her rank. But Marguerite received him with a smile which at once put him at his ease.
"Ah, madame," said he, "give me back my friend, I beg you, or at least tell me what has become of him, for without him I cannot live. Imagine Euryalus without Nisus, Damon without Pythias, or Orestes without Pylades, and pity my grief for the sake of one of the heroes I have just mentioned, whose heart, I swear, was no more tender than mine."
Marguerite smiled, and having made Coconnas promise not to reveal the secret, she told him of La Mole's escape from the window. As to his hiding-place, insistent as were the prayers of the Piedmontese, she preserved the strictest silence. This only half satisfied Coconnas, so he resorted to diplomatic speeches of the highest order.
The result was that Marguerite saw clearly that the Duc d'Alençon was partly the cause of the courtier's great desire to know what had become of La Mole.
"Well," said the queen, "if you must know something definite about your friend, ask King Henry of Navarre. He alone has the right to speak. As to me, all I can tell you is that the friend for whom you are searching is alive, and you may believe what I say."
"I believe one thing still more, madame," replied Coconnas; "that is, that your beautiful eyes have not wept."
Thereupon, thinking that there was nothing to add to a remark which had the double advantage of expressing his thought as well as the high opinion he had of La Mole, Coconnas withdrew, pondering on a reconciliation with Madame de Nevers, not on her account, but in order that he might find out from her what he had been unable to learn from Marguerite.
Deep griefs are abnormal conditions in which the mind shakes off the yoke as soon as possible. The thought of leaving Marguerite had at first broken La Mole's heart, and it was in order to save the reputation of the queen rather than to preserve his own life that he had consented to run away.
Therefore, the following evening he returned to Paris to see Marguerite from her balcony. As if instinct told her of the young man's plan, the queen spent the whole evening at her window. The result was that the lovers met again with the indescribable delight which accompanies forbidden pleasures. More than this, the melancholy and romantic temperament of La Mole found a certain charm in the situation. But a man really in love is happy only for the time being, while he sees or is with the woman he loves. After he has left her he suffers. Anxious to see Marguerite again, La Mole set himself busily to work to bring about the event which would make it possible for him to be with her; namely, the flight of the King of Navarre.
Marguerite on her part willingly gave herself up to the happiness of being loved with so pure a devotion. Often she was angry with herself for what she regarded as a weakness. Her strong mind despised the poverty of ordinary love, insensible to the details which for tender souls make it the sweetest, the most delicate, and the most desirable of all pleasures. So she felt that the days, if not happily filled, were at least happily ended. When, at about nine o'clock every evening, she stepped out on her balcony in a white dressing-gown, she perceived in the darkness of the quay a horseman whose hand was raised first to his lips, then to his heart. Then a significant cough reminded the lover of a cherished voice. Sometimes a note was thrown by a little hand, and in the note was hidden some costly jewel, precious not on account of its value, but because it had belonged to her who threw it; and this would fall on the pavement a few feet from the young man. Then La Mole would swoop down on it like a kite, press it to his heart, answer in the same voice, while Marguerite stood at her balcony until the sound of the horse's hoofs had died away in the darkness. The steed, ridden at full speed when coming, on leaving seemed as if made of material as lifeless as that of the famous horse which lost Troy.
This was why the queen was not anxious as to the fate of La Mole. But fearing that he might be watched and followed she persistently refused all interviews except these clandestine ones, which began immediately after La Mole's flight and continued every evening until the time set for the formal reception of the ambassadors, a reception which by the express orders of Ambroise Paré, as we have seen, was postponed for several days.
The evening before this reception, at about nine o'clock, when every one in the Louvre was engaged in preparations for the following day, Marguerite opened her window and stepped out upon her balcony. As she did so, without waiting for her note, La Mole, in greater haste than usual, threw his note which with his usual skill fell at the feet of his royal mistress.
Marguerite realized that the missive contained something special, and retired from the balcony to read it. The note consisted of two separate sheets.
On the first page were these words:
"Madame, I must speak to the King of Navarre. The matter is urgent. I will wait."
On the second page were these words:
"My lady and my queen, arrange so that I may give you one of the kisses I now send you. I will wait."
Marguerite had scarcely finished the second part of the letter when she heard the voice of Henry of Navarre, who with his usual caution had knocked on the outer door, and was asking Gillonne if he might enter.
The queen at once separated the letter, put one of the sheets in her robe, the other in her pocket, hurriedly closed the window, and stepped to the door.
"Enter, sire," said she.
Notwithstanding the fact that Marguerite had been careful to close the window quickly and gently, the sound had reached Henry, whose acute senses, in the midst of people he greatly mistrusted, had almost acquired the exquisite delicacy they attain in the savage. But the King of Navarre was not one of those tyrants who forbid their wives from taking the air and watching the stars.
Henry was as gracious and smiling as ever.
"Madame," said he, "while every one is rehearsing the coming ceremonial, I thought I would come and have a little talk with you about my affairs, which you still regard as yours, do you not?"
"Certainly, monsieur," replied Marguerite; "are not our interests one and the same?"
"Yes, madame, and that is why I wanted to ask what you thought about Monsieur le Duc d'Alençon's avoiding me so for the last few days. The day before yesterday he even went to Saint Germain. Does it not mean either that he is planning to leave by himself, for he is watched very little, or that he is not going to leave at all? Give me your opinion, madame, if you please. I confess it will be a great relief to me to tell you mine."
"Your majesty is right in being anxious at my brother's silence. I have been thinking about it all day, and my idea is that as circumstances have changed he has changed with them."
"You mean, do you not, that seeing King Charles ill and the Duc d'Anjou King of Poland he would not be averse to staying in Paris to keep watch over the crown of France?"
"Exactly."
"Be it so. I ask nothing better than for him to remain," said Henry; "only that will change our entire plan. To leave without him I shall need three times the guarantees I should have asked for had I gone with your brother, whose name and presence in the enterprise would have been my safeguard. But what surprises me is that I have not heard from Monsieur de Mouy. It is not like him to stay away so long. Have you had any news of him, madame?"
"I, sire!" exclaimed Marguerite, in astonishment; "why, how could you expect" —
"Why, by Heaven, my dear, nothing would be more natural. In order to please me, you were kind enough to save the life of young La Mole, – he must have reached Nantes, – and if one can get to a place he can easily get away from it."
"Ah! this explains an enigma, the answer to which I could not make out," said Marguerite. "I had left my window open, and found, on coming back to my room, a note on my floor."
"There now," said Henry.
"A note which at first I could not understand, and to which I attached no importance whatsoever," continued Marguerite. "Perhaps I was wrong, and that it comes from that quarter."
"That is possible," said Henry; "I might even say probable. Might I see this note?"
"Certainly, sire," replied Marguerite, handing to the king the missive she had put into her pocket. The king glanced at it.
"Is it not Monsieur de la Mole's handwriting?" said he.
"I do not know," replied Marguerite. "It looks to me like a counterfeit."
"No matter, let us read it." And he read:
"Madame, I must speak to the King of Navarre. The matter is urgent. I will wait."
"So!" said Henry – "you see, he says he will wait."
"Certainly I see that," said Marguerite. "But what would you expect?"
"Why! ventre saint gris! I expect that he is waiting!"
"That he is waiting!" cried Marguerite, looking at her husband in astonishment. "How can you say such a thing, sire? A man whom the King tried to kill – a man who is watched, threatened – waiting, you say! Would that be possible? – are the doors made for those who have been" —
"Obliged to escape by the window – you were going to say?"
"Yes, you have finished my sentence."
"Well, but if they know the way by the window, let them take it, since it is perfectly impossible for them to enter by the door. It is very simple."
"Do you think so?" said Marguerite, flushing with pleasure at the thought of again being near La Mole.
"I am sure of it."
"But how could one reach the window?" asked the queen.
"Did you not keep the rope ladder I sent you? Where is your usual foresight?"
"Yes, sire, I kept it," said Marguerite.
"In that case there will be no difficulty," said Henry.
"What does your majesty wish?"
"Why, it is very simple," said Henry. "Fasten it to your balcony and let it hang down. If it is De Mouy who is waiting and he wants to mount it, he will do so."
Without losing his gravity Henry took the candle to aid Marguerite in her search for the ladder. They did not have to look long; it was in a wardrobe in the famous closet.
"There it is," said Henry; "now, madame, if I am not asking too much, fasten it to the balcony, I beg you."
"Why should I fasten it and not you, sire?" said Marguerite.
"Because the best conspirators are the most careful. Seeing a man might perhaps frighten away our friend, you see." Marguerite smiled and tied the ladder.
"There," said Henry, concealing himself in a corner of the room, "stand so he can see you; now drop the ladder; good! I am sure that De Mouy will climb up."
