THE VALOIS SAGA: Queen Margot, Chicot de Jester & The Forty-Five Guardsmen (Historical Novels). Alexandre DumasЧитать онлайн книгу.
exclaimed Marguerite.
“Shall I open?”
“Wait! perhaps it is the King of Navarre.”
“Oh, madame!” cried La Mole, recalled to himself by these words, which the queen had spoken in such a low tone that she hoped Gillonne only had heard them, “on my knees I entreat you, let me depart. Yes, dead or alive! madame, have pity on me! Oh! you do not answer. I will tell you all, and then you will drive me away, I hope.”
“Be silent,” said Marguerite, who found an indescribable charm in the young man’s reproaches; “be silent.”
“Madame,” replied La Mole, who did not find that anger he expected in the voice of the queen, “madame, I tell you again, everything is audible in this closet. Oh, do not make me perish by tortures more cruel than the executioner could inflict”—
“Silence! silence!” said Marguerite.
“Oh, madame, you are merciless! you will not hear me, you will not understand me. Know, then, that I love you”—
“Silence! I tell you,” interrupted Marguerite, placing on his mouth her warm, perfumed hand, which he seized between both of his and pressed eagerly to his lips.
“But”— he whispered.
“Be silent, child — who is this rebel that refuses to obey his queen?”
Then darting out of the closet, she shut the door and stood leaning against the wall pressing her trembling hand to her heart, as if to control it.
“Open, Gillonne.”
Gillonne left the room, and an instant after, the fine, intellectual, but rather anxious countenance of the King of Navarre appeared behind the tapestry.
“You have sent for me, madame?”
“Yes, sire. Your majesty received my letter?”
“And not without some surprise, I confess,” said Henry, looking round with distrust, which, however, almost instantly vanished from his mind.
“And not without some apprehension,” added Marguerite.
“I confess it, madame! But still, surrounded as I am by deadly enemies, by friends still more dangerous, perhaps, than my open foes, I recollected that one evening I had seen a noble generosity shining in your eyes —’twas the night of our marriage; that one other evening I had seen the star of courage beaming in them —’twas yesterday, the day fixed for my death.”
“Well, sire?” said Marguerite, smiling, while Henry seemed striving to read her heart.
“Well, madame,” returned the king, “thinking of these things, I said to myself, as I read your letter bidding me come: ‘Without friends, for he is a disarmed prisoner, the King of Navarre has but one means of dying nobly, of dying a death that will be recorded in history. It is to die betrayed by his wife; and I am come’"—
“Sire,” replied Marguerite, “you will change your tone when you learn that all this is the work of a woman who loves you — and whom you love.”
Henry started back at these words, and his keen gray eyes under their black lashes were fixed on the queen with curiosity.
“Oh, reassure yourself, sire,” said the queen, smiling; “I am not that person.”
“But, madame,” said Henry, “you sent me this key, and this is your writing.”
“It is my writing, I confess; the letter came from me, but the key is a different matter. Let it satisfy you to know that it has passed through the hands of four women before it reached you.”
“Of four women?” exclaimed Henry in astonishment.
“Yes,” said Marguerite; “Queen Catharine’s, Madame de Sauve’s, Gillonne’s, and mine.”
Henry pondered over this enigma.
“Now let us talk reasonably, sire,” said Marguerite, “and above all let us speak frankly. Common report has it that your majesty has consented to abjure. Is it true?”
“That report is mistaken; I have not yet consented.”
“But your mind is made up?”
“That is to say, I am deliberating. When one is twenty and almost a king, ventre saint gris! there are many things well worth a mass.”
“And among other things life, for instance!”
Henry could not repress a fleeting smile.
“You do not tell me your whole thought,” said Marguerite.
“I have reservations for my allies, madame; and you know we are but allies as yet; if indeed you were both my ally — and”—
“And your wife, sire?”
“Faith! yes, and my wife”—
“What then?”
“Why, then, it might be different, and I perhaps might resolve to remain King of the Huguenots, as they call me. But as it is, I must be content to live.”
Marguerite looked at Henry in such a peculiar manner that it would have awakened suspicion in a less acute mind than his.
“And are you quite sure of succeeding even in that?” she asked.
“Why, almost; but you know, in this world nothing is certain.”
“It is true,” replied Marguerite, “your majesty shows such moderation and professes such disinterestedness, that after having renounced your crown, after having renounced your religion, you will probably renounce your alliance with a daughter of France; at least this is hoped for.”
These words bore a significance which sent a thrill through Henry’s whole frame; but instantaneously repressing the emotion, he said:
“Deign to recollect, madame, that at this moment I am not my own master; I shall therefore do what the King of France orders me. If I were consulted the least in the world on this question, affecting as it does my throne, my honor, and my life, rather than build my future on this forced marriage of ours, I should prefer to enter a monastery or turn gamekeeper.”
This calm resignation, this renunciation of the world, alarmed Marguerite. She thought perhaps this rupture of the marriage had been agreed upon by Charles IX., Catharine, and the King of Navarre. Why should she not be taken as a dupe or a victim? Because she was sister of the one and daughter of the other? Experience had taught her that this relationship gave her no ground on which to build her security.
So ambition was gnawing at this young woman’s, or rather this young queen’s heart, and she was too far above vulgar frailties to be drawn into any selfish meanness; in the case of every woman, however mediocre she may be, when she loves her love has none of these petty trials, for true love is also an ambition.
“Your majesty,” said Marguerite, with a sort of mocking disdain, “has no confidence in the star that shines over the head of every king!”
“Ah,” said Henry, “I vainly look for mine now, I cannot see it; ’tis hidden by the storm which now threatens me!”
“And suppose a woman’s breath were to dispel this tempest, and make the star reappear, brilliant as ever?”
“’Twere difficult.”
“Do you deny the existence of this woman?”
“No, I deny her power.”
“You mean her will?”
“I said her power, and I repeat, her power. A woman is powerful only when love and interest are combined within her in equal degrees; if either sentiment predominates, she is, like Achilles, vulnerable; now as to this woman, if I mistake not, I cannot rely on her love.”
Marguerite