THE VALOIS SAGA: Queen Margot, Chicot de Jester & The Forty-Five Guardsmen (Historical Novels). Alexandre DumasЧитать онлайн книгу.
we expected of him since you granted Henry of Navarre the honor of calling you his wife, he has given all your rights to another woman, and at this very instant even,” said Catharine, raising her voice — “this key opens the door of Madame de Sauve’s apartment — come with me and you will see”—
“Oh, not so loud, madame, not so loud, I beseech you!” said Marguerite, “for not only are you mistaken, but”—
“Well?”
“Well, you will awaken my husband!”
As she said these words Marguerite arose with a perfectly voluptuous grace, her white dress fluttering loosely around her, while the large open sleeves displayed her bare and faultlessly modelled arm and truly royal hand, and taking a rose-colored taper she held it near the bed, and drawing back the curtain, and smiling significantly at her mother, pointed to the haughty profile, the black locks, and the parted lips of the King of Navarre, who, as he lay upon the disordered bed, seemed buried in profound repose.
Pale, with haggard eyes, her body thrown back as if an abyss had opened at her feet, Catharine uttered not a cry, but a hoarse bellow.
“You see, madame,” said Marguerite, “you were misinformed.”
Catharine looked first at Marguerite, then at Henry. In her active mind she combined Marguerite’s smile with the picture of that pale and dewy brow, those eyes circled by dark-colored rings, and she bit her thin lips in silent fury.
Marguerite allowed her mother for a moment to contemplate this picture, which affected her like the head of Medusa. Then she dropped the curtain and stepping on her tip-toes she came back to Catharine and sat down:
“You were saying, madame?”—
The Florentine for several seconds tried to fathom the young woman’s naïveté; but as if her keen glance had become blunted on Marguerite’s calmness, she exclaimed, “Nothing,” and hastily left the room.
As soon as the sound of her departing footsteps had died away down the long corridor, the bed-curtains opened a second time, and Henry, with sparkling eyes, trembling hand, and panting breath, came out and knelt at Marguerite’s feet; he was dressed only in his short-clothes and his coat of mail, so that Marguerite, seeing him in such an odd rig, could not help laughing even while she was warmly shaking hands with him.
“Ah, madame! ah, Marguerite!” he cried, “how shall I ever repay you?”
And he covered her hand with kisses which gradually strayed higher up along her arm.
“Sire,” said she, gently retreating, “can you forget that a poor woman to whom you owe your life is mourning and suffering on your account? Madame de Sauve,” added she, in a lower tone, “has forgotten her jealousy in sending you to me; and to that sacrifice she may probably have to add her life, for you know better than any one how terrible is my mother’s anger!”
Henry shuddered; and, rising, started to leave the room.
“Upon second thoughts,” said Marguerite, with admirable coquetry, “I have thought it all over and I see no cause for alarm. The key was given to you without any directions, and it will be supposed that you granted me the preference for to-night.”
“And so I do, Marguerite! Consent but to forget”—
“Not so loud, sire, not so loud!” replied the queen, employing the same words she had a few minutes before used to her mother; “any one in the adjoining closet can hear you. And as I am not yet quite free, I will ask you to speak in a lower tone.”
“Oho!” said Henry, half smiling, half gloomily, “that’s true! I was forgetting that I am probably not the one destined to play the end of this interesting scene! This closet”—
“Let me beg of your majesty to enter there,” said Marguerite; “for I am desirous of having the honor of presenting to you a worthy gentleman, wounded during the massacre while making his way to the Louvre to apprise your majesty of the danger with which you were threatened.”
The queen went toward the door, and Henry followed her. She opened it, and the king was thunderstruck at beholding a man in this cabinet, fated to reveal such continued surprises.
But La Mole was still more surprised at thus unexpectedly finding himself in the presence of Henry of Navarre. The result was that the king cast an ironical glance on Marguerite, who bore it without flinching.
“Sire,” said she, “I am in dread lest this gentleman may be murdered even here, in my very chamber; he is devoted to your majesty’s service, and for that reason I commend him to your royal protection.”
“Sire,” continued the young man, “I am the Comte Lerac de la Mole, whom your majesty was expecting; I was recommended to you by that poor Monsieur de Téligny, who was killed by my side.”
“Aha!” replied Henry; “you are right, sir. The queen gave me his letter; but have you not also a letter from the governor of Languedoc?”
“Yes, sire, and I was recommended to deliver it to your majesty as soon as I arrived.”
“Why did you not do so?”
“Sire, I hastened to the Louvre last evening, but your majesty was too much occupied to give me audience.”
“True!” answered the king; “but I should think you might have sent the letter to me?”
“I had orders from Monsieur d’Auriac to give it to no one else but your majesty, since it contained, he said, information so important that he feared to entrust it to any ordinary messenger.”
“The contents are, indeed, of a serious nature,” said the king, when he had received and read the letter; “advising my instant withdrawal from the court of France, and retirement to Béarn. M. d’Auriac, although a Catholic, was always a stanch friend of mine; and it is possible that, acting as governor of a province, he got scent of what was in the wind here. Ventre saint gris! monsieur! why was not this letter given to me three days ago, instead of now?”
“Because, as I before assured your majesty, that using all the speed and diligence in my power, it was wholly impossible to arrive before yesterday.”
“That is very unfortunate, very unfortunate,” murmured the king; “we should then have been in security, either at Rochelle or in some broad plain surrounded by two or three thousand trusty horsemen.”
“Sire, what is done is done,” said Marguerite, in a low voice, “and instead of wasting your time complaining over the past you must do the best possible with the future.”
“If you were in my place, madame,” replied Henry, with his questioning look, “you would still have hope, would you?”
“Certainly I should; I should consider myself as playing a game of three points, of which I had lost only the first.”
“Ah, madame,” whispered Henry, “if I dared but hope that you would go partners with me in the game”—
“If I had intended to side with your adversaries,” replied Marguerite, “I should scarcely have delayed so long.”
“True!” replied Henry, “and I am ungrateful; and as you say, the past may still be repaired.”
“Alas! sire,” said La Mole, “I wish your majesty every kind of good fortune; but now the admiral is no more.”
Over Henry’s face passed that sly, peasant-like smile, which was not understood at court until after he became King of France.
“But, madame,” said the king, attentively observing La Mole, “this gentleman cannot remain here without causing you considerable inconvenience, and being himself subject to very unpleasant surprises. What will you do with him?”
“Could we not remove him from the Louvre?” asked Marguerite, “for I entirely agree with you!”
“It will be difficult.”
“Then