QUEEN MARGOT (Historical Novel). Alexandre DumasЧитать онлайн книгу.
wicket gate for fear you should get lost in the Louvre.”
“By the way, how about Coconnas?” said La Mole to himself as soon as he was fairly in the street. “Oh, he will remain to supper with the Duc de Guise.”
But as soon as he entered Maître la Hurière’s the first thing La Mole saw was Coconnas seated before a gigantic omelet.
“Oho!” cried Coconnas, laughing heartily, “I see you have no more dined with the King of Navarre than I have supped with the Duc de Guise.”
“Faith, no.”
“Are you hungry now?”
“I believe I am.”
“In spite of Plutarch?”
“Count,” said La Mole, laughing, “Plutarch says in another place: ‘Let him that hath, share with him that hath not.’ Are you willing for the love of Plutarch to share your omelet with me? Then while we eat we will converse on virtue!”
“Oh, faith, not on that subject,” cried Coconnas. “It is all right when one is at the Louvre and there is danger of eavesdroppers and one’s stomach is empty. Sit down and have something to eat with me.”
“There, now I see that fate has decidedly made us inseparable. Are you going to sleep here?”
“I have not the least idea.”
“Nor I either.”
“At any rate, I know where I shall spend the night.”
“Where?”
“Wherever you do: that is settled.”
And both burst out laughing and then set to work to do honor to Maître la Hurière’s omelet.
Chapter 6.
The Debt Paid.
Now if the reader is curious to know why Monsieur de la Mole was not received by the King of Navarre, why Monsieur de Coconnas was not permitted to see Monsieur de Guise, and lastly, why instead of eating pheasants, partridges, and venison at the Louvre, both supped at the hotel of the Belle Étoile on an omelet, he must kindly accompany us to the old palace of kings, and follow the queen, Marguerite of Navarre, whom La Mole had lost from sight at the entrance of the grand gallery.
While Marguerite was descending the staircase, the duke, Henry de Guise, whom she had not seen since the night of her marriage, was in the King’s closet. To this staircase which Marguerite was descending there was an outlet. To the closet in which Monsieur de Guise was there was a door, and this door and this outlet both led to a corridor, which corridor led to the apartments of the queen mother, Catharine de Médicis.
Catharine de Médicis was alone, seated near a table, with her elbow leaning on a prayer-book half open, and her head leaning on a hand still remarkably beautiful — by reason of the cosmetics with which she was supplied by the Florentine Réné, who united the double duty of perfumer and poisoner to the queen mother.
The widow of Henry II. was clothed in mourning, which she had not thrown off since her husband’s death. At this period she was about fifty-two or fifty-three years of age, and owing to her stoutness and fair complexion she preserved much of her early beauty.
Her rooms, like her dress, paraded her widowhood. Everything in them bore the impress of bereavement: hangings, walls, and furniture were all in mourning. Only above a kind of dais covering a throne, where at that moment lay sleeping the little greyhound presented to the queen mother by her son-inlaw, Henry of Navarre, and bearing the mythological name of Phoebe, was a painted rainbow surrounded by that Greek motto which King François I. had given her: “Φôσ φερει ę δε και α’íθζęν;” which may be translated:
“He brings light and serenity.”
Suddenly, and at a moment when the queen mother appeared deeply plunged in some thought which brought a half-hesitating smile to her carmen-painted lips, a man opened the door, raised the tapestry, and showed his pale face, saying:
“Everything is going badly.”
Catharine raised her head and recognized the Duc de Guise.
“Why do you say ‘Everything is going badly’?” she replied. “What do you mean, Henry?”
“I mean that the King is more than ever taken with the accursed Huguenots; and if we await his leave to execute the great enterprise, we shall wait a very long time, and perhaps forever.”
“Tell me what has happened,” said Catharine, still preserving the tranquillity of countenance habitual to her, yet to which, when occasion served, she could give such different expressions.
“Why, just now, for the twentieth time, I asked his Majesty whether he would still permit all those bravadoes which the gentlemen of the reformed religion indulge in, since their admiral was wounded.”
“And what did my son reply?” asked Catharine.
“He replied, ‘Monsieur le Duc, you must necessarily be suspected by the people as the author of the attempted assassination of my second father, the admiral; defend yourself from the imputation as best you may. As to me, I will defend myself properly, if I am insulted;’ and then he turned away to feed his dogs.”
“And you made no attempt to retain him?”
“Certainly I did; but he replied to me, in that tone which you so well know, and looking at me with the gaze peculiar to him, ‘Monsieur le Duc, my dogs are hungry; and they are not men, whom I can keep waiting.’ Whereupon I came straight to you.”
“And you have done right,” said the queen mother.
“But what is now to be done?”
“Try a last effort.”
“And who will try it?”
“I will! Is the King alone?”
“No; M. de Tavannes is with him.”
“Await me here; or, rather, follow me at a distance.”
Catharine instantly rose and went to the chamber, where on Turkey carpets and velvet cushions were the King’s favorite greyhounds. On perches ranged along the wall were two or three valuable falcons and a small shrike, with which Charles IX. amused himself in bringing down the little birds in the garden of the Louvre, and that of the Tuileries, which they had just begun building.
On her way the queen mother put on a pale and anguished expression, while down her cheeks rolled a last or rather a first tear.
She noiselessly approached Charles IX. as he was giving his dogs fragments of cakes cut into equal portions.
“My son,” said the queen, with a trembling in her voice so cleverly affected that the King started.
“What is it, madame?” said Charles, turning round suddenly.
“My son,” replied Catharine, “I would ask your leave to retire to one of your châteaux, no matter which, so that it be as distant as possible from Paris.”
“And wherefore, madame?” inquired Charles IX., fixing on his mother that glassy eye which, on certain occasions, became so penetrating.
“Because every day I receive new insults from persons of the new faith; because today I hear that you have been threatened by the Protestants even in your own Louvre, and I do not desire to be present at such spectacles.”
“But then, madame,” replied Charles IX., with an expression full of conviction, “an attempt has been made to kill their admiral. An infamous murderer has already assassinated the brave M. de Mouy. Mort de ma vie, mother, there must be justice in a kingdom!”
“Oh,