his organization, evaded the answer which Charles IX. expected, for undoubtedly had his reply been in the negative Henry had been a dead man.
As immediately after the climax of rage, reaction begins, Charles IX. did not repeat the question he had addressed to the Prince of Navarre; and after a moment’s hesitation, during which he uttered a hoarse kind of growl, he went back to the open window, and aimed at a man who was running along the quay in front.
“I must kill some one!” cried Charles IX., ghastly as a corpse, his eyes suffused with blood; and firing as he spoke, he struck the man who was running.
Henry uttered a groan.
Then, animated by a frightful ardor, Charles loaded and fired his arquebuse without cessation, uttering cries of joy every time his aim was successful.
“It is all over with me!” said the King of Navarre to himself; “when he sees no one else to kill, he will kill me!”
“Well,” said a voice behind the princes, suddenly, “is it done?”
It was Catharine de Médicis, who had entered unobserved just as the King was firing his last shot.
“No, thousand thunders of hell!” said the King, throwing his arquebuse across the room. “No, the obstinate blockhead — he will not consent!”
Catharine made no reply. She turned her eyes slowly where Henry stood as motionless as one of the figures of the tapestry against which he was leaning. She then gave a glance at the King, which seemed to say:
“Then why he is alive?”
“He is alive, he is alive!” murmured Charles IX., who perfectly understood the glance, and replied to it without hesitation — “he is alive — because he is my relative.”
Catharine smiled.
Henry saw the smile, and realized that his struggle was to be with Catharine.
“Madame,” he said to her, “the whole thing comes from you, I see very well, and my brother-inlaw Charles is not to blame. You laid the plan for drawing me into a snare. You made your daughter the bait which was to destroy us all. You separated me from my wife that she might not see me killed before her eyes”—
“Yes, but that shall not be!” cried another voice, breathless and impassioned, which Henry instantly recognized and which made Charles start with surprise and Catharine with rage.
“Marguerite!” exclaimed Henry.
“Margot!” said Charles IX.
“My daughter!” muttered Catharine.
“Sire,” said Marguerite to Henry, “your last words were an accusation against me, and you were both right and wrong — right, for I am the means by which they attempted to destroy you; wrong, for I did not know that you were going to your destruction. I, sire, owe my own life to chance — to my mother’s forgetfulness, perhaps; but as soon as I learned your danger I remembered my duty, and a wife’s duty is to share her husband’s fortunes. If you are exiled, sire, I will follow you into exile; if you are put into prison I will be your fellow-captive; if they kill you, I will also die.”
And she offered her husband her hand, which he eagerly seized, if not with love, at least with gratitude.
“Oh, my poor Margot!” said Charles, “you had much better bid him become a Catholic!”
“Sire,” replied Marguerite, with that lofty dignity which was so natural to her, “for your own sake do not ask any prince of your house to commit a cowardly act.”
Catharine darted a significant glance at Charles.
“Brother,” cried Marguerite, who equally well with Charles IX. understood Catharine’s ominous pantomime, “my brother, remember! you made him my husband!”
Charles IX., at bay between Catharine’s commanding eyes and Marguerite’s supplicating look, as if between the two opposing principles of good and evil, stood for an instant undecided; at last Ormazd won the day.
“In truth,” said he, whispering in Catharine’s ear, “Margot is right, and Harry is my brother-inlaw.”
“Yes,” replied Catharine in a similar whisper in her son’s ear, “yes — but supposing he were not?”
Chapter 11.
The Hawthorn of the Cemetery of the Innocents.
As soon as Marguerite reached her own apartments she tried in vain to divine the words which Catharine de Médicis had whispered to Charles IX., and which had cut short the terrible council of life and death which was taking place.
She spent a part of the morning in attending to La Mole, and the rest in trying to guess the enigma, which her mind could not discover.
The King of Navarre remained a prisoner in the Louvre, the persecution of the Huguenots went on hotter than ever. The terrible night was followed by a day of massacre still more horrible. No longer the bells rang the tocsin, but Te Deums, and the echoes of these joyous notes, resounding amid fire and slaughter, were perhaps even more lugubrious in sunlight than had been the last night’s knell sounding in darkness. This was not all. A strange thing had happened: a hawthorn-tree, which had blossomed in the spring, and which, as usual, had lost its odorous flowers in the month of June, had blossomed again during the night, and the Catholics, who saw a miracle in this event, spread the report of the miracle far and wide, thus making God their accomplice; and with cross and banners they marched in a procession to the Cemetery of the Innocents, where this hawthorn-tree was blooming.
This method of acquiescence which Heaven seemed to show in the massacres redoubled the ardor of the assassins, and while every street, every square, every alley-way of the city continued to present a scene of desolation, the Louvre had become the common tomb for all Protestants who had been shut up there when the signal was given. The King of Navarre, the Prince de Condé, and La Mole were the only survivors.
Assured as to La Mole, whose wounds, as she had declared the evening before, were severe but not dangerous, Marguerite’s mind was now occupied with one single idea: that was to save her husband’s life, which was still threatened. No doubt the first sentiment which actuated the wife was one of generous pity for a man for whom, as the Béarnais himself had said, she had sworn, if not love, at least alliance; but there was, beside, another sentiment not so pure, which had penetrated the queen’s heart.
Marguerite was ambitious, and had foreseen almost the certainty of royalty in her marriage with Henry de Bourbon. Navarre, though beset on one side by the kings of France and on the other by the kings of Spain, who strip by strip had absorbed half of its territory, might become a real kingdom with the French Huguenots for subjects, if only Henry de Bourbon should fulfil the hopes which the courage shown by him on the infrequent occasions vouchsafed him of drawing his sword had aroused.
Marguerite, with her keen, lofty intellect, foresaw and reckoned on all this. So if she lost Henry she lost not only a husband, but a throne.
As she was absorbed in these reflections she heard some one knocking at the door of the secret corridor. She started, for only three persons came by that door — the King, the queen mother, and the Duc d’Alençon. She opened the closet door, made a gesture of silence to Gillonne and La Mole, and then went to let her visitor in.
It was the Duc d’Alençon.
The young prince had not been seen since the night before. For a moment, Marguerite had conceived the idea of asking his intercession for the King of Navarre, but a terrible idea restrained her. The marriage had taken place against his wishes. François detested Henry, and had evinced his neutrality toward the Béarnais only because he was convinced that Henry and his wife had remained strangers to each other. A mark of interest shown by Marguerite in her husband might thrust one of the three threatening