"Now," said Charles, "in return for this compliment, Marie, you will give the king an armchair, in which he can sleep until daybreak; but let it be some distance from us, because he snores frightfully. Then if you waken before I do, you will rouse me, for at six o"clock we have to be at the Bastille. Good-night, Henriot. Make yourself as comfortable as possible. But," he added, approaching the King of Navarre and laying his hand on his shoulder, "for your life, Henry,--do you hear? for your life,--do not leave here without me, especially to return to the Louvre."
Henry had suspected too many things in what still remained unexplained to him to disobey such advice. Charles IX. entered his room, and Henry, the st.u.r.dy mountaineer, settled himself in an armchair, in which he soon justified the precaution taken by his brother-in-law in keeping at a distance.
At dawn he was awakened by Charles. As he had not undressed, it did not take him long to finish his toilet. The King was more happy and smiling than he ever was at the Louvre. The hours spent by him in that little house in the Rue des Barres were his hours of sunshine.
Both men went out through the sleeping-room. The young woman was still in bed. The child was asleep in its cradle. Both were smiling.
Charles looked at them for a moment with infinite tenderness.
Then turning to the King of Navarre:
"Henriot," said he, "if you ever hear what I did for you last night, or if misfortune come to me, remember this child asleep in its cradle."
Then kissing both mother and child on the forehead, without giving Henry time to question him:
"Good-by, my angels," said he, and went out.
Henry followed, deep in thought. The horses were waiting for them at the Bastille, held by the gentlemen to whom Charles IX. had given the order.
Charles signed to Henry to mount, sprang into his own saddle, and riding through the garden of the Arbalite, followed the outside highways.
"Where are we going?" asked Henry.
"We are going to see if the Duc d"Anjou returned for Madame de Conde alone," replied Charles, "and if there is as much ambition as love in his heart, which I greatly doubt."
Henry did not understand the answer, but followed Charles in silence.
They reached the Marais, and as from the shadow of the palisades they could see all which at that time was called the Faubourg Saint Laurent, Charles pointed out to Henry through the grayish mist of the morning some men wrapped in great cloaks and wearing fur caps. They were on horseback, and rode ahead of a wagon which was heavily laden. As they drew near they became outlined more clearly, and one could see another man in a long brown cloak, his face hidden by a French hat, riding and talking with them.
"Ah! ah!" said Charles, smiling, "I thought so."
"Well, sire," said Henry, "if I am not mistaken, that rider in the brown cloak is the Duc d"Anjou."
"Yes," said Charles IX. "Turn out a little, Henriot, I do not want him to see us."
"But," asked Henry, "who are the men in gray cloaks with fur caps?"
"Those men," said Charles, "are Polish amba.s.sadors, and in that wagon is a crown. And now," said he, urging his horse to a gallop, and turning into the road of the Porte du Temple, "come, Henriot, I have seen all that I wanted to see."
CHAPTER x.x.xVII.
THE RETURN TO THE LOUVRE.
When Catharine thought that everything was over in the King of Navarre"s rooms, when the dead guards had been removed, when Maurevel had been carried to her apartments, and the carpet had been cleaned, she dismissed her women, for it was almost midnight, and strove to sleep.
But the shock had been too violent, and the disappointment too keen.
That detested Henry, constantly escaping her snares, which were usually fatal, seemed protected by some invincible power which Catharine persisted in calling chance, although in her heart of hearts a voice told her that its true name was destiny. The thought that the report of the new attempt in spreading throughout the Louvre and beyond the Louvre would give a greater confidence than ever in the future to Henry and the Huguenots exasperated her, and at that moment had chance, against which she was so unfortunately struggling, delivered her enemy into her hands, surely with the little Florentine dagger she wore at her belt she could have thwarted that destiny so favorable to the King of Navarre.
The hours of the night, hours so long for one waiting and watching struck one after another without Catharine"s being able to close her eyes. A whole world of new plans unrolled in her visionary mind during those nocturnal hours. Finally at daybreak she rose, dressed herself, and went to the apartments of Charles IX.
The guards, who were accustomed to see her go to the King at all hours of the day and night, let her pa.s.s. She crossed the antechamber, therefore, and reached the armory. But there she found the nurse of Charles, who was awake.
"My son?" said the queen.
"Madame, he gave orders that no one was to be admitted to his room before eight o"clock."
"This order was not for me, nurse."
"It was for every one, madame."
Catharine smiled.
"Yes, I know very well," said the nurse, "that no one has any right to oppose your majesty; I therefore beg you to listen to the prayer of a poor woman and to refrain from entering."
"Nurse, I must speak to my son."
"Madame, I will not open the door except on a formal order from your majesty."
"Open, nurse," said Catharine, "I order you to open!"
At this voice, more respected and much more feared in the Louvre than that of Charles himself, the nurse handed the key to Catharine, but the queen had no need of it. She drew from her pocket her own key of the room, and under its heavy pressure the door yielded.
The room was vacant, Charles"s bed was untouched, and his greyhound Acteon, asleep on the bear-skin that covered the step of the bed, rose and came forward to lick the ivory hands of Catharine.
"Ah!" said the queen, frowning, "he is out! I will wait for him."
She seated herself, pensive and gloomy, at the window which overlooked the court of the Louvre, and from which the chief entrance was visible.
For two hours she sat there, as motionless and pale as a marble statue, when at length she perceived a troop of hors.e.m.e.n returning to the Louvre, at whose head she recognized Charles and Henry of Navarre.
Then she understood all. Instead of arguing with her in regard to the arrest of his brother-in-law, Charles had taken him away and so had saved him.
"Blind, blind, blind!" she murmured. Then she waited. An instant later footsteps were heard in the adjoining room, which was the armory.
"But, sire," Henry was saying, "now that we have returned to the Louvre, tell me why you took me away and what is the service you have rendered me."
"No, no, Henriot," replied Charles, laughing, "some day, perhaps, you will find out; but for the present it must remain a mystery. Know only that for the time being you have in all probability brought about a fierce quarrel between my mother and me."
As he uttered these words, Charles raised the curtain and found himself face to face with Catharine.
Behind him and above his shoulder rose the pale, anxious countenance of the Bearnais.
"Ah! you here, madame?" said Charles IX., frowning.