Alexandre Dumas - THE VALOIS SAGA - Queen Margot, Chicot de Jester & The Forty-Five Guardsmen (Historical Novels)

“That in which I told you to marry without delay.”

“As an excuse for your infidelity?”

Marguerite shrugged her shoulders.

“No; but to save your life. The one in which I told you that the king, seeing our love and my exertions to break off your proposed marriage with the Infanta of Portugal, had sent for his brother, the Bastard of Angoulême, and said to him, pointing to two swords, ‘ With this slay Henry de Guise this night, or with the other I will slay thee in the morning. ’ Where is that letter?”

“Here,” said the duke, drawing it from his breast.

Marguerite almost snatched it from his hands, opened it anxiously, assured herself that it was really the one she desired, uttered an exclamation of joy, and applying the lighted candle to it, the flames instantly consumed the paper; then, as if Marguerite feared that her imprudent words might be read in the very ashes, she trampled them under foot.

During all this the Duc de Guise had watched his mistress attentively.

“Well, Marguerite,” he said, when she had finished, “are you satisfied now?”

“Yes, for now that you have wedded the Princesse de Porcian, my brother will forgive me your love; while he would never have pardoned me for revealing a secret such as that which in my weakness for you I had not the strength to conceal from you.”

“True,” replied De Guise, “then you loved me.”

“And I love you still, Henry, as much — more than ever!”

“You”—

“I do; for never more than at this moment did I need a sincere and devoted friend. Queen, I have no throne; wife, I have no husband!”

The young prince shook his head sorrowfully.

“I tell you, I repeat to you, Henri, that my husband not only does not love me, but hates — despises me; indeed, it seems to me that your presence in the chamber in which he ought to be is proof of this hatred, this contempt.”

“It is not yet late, Madame, and the King of Navarre requires time to dismiss his gentlemen; if he has not already come, he will come soon.”

“And I tell you,” cried Marguerite, with increasing vexation — “I tell you that he will not come!”

“Madame!” exclaimed Gillonne, suddenly entering, “the King of Navarre is just leaving his apartments!”

“Oh, I knew he would come!” exclaimed the Duc de Guise.

“Henri,” said Marguerite, in a quick tone, and seizing the duke’s hand — “Henri, you shall see if I am a woman of my word, and if I may be relied on. Henri, enter that closet.”

“Madame, allow me to go while there is yet time, for reflect that the first mark of love you bestow on him, I shall quit the cabinet, and then woe to him!”

“Are you mad? Go in-go in, I say, and I will be responsible for all;” and she pushed the duke into the closet.

It was time. The door was scarcely closed behind the prince when the King of Navarre, escorted by two pages, who carried eight torches of yellow wax in two candelabra, appeared, smiling, on the threshold of the chamber. Marguerite concealed her trouble, and made a low bow.

“You are not yet in bed, Madame,” observed the Béarnais, with his frank and joyous look. “Were you by chance waiting for me?”

“No, Monsieur,” replied Marguerite; “for yesterday you repeated to me that our marriage was a political alliance, and that you would never thwart my wishes.”

“Assuredly; but that is no reason why we should not confer a little together. Gillonne, close the door, and leave us.”

Marguerite, who was sitting, then rose and extended her hand, as if to desire the pages to remain.

“Must I call your women?” inquired the king. “I will do so if such be your desire, although I confess that for what I have to say to you I should prefer our being alone;” and the King of Navarre advanced towards the closet.

“No!” exclaimed Marguerite, hastily going before him — “no! there is no occasion for that; I am ready to hear you.”

The Béarnais had learned what he desired to know; he threw a rapid and penetrating glance towards the cabinet, as if in spite of the thick curtain which hung before it, he would dive into its obscurity, and then, turning his looks to his lovely wife, pale with terror, he said with the utmost composure, “In that case, Madame, let us confer for a few moments.”

“As your Majesty pleases,” said the young wife, falling into, rather than sitting upon the seat which her husband pointed out to her.

The Béarnais placed himself beside her. “Madame,” he continued, “whatever many persons may have said, I think our marriage is a good marriage. I stand well with you; you stand well with me.”

“But —” said Marguerite, alarmed.

“Consequently, we ought,” observed the King of Navarre, without seeming to notice Marguerite’s hesitation, “to act towards each other like good allies, since we have today sworn alliance in the presence of God. Don’t you think so?”

“Unquestionably, Monsieur.”

“I know, Madame, how great your penetration is; I know how the ground at court is intersected with dangerous abysses. Now, I am young, and although I never injured any one, I have a great many enemies. In which camp, Madame, ought I to range her who bears my name, and who has vowed her affection to me at the foot of the altar?”

“Monsieur, could you think —”

“I think nothing, Madame; I hope, and I am anxious to know that my hope is well founded. It is quite certain that our marriage is merely a pretext or a snare.”

Marguerite started, for perhaps the same thought had occurred to her own mind.

“Now, then, which of the two?” continued Henri de Navarre. “The king hates me; the Duc d’Anjou hates me; the Duc d’Alençon hates me; Catherine de Médicis hated my mother too much not to hate me.”

“Oh, Monsieur, what are you saying?”

“The truth, madame,” replied the king; “and in order that it may not be supposed that I am deceived as to Monsieur de Mouy’s assassination and the poisoning of my mother, I wish that some one were here who could hear me.”

“Oh, sire,” replied Marguerite, with an air as calm and smiling as she could assume, “you know very well that there is no person here but you and myself.”

“It is for that very reason that I thus give vent to my thoughts; this it is that emboldens me to declare that I am not deceived by the caresses showered on me by the House of France or the House of Lorraine.”

“Sire, sire!” exclaimed Marguerite.

“Well, what is it, ma mie ?” inquired Henry, smiling in his turn.

“Why, sire, such remarks are very dangerous.”

“Not when we are alone,” observed the king. “I was saying”—

Marguerite was evidently distressed; she desired to stop every word the king uttered, but he continued, with his apparent good nature:

“I was telling you that I was threatened on all sides: threatened by the King, threatened by the Duc d’Alençon, threatened by the Duc d’Anjou, threatened by the queen mother, threatened by the Duc de Guise, by the Duc de Mayenne, by the Cardinal de Lorraine — threatened, in fact, by every one. One feels that instinctively, as you know, madame. Well, against all these threats, which must soon become attacks, I can defend myself by your aid, for you are beloved by all the persons who detest me.”

“I?” said Marguerite.

“Yes, you,” replied Henry, with the utmost ease of manner; “yes, you are beloved by King Charles, you are beloved” (he laid strong emphasis on the word) “by the Duc d’Alençon, you are beloved by Queen Catharine, and you are beloved by the Duc de Guise.”

“Sire!” murmured Marguerite.

“Yes; and what is there astonishing in the fact that every one loves you? All I have mentioned are your brothers or relatives. To love one’s brothers and relatives is to live according to God’s heart.”