La reine Margot. English

  CHAPTER XLIX.

  THE TREATISE ON HUNTING.

  Three days had elapsed since the events we have just related. Day wasbeginning to dawn, but every one was already up and awake at the Louvreas usual on hunting days, when the Duc d'Alencon entered the apartmentsof the queen mother in answer to the invitation he had received.Catharine was not in her bedroom; but she had left orders that if herson came he was to wait for her.

  At the end of a few minutes she came out of a private closet, to whichno one but herself had admission, and in which she carried on herexperiments in chemistry. As Catharine entered the room there cameeither from the closet or from her clothes the penetrating odor of someacrid perfume, and through the open door D'Alencon perceived a thickvapor, as of some burnt aromatic substance, floating in the laboratorylike a white cloud.

  The duke could not repress a glance of curiosity.

  "Yes," said Catharine de Medicis, "I have been burning several oldparchments which gave out such an offensive smell that I put somejuniper into the brazier, hence this odor."

  D'Alencon bowed.

  "Well," said the queen, concealing under the wide sleeves of herdressing-gown her hands, which here and there were stained with reddishspots, "is there anything new since yesterday?"

  "Nothing, mother."

  "Have you seen Henry?"

  "Yes."

  "Does he still refuse to leave?"

  "Absolutely."

  "The knave!"

  "What do you say, madame?"

  "I say that he will go."

  "You think so?"

  "I am sure of it."

  "Then he will escape us?"

  "Yes," said Catharine.

  "And shall you let him go?"

  "Not only that, but I tell you he must go."

  "I do not understand, mother."

  "Listen well to what I am about to tell you, Francois. A very skilfulphysician, the one who let me take the book on hunting which you are togive him, has told me that the King of Navarre is on the point of beingattacked with consumption, one of those incurable diseases for whichscience has no remedy. Now, you understand that if he has to die fromsuch a cruel malady it would be better for him to die away from us thanamong us here at court."

  "In fact," said the duke, "that would cause us too much pain."

  "Especially your brother Charles," said Catharine; "whereas, if he diesafter having betrayed him the King will regard his death as a punishmentfrom Heaven."

  "You are right, mother," said Francois in admiration, "he must leave.But are you sure that he will?"

  "All his plans are made. The meeting-place is in the forest of SaintGermain. Fifty Huguenots are to escort him as far as Fontainebleau,where five hundred others will await him."

  "And," said D'Alencon, with a slight hesitation and visible pallor,"will my sister Margot accompany him?"

  "Yes," replied Catharine, "that is agreed on. But at Henry's deathMargot is to return to court a widow and free."

  "And Henry will die, madame? Are you sure of this?"

  "The physician who gave me the book assured me of it."

  "Where is this book, madame?"

  Catharine went slowly towards the mysterious closet, opened the door,entered, and a moment later appeared with the book in her hand.

  "Here it is," said she.

  D'Alencon looked at the volume with a certain feeling of terror.

  "What is this book, madame?" he asked, shuddering.

  "I have already told you, my son. It is a treatise on the art of raisingand training falcons, gerfalcons, and hawks, written by a very learnedscholar for Lord Castruccio Castracani, tyrant of Lucca."

  "What must I do with it?"

  "Take it to your good friend Henriot, who you told me had asked you fora treatise on the art of hunting. As he is going hawking to-day with theKing he will not fail to read some of it, in order to prove to Charlesthat he has followed his advice and taken a lesson or two. The mainthing is to give it into Henry's own hands."

  "Oh! I do not dare!" said D'Alencon, shuddering.

  "Why not?" asked Catharine; "it is a book like any other except that ithas been packed away for so long that the leaves stick together. Do notattempt to read it, Francois, for it can be read only by wetting thefinger and turning over each leaf, and this takes time and trouble."

  "So that only a man who is very anxious to be instructed in the sport ofhawking would waste his time and go to this trouble?" asked D'Alencon.

  "Exactly, my son; you understand."

  "Oh!" said D'Alencon; "there is Henriot in the court-yard. Give me thebook, madame. I will take advantage of his absence and go to his roomwith it. On his return he will find it."

  "I should prefer you to give it to him yourself, Francois, that would besurer."

  "I have already said that I do not dare, madame," replied the duke.

  "Very well; but at least put it where he can see it."

  "Open? Is there any reason why it should not be open?"

  "None."

  "Then give it to me."

  D'Alencon tremblingly took the book, which Catharine with a firm handheld out to him.

  "Take it," said the queen, "there is no danger--I touch it; besides, youhave gloves on."

  This precaution was not enough for D'Alencon, who wrapped the volume inhis cloak.

  "Make haste," said Catharine; "Henry may return at any moment."

  "You are right, madame. I will go at once."

  The duke went out, trembling with fright.

  We have often introduced the reader into the apartments of the King ofNavarre, and he has been present at the events which have taken place inthem, events bright or gloomy, according to the smile or frown of theprotecting genius of the future king of France.

  But perhaps never had these walls, stained with the blood of murders,sprinkled with the wine of orgies, scented with the perfumes oflove,--perhaps never had this corner of the Louvre seen a paler facethan that of the Duc d'Alencon, as with book in hand he opened the doorof the bedchamber of the King of Navarre. And no one, as the duke hadexpected, was in the room to question with curious or anxious glanceswhat he was about to do. The first rays of the morning sun alone werelighting up the vacant chamber.

  On the wall in readiness hung the sword which Monsieur de Mouy hadadvised Henry to take with him. Some links of a coat of mail werescattered on the floor. A well-filled purse and a small dagger lay on atable, and some light ashes in the fireplace, joined to the otherevidence, clearly showed D'Alencon that the King of Navarre had put onthe shirt of mail, collected some money from his treasurer, and burnedall papers that might compromise him.

  "My mother was not mistaken," said D'Alencon "the knave would havebetrayed me."

  Doubtless this conviction gave added strength to the young man. Hesounded the corners of the room at a glance, raised the portieres, andrealizing from the loud noise in the court-yard below and the densesilence in the apartments that no one was there to spy on him, he drewthe book from under his cloak, hastily laid it on the table, near thepurse, propping it up against a desk of sculptured oak; then drawingback, he reached out his arm, and, with a hesitation which betrayed hisfears, with his gloved hand he opened the volume to an engraving of ahunt. This done, D'Alencon again stepped back, and drawing off his glovethrew it into the still warm fire, which had just consumed the papers.The supple leather crackled over the coals, twisted and flattened itselfout like the body of a great reptile, leaving nothing but a burned andblackened lump.

  D'Alencon waited until the flame had consumed the glove, then rolling upthe cloak which had been wrapped around the book, he put it under hisarm, and hastily returned to his own apartments. As he entered withbeating heart, he heard steps on the winding stairs, and not doubtingbut that it was Henry he quickly closed his door. Then he stepped to thewindow, but he could see only a part of the court-yard of the Louvre.Henry was not there, however, and he felt convinced that it was the Kingof Navarre who had just returned.


  The duke sat down, opened a book, and tried to read. It was a history ofFrance from Pharamond to Henry II., for which, a few days after hisaccession to the throne, Henry had given a license.

  But the duke's thoughts were not on what he was reading; the fever ofexpectation burned in his veins. His temples throbbed clear to hisbrain, and as in a dream or some magnetic trance, it seemed to Francoisthat he could see through the walls. His eyes appeared to probe intoHenry's chamber, in spite of the obstacles between.

  In order to drive away the terrible object before his mind's eye theduke strove to fix his attention on something besides the terrible bookopened on the oak desk; but in vain he looked at his weapons, hisornaments; in vain he gazed a hundred times at the same spot on thefloor; every detail of the picture at which he had merely glancedremained graven on his memory. It consisted of a gentleman on horsebackfulfilling the duties of a beater of hawking, throwing the bait, callingto the falcon, and galloping through the deep grass of a swamp. Strongas was the duke's will, his memory triumphed over it.

  Then it was not only the book he saw, but the King of Navarreapproaching it, looking at the picture, trying to turn the pages,finally wetting his thumb and forcing the leaves apart. At this sight,fictitious and imaginary as it was, D'Alencon staggered and was forcedto lean one hand against a table, while with the other he covered hiseyes, as if by so doing he did not see more clearly than before thevision he wished to escape. This vision was in his own thoughts.

  Suddenly D'Alencon saw Henry cross the court; he stopped a few momentsbefore the men who were loading two mules with the provisions for thechase--none other than the money and other things he wished to take withhim; then, having given his orders, he crossed the court diagonally andadvanced towards the door.

  D'Alencon stood motionless. It was not Henry, then, who had mounted thesecret staircase. All the agony he had undergone during the last quarterof an hour had been useless. What he thought was over or almost over wasonly beginning.

  Francois opened the door of his chamber, then holding it so he listened.This time he could not be mistaken, it was Henry himself; he recognizedhis step and the peculiar jingle of his spurs.

  Henry's door opened and closed.

  D'Alencon returned to his room and sank into an armchair.

  "Good!" said he, "this is what is now taking place: he has passedthrough the antechamber, the first room, the sleeping-room; then heglances to see if his sword, his purse, his dagger are there; at last hefinds the book open on his table.

  "'What book is this?' he asks himself. 'Who has brought it?'

  "Then he draws nearer, sees the picture of the horseman calling hisfalcon, wants to read, tries to turn the leaves."

  A cold perspiration started to the brow of Francois.

  "Will he call? Is the effect of the poison sudden? No, no, for my mothersaid he would die of slow consumption."

  This thought somewhat reassured him.

  Ten minutes passed thus, a century of agony, dragging by second aftersecond, each supplying all that the imagination could invent in the wayof maddening terror, a world of visions.

  D'Alencon could stand it no longer. He rose and crossed the antechamber,which was beginning to fill with gentlemen.

  "Good morning, gentlemen," said he, "I am going to the King."

  And to distract his consuming anxiety, and perhaps to prepare an_alibi_, D'Alencon descended to his brother's apartments. Why did he gothere? He did not know. What had he to say? Nothing! It was not Charleshe sought--it was Henry he fled.

  He took the winding staircase and found the door of the King'sapartments half opened. The guards let the duke enter withoutopposition. On hunting days there was neither etiquette nor orders.

  Francois traversed successively the antechamber, the salon, and thebedroom without meeting any one. He thought Charles must be in thearmory and opened the door leading thither.

  The King was seated before a table, in a deep carved armchair. He hadhis back to the door, and appeared to be absorbed in what he was doing.

  The duke approached on tiptoe; Charles was reading.

  "By Heaven!" cried he, suddenly, "this is a fine book. I had heard ofit, but I did not know it could be had in France."

  D'Alencon listened and advanced a step.

  "Cursed leaves!" said the King, wetting his thumb and applying it to thepages; "it looks as though they had been stuck together on purpose toconceal the wonders they contain from the eyes of man."

  D'Alencon bounded forward. The book over which Charles was bending wasthe one he had left in Henry's room. A dull cry broke from him.

  "Ah, is it you, Francois?" said Charles, "you are welcome; come and seethe finest book on hunting which ever came from the pen of man."

  D'Alencon's first impulse was to snatch the volume from the hands of hisbrother; but an infernal thought restrained him; a frightful smilepassed over his pallid lips, and he rubbed his hand across his eyes likea man dazed. Then recovering himself by degrees, but without moving:

  "Sire," he asked, "how did this book come into your Majesty'spossession?"

  "I went into Henriot's room this morning to see if he was ready; he wasnot there, he was probably strolling about the kennels or the stables;at any rate, instead of him I found this treasure, which I brought hereto read at my leisure."

  And the King again moistened his thumb, and again turned over anobstinate page.

  "Sire," stammered D'Alencon, whose hair stood on end, and whose wholebody was seized with a terrible agony. "Sire, I came to tell you"--

  "Let me finish this chapter, Francois," said Charles, "and then youshall tell me anything you wish. I have read or rather devoured fiftypages."

  "He has tasted the poison twenty-five times," murmured Francois; "mybrother is a dead man!"

  Then the thought came to him that there was a God in heaven who perhapsafter all was not chance.

  With trembling hand the duke wiped away the cold perspiration whichstood in drops on his brow, and waited in silence, as his brother hadbade him do, until the chapter was finished.