What could go wrong? The prévôt could be trusted. He was a man with a family; he could be trusted not to put them in danger. A Catholic never betrayed Catholics to Huguenots. She rejoiced that, for the time being, she and the Guises were allies. She could rely on them. There was no greater hater of Huguenots than Henry of Guise, and there was nothing he wished for more than the death of the Admiral. All those who, she had feared, might not be trusted, knew nothing of the venture. Alençon was in the dark. He had flirted with the Huguenot faith—oh, just out of perversity, for that youngest son of hers was as mischievous as Margot. Margot herself had been told nothing of what was to take place, because she was married to a Huguenot and seemed to be on better terms with him since her marriage than she had been before; and Margot had previously shown that she was not to be trusted. There was nothing to fear . . . nothing . . . nothing. But the minutes would not pass.
If only Henry were King in place of Charles! Henry was as eager for this as Guise, and she could trust Henry. But Charles? ‘Kill every Huguenot!’ he had cried; but that was while the madness was on him. What when it faded? She was terrified of what he might do. She sent for the Comte de Retz.
* * *
Retz went to the King. Charles was pacing up and down his apartment, his bloodshot eyes staring wildly about him.
Retz asked the King to dismiss all his attendants that he might speak with him alone.
‘How long it seems,’ said Charles when this had been done. ‘Too long to wait. I am afraid, Comte, that they will start before we do. What then? What then?’
‘Sire, we are controlling everything. We need fear nothing.’ But he thought: except the King.
‘Sometimes I think I should go to the Admiral, Comte.’
‘Nay, Sire. You should do no such thing,’ cried Retz in horror. ‘It would ruin all our plans.’
‘But if there is a plot against us, Comte, it would be against the Guises. It is they whom they accuse of trying to kill the Admiral.’
‘That is not so, Sire. They accuse also your mother and the Duke of Anjou. And rightly, because, Sire, your mother and your brother knew that it was necessary to kill the Admiral to protect you. That is not all. It is believed that you also were involved in the plot. That is why they make their plans to . remove you. Nothing you could say to the Admiral would convince him and his friends that you had no hand in the attempt to assassinate him. There is no way out of this other than the way we plan.’
‘When blood flows,’ said the King, ‘I am always so sorry afterwards. And then . . . people will say that King Charles the Ninth of France shed the blood of Huguenots who came in innocence to his sister’s wedding. They will say it for ever . . . . they will remember it always . . . And they will blame me . . . the King!’
Retz was alarmed. He knew the King’s moods as well as his mother did. A return to complete sanity would be disastrous at this point.
‘Sire,’ he said, ‘I beg of you to recall what they have planned to do to you. As for recriminations, why, all will know that it is the result of a feud between the Houses of Guise and Chatillon. Henry of Guise never forgave the murder of his father. You are outside this, Sire. It is no fault of yours. Henry of Guise is the man behind it. The blame will be placed on him; to you it will mean safety.’
‘To me it will mean safety,’ said the King; and he began to sob.
* * *
While the long night progressed the King took fright suddenly. He went in great haste to the apartments of Marie Touchet. His appearance alarmed her.
‘What ails you, Charles?’
‘Nothing, Marie. I shall lock you in tonight. You will be unable to get out. No matter who comes to the door . . . remember you are not to answer.’
‘What has happened? Why do you look so strange?’
‘It is nothing . . . nothing, Marie. But you must stay here. Promise me you will stay here.’ He laughed madly and cried: ‘You will have no choice. I shall lock you in. You will have to stay.’ He laughed gleefully. ‘You are my prisoner, Marie.’
‘Charles, what is wrong? Tell me.’
‘Nothing is wrong. All is well. After tonight it will be well indeed.’ His face crumpled. ‘Oh, Marie, I forgot. There is Madeleine.’
‘What of Madeleine?’
‘I cannot tell. I shall lock you in now. You are my love, my prisoner. Tomorrow you will know.’
When Marie was alone she began to cry. She was very frightened. She was to have the King’s child, and this fact half delighted, half ter- rified her.
* * *
‘Madelon,’ cried the King. ‘Where are you, Madelon? Come here to me at once.°
Madeleine was in her own small chamber close to the King’s apartments; she was singing a Huguenot hymn.
‘Do not sing that. Donot!I forbid it. You must not sing it, Madeleine.’
‘But, Sire, it is just one of the hymns which you have heard me sing many times. I used to sing you to sleep with it. You will remember it. It was a favourite of yours.’
‘Not tonight, Madeleine. Dearest Madelon, be silent. Come with me. You must come with me.’
‘Chariot, what ails you? Is it the strangeness again?’
He stood still and his face puckered. ‘Yes, Madelon, it is the strangeness. Here . . . in my head.’ His eyes had grown wild. There was excitement in them now as though he looked forward to something with most joyful anticipation ‘Come, Madelon. Come at once. Marie needs you. You must stay with her tonight.’
‘Is she ill?’
‘She needs you. She needs you. I command you to go to her. Go at once. You must stay with her all through the night, Madelon. And you must not leave her apartment. You will not be able to. Madelon, you must not sing that hymn . . . or any of your hymns. . . not tonight. Swear you will not tonight, Madelon.’
‘Chariot, Charlot, what ails you? Tell Madelon . . . you know how that used to help.’
‘It would not help now, Madelon. Nor do I need help.’ He took her roughly by the arm and pushed her towards Marie’s apartment.
Marie was at the door when he unlocked it. He pushed Madeleine in, and stood there watching them. He put his fingers to his lips—a gesture he had learned from his mother.
‘Not a sound from you. Only I have a key to this room. Rest assured it shall not leave my possession. No singing. No sound . . . or it will be death . . . death . . .’
He locked the door and the two women looked at each other with puzzled apprehension.
‘He sent me because you were ill,’ said Madeleine. ‘But I was not ill, Madeleine.’
‘He must have thought you would need me.’
Marie sank on to her bed and began to cry bitterly.
‘What ails you, my little one?’ asked Madeleine. ‘Tell me, for he has sent me to comfort you. There has been some quarrel?’
Marie shook her head. ‘Oh, Nurse, I am so frightened sometimes. What is it? What is happening? Everything seems so strange tonight. I am frightened . . . frightened of his strangeness!’
‘It is nothing,’ said Madeleine. ‘It is only some wild notion that he has got into his head. He thinks we are in danger and he wishes us to protect each other.’
But Marie, feeling the child within her, could not be so easily comforted.
* * *
Retz tried to calm the King, but the King was in a frenzy. ‘Marie!’ he cried. ‘Madeleine! Who else?’
He remembered Ambroise Paré; and, ignoring Retz, he rushed to the door of his apartment shouting to his attendants: ‘I wish Ambroise Paré brought to me at once. Find him. Lose no time. And when you have found him send him to me . . . at once . . . at once . .
An attendant ran off, spreading the report that the King was ill and calling for his chief doctor.
Retz begged the King to go with him into a small private chamber, and when they were there he locked the door. ‘This is madness, Sire. You will betray the plan.’
‘But I cannot let Paré die. Paré is a great man. He does much
good in France. He saves lives. Paré must not die.’ ‘You will betray us, Sire, if you act thus.’
‘Why does he not come? Fool that he is! He will be caught. It will be too late. Paré, you fool, where are you? Where are you?’
In vain did Retz try to soothe the King. He was unsure of what method was needed to keep Charles balanced between madness and sanity. If he were quite mad, there was no knowing what he might do; yet if he were wholly sane he would not agree to the massacre.
Paré arrived, and when Retz let him into the chamber, Charles fell on him, embracing him, weeping over him.
‘Sire, are you ill?’
‘No, Paré. It is you . . . you . . . You will stay here. You will not move from this room. If you attempt to, I will kill you.’
Paré looked startled. He expected guards to enter the chamber and arrest him. He could not imagine of what he was about to be accused.
Charles laughed with abandon to see the terror in Paré’s face and to guess its reason.
‘My prisoner!’ he cried in hysterical mischief. ‘There will be no escape for you tonight, my friend. You shall stay here under lock and key.’
Laughing wildly, he allowed Retz to lead him away, leaving the bewildered and alarmed surgeon staring at the locked door.
* * *
Margot was disturbed. Henry of Guise had failed to meet her as they had planned. What could have happened to detain him?
She had been occupied all that day with the thoughts of two men—Henry of Guise and Henry of Navarre. This was a piquant situation such as she delighted in. This husband of hers was not such an oaf after all. He could be amusing; she was even a little jealous of his pursuit of Madame de Sauves, though she could counter that by continuing her liaison with Henry of Guise. But where had her lover been this night, and why had he not kept his appointment?
It was certainly disturbing. She had met him coming from a council meeting when she had thought he was not even in Paris. She had noticed his discomfiture on meeting her, and he told her somewhat shamefacedly that he had hurried back to the capital in some secrecy. She had accepted that explanation at the time, but now when he did not keep his promise to meet her she began to wonder what was meant by this secret coming and going.
It was now time for her mother’s coucher, which she must, of course, attend, and this night there seemed more people than usual in the bedchamber. Margot was suddenly alert. There was something different about these people tonight, some tension, some excitement. Little groups seemed to be whispering animatedly, but it seemed to her that when she approached, the conversation which had previously been so lively became dull and commonplace. Could it be that there was some new scandal in the court of which she knew nothing and which they were keeping from her? Could it be concerned with Guise’s failure to keep his appointment?
She sat down on a coffer and looked about her, watching the ceremony of the coucher.
Her mother was now in bed and several people were talking to her.
Then Margot noticed her sister, the Duchess of Lorraine, and she saw that she looked sad and frightened rather than excited.
Margot called to her sister and patted the coffer.
‘You look sad tonight, my sister,’ said Margot; and she saw that Claude’s lips were trembling as though she had been reminded of something which was terrifying.
‘Claude, what is it? What is the matter with you?’ ‘Margot . . . you must not . . .’ She stopped.
‘Well?’ said Margot.
‘Margot . . . I am frightened. Terribly frightened.’
‘What has happened, Claude? What has happened to everybody tonight? Why do you persist in this secrecy? Tell me!’ Charlotte de Sauves was beside them.
‘Madame,’ she said to Claude, ‘the Queen Mother desires you to go to her at once.’
Claude went to the bed, and Margot, watching, saw the angry glance her mother gave her sister, saw Claude bend her head and listen to Catherine’s whispered words.
It was bewildering. Margot noticed now that some of those present watched her with concern.
‘Marguerite,’ called Catherine. ‘Come here.’
Margot obeyed. She stood by the bed, aware of her sister’s terrified eyes still fixed upon her.
‘I did not know that you were here,’ said Catherine. ‘It is time you retired. Go now.’
Margot wished her, mother goodnight, but even as Catherine waved her impatiently away, she was conscious of her sister’s eyes which had not left her. When Margot reached the door Claude darted after her and seized her arm.
Tears ran down Claude’s cheeks, ‘Margot!’ she cried. ‘My dearest sister.’
‘Claude, are you mad!’ cried Catherine.
But Claude was overcome by her fears for her sister. ‘We cannot let her go,’ she cried wildly. Not Margot! Oh, my God! Oh, dear dear Margot, stay with me this night. Do not go to your husband’s apartments.’
Catherine had raised herself from her pillows. ‘Bring the Duchess of Lorraine to me this instant . . . this instant . .
Margot stood by, watching Claude almost dragged to their mother’s bedside.
She heard her mother’s whispered words: ‘Have you lost your senses?’
Claude cried: ‘Would you send her off to be sacrificed? Your daughter . . . my sister . . .’
‘You have lost your senses. What has come over you? Do you suffer from your brother’s malady? Marguerite, your sister suffers from delusions. I have already told you it is time you retired. Pray leave us and go to your husband immediately.’
Margot went out, apprehensive and bewildered.
* * *
In the King’s apartment, where his gentlemen attended his ceremonial coucher, Catholics mingled with Huguenots; there was not, as there had been in his mother’s apartments, that atmosphere of secrecy and suspense, and Catholics chatted amicably with Huguenots as they had done each night since they came to Paris for the wedding.
The King felt worn out by the events of the day. He wanted to rest; he wanted to forget everything in sleep.
‘How tired I am!’ he said; and the Comte de Retz, who had not left his side for many hours, was there to soothe him. ‘Your Majesty has had a busy day. You will feel better after a night’s rest.’
But, thought Charles, it was no use trying to pretend that this day was just like any other. Tomorrow? How he longed for tomorrow. Then it would be over and done, the rebellion quelled, and he would be safe. He would let Marie and Madeleine out of their little prison. He would release Monsieur Paré. How they would thank him for saving their lives!
His head was throbbing and he could scarcely keep his eyes open. Had there been some drug of his mother’s in the wine Retz had brought him, something to make him spend the next hours in sleep?
Huguenot and Catholic! Looking at them, who would believe in this great animosity between them! Why could they not always be friends as they seemed to be now?
Soon the wearisome ceremony would be over, the curtains drawn about his bed, and sleep . . . gentle sleep . . . would come. But what if he dreamed! He had reason to dread his dreams. Dreams of torn flesh . . . mutilated bodies . . . the agonized cries of men and women . . . and blood.
The Duc de la Rochefoucauld was bending over his hand. Dear Rochefoucauld! So handsome and so gentle. They had long been friends; the Duke was one of the few whom Charles really loved; he had always been happy in his company.
‘Adieu, Sire.’
‘Adieu.’
‘May only the pleasantest of dreams attend Your Majesty.’
There was tenderness in those eyes. There was real friendship there. Even if I were not the King he would love me, thought Charles. He is a true friend.
Rochefoucauld was moving towards the door. He would leave the Louvre and go through the narrow streets to his lodgings, accompanied by his followers: he would laugh and joke as he went, for there was none so fond of a joke as dear Rochefoucauld. Dear friend . . . and Huguenot!
No,
thought the King. It must not be. Not Rochefoucauld! He threw off his drowsiness. “Foucauld,’ he cried urgently, ‘Foucauld!’
The Duke had turned.
‘Oh, ‘Foucauld, you must not go tonight. You may stay here and sleep with my valets de chambre. Yes, you must. You will be sorry if you go, my friend, my dearest ‘Foucauld.’
Rochefoucauld looked surprised; but Retz had darted forward.
‘The King jests,’ said Retz.
Rochefoucauld gave the King a smile and inclined his head slightly while Charles watched him with dazed eyes. He was murmuring under his breath: “Foucauld, come back. ‘Foucauld . . . oh, my dear friend . . . not my ‘Foucauld.’
Retz drew the curtains about the King’s bed.
The coucher was over.
Tears fell slowly down the cheeks of the King of France and there was silence in the Louvre.
* * *
Catherine lay in bed counting the minutes as they passed. Two hours, and then she would rise, but she could not lie there waiting. She thought bitterly of that fool Claude, who must have aroused suspicions in Margot’s mind. She thought of stupid Charles who, according to Retz, had done his best to warn Rochefoucauld. What if Rochefoucauld had got an inkling? He was one of the Huguenot leaders. What would he do? What would any sane man do if he realized what was afoot? Make counter-plans, of course.
She could not endure it. It was not yet time to rise, but she could not stay in bed. She could not wait for disaster to overtake her. She must act. While she was active she could endure the suspense.
She rose and dressed hastily; she went stealthily along to Anjou’s apartment, and drawing the curtain close about his bed, shut herself in with him.
He had not slept for his fear was far greater than hers. She saw the sweat glistening on his forehead; and his hair was uncurled.
‘My darling, you must get up and dress,’ she said. ‘There are some hours yet. But it is better to be dressed.’
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