Part 7 (1/2)

This armory was the king's favorite apartment; there he took his fencing-lessons with Pompee, and his poetry lessons with Ronsard. He had gathered there a great collection of the most costly weapons he had been able to find. The walls were hung with axes, s.h.i.+elds, spears, halberds, pistols, and muskets, and that day a famous armorer had brought him a magnificent arquebuse, on the barrel of which were inlaid in silver these four lines, composed by the royal poet himself:

”_Pour maintenir la foy,_ _Je suis belle et fidele._ _Aux ennemis du Roi,_ _Je suis belle et cruelle._”[1]

Charles, as we have said, entered this room, and after having shut the door by which he had entered, he raised the tapestry that masked a pa.s.sage leading into a little chamber, where a woman kneeling before a _priedieu_ was saying her prayers.

As this movement was executed noiselessly, and the footsteps of the king, deadened by the thick carpet, made no more noise than a phantom's, the kneeling woman heard no sound, and continued to pray. Charles stood for a moment pensively looking at her.

She was a woman of thirty-four or thirty-five years of age, whose vigorous beauty was set off by the costume of the peasants of Caux. She wore the high cap so much the fas.h.i.+on at the court of France during the time of Isabel of Bavaria, and her red bodice was embroidered with gold, like those of the _contadine_ of Nettuno and Sora. The apartment which she had for nearly twenty years occupied was close to the King's bed-chamber and presented a singular mixture of elegance and rusticity.

In equal measure the palace had encroached upon the cottage, and the cottage upon the palace, so that the room combined the simplicity of the peasant woman and the luxury of the court lady.

The _priedieu_ on which she knelt was of oak, marvellously carved, covered with velvet and with gold fringes, while the Bible from which she was reading (for she was of the reformed religion) was very old and torn, like those found in the poorest cottages; now everything in the room was typified by the _priedieu_ and the Bible.

”Eh, Madelon!” said the King.

The kneeling woman lifted her head smilingly at the well-known voice, and rising from her knees,--

”Ah! it is you, my son,” said she.

”Yes, nurse; come here.”

Charles IX. let fall the curtain, and sat down on the arm of an easy-chair. The nurse appeared.

”What do you want with me, Charlot?”

”Come near, and answer in a low tone.”

The nurse approached him with a familiarity such as might come from that maternal affection felt by a woman for her nursling, but attributed by the pamphlets of the time to a source infinitely less pure.

”Here I am,” said she; ”speak!”

”Is the man I sent for come?”

”He has been here half an hour.”

Charles rose, approached the window, looked to a.s.sure himself there were no eavesdroppers, went to the door and looked out there also, shook the dust from his trophies of arms, patted a large greyhound which followed him wherever he went, stopping when he stopped and moving when he moved,--then returning to his nurse:

”Very well, nurse, let him come in,” said he.

The worthy woman disappeared by the same pa.s.sage by which she had entered, while the king went and leaned against a table on which were scattered arms of every kind.

Scarcely had he done so when the portiere was again lifted, and the person whom he expected entered.

He was a man of about forty, his eyes gray and false, his nose curved like the beak of a screech-owl, his cheek-bones prominent. His face tried to look respectful, but all that he could do was to wear a hypocritical smile on his lips blanched with fear.

Charles gently put his hand behind him, and grasped the b.u.t.t of a pistol of a new construction, that was discharged, not by a match, as formerly, but by a flint brought in contact with a wheel of steel. He fixed his dull eyes steadily on the newcomer; meantime he whistled, with perfect precision and with remarkable sweetness, one of his favorite hunting-airs.

After a pause of some minutes, during which the expression of the stranger's face grew more and more discomposed,

”You are the person,” said the King, ”called Francois de Louviers Maurevel?”