Part 13 (1/2)

”What?” cried La Mole.

”I am the Queen of Navarre.”

La Mole made such a hasty movement of surprise and alarm that it caused the queen to smile.

”Speak, sir,” said Marguerite, ”but speak quickly, for the queen mother is waiting for me.”

”Oh, madame, if the queen mother is waiting for you,” said La Mole, ”suffer me to leave you, for just now it would be impossible for me to speak to you. I am incapable of collecting my ideas. The sight of you has dazzled me. I no longer think, I can only admire.”

Marguerite advanced graciously toward the handsome young man, who, without knowing it, was acting like a finished courtier.

”Recover yourself, sir,” said she; ”I will wait and they will wait for me.”

”Pardon me, madame,” said La Mole, ”if I did not salute your majesty at first with all the respect which you have a right to expect from one of your humblest servants, but”--

”You took me for one of my ladies?” said Marguerite.

”No, madame; but for the shade of the beautiful Diane de Poitiers, who is said to haunt the Louvre.”

”Come, sir,” said Marguerite, ”I see you will make your fortune at court; you said you had a letter for the king, it was not needed, but no matter! Where is it? I will give it to him--only make haste, I beg of you.”

In a twinkling La Mole threw open his doublet, and drew from his breast a letter enveloped in silk.

Marguerite took the letter, and glanced at the writing.

”Are you not Monsieur de la Mole?” asked she.

”Yes, madame. Oh, _mon Dieu_! Can I hope my name is known to your majesty?”

”I have heard the king, my husband, and the Duc d'Alencon, my brother, speak of you. I know they expect you.”

And in her corsage, glittering with embroidery and diamonds, she slipped the letter which had just come from the young man's doublet and was still warm from the vital heat of his body. La Mole eagerly watched Marguerite's every movement.

”Now, sir,” said she, ”descend to the gallery below, and wait until some one comes to you from the King of Navarre or the Duc d'Alencon. One of my pages will show you the way.”

And Marguerite, as she said these words, went on her way. La Mole drew himself up close to the wall. But the pa.s.sage was so narrow and the Queen of Navarre's farthingale was so voluminous that her silken gown brushed against the young man's clothes, while a penetrating perfume hovered where she pa.s.sed.

La Mole trembled all over and, feeling that he was in danger of falling, he tried to find a support against the wall.

Marguerite disappeared like a vision.

”Are you coming, sir?” asked the page who was to conduct La Mole to the lower gallery.

”Oh, yes--yes!” cried La Mole, joyfully; for as the page led him the same way by which Marguerite had gone, he hoped that by making haste he might see her again.

And in truth, as he reached the top of the staircase, he perceived her below; and whether she heard his step or looked round by chance, Marguerite raised her head, and La Mole saw her a second time.

”Oh,” said he, as he followed the page, ”she is not a mortal--she is a G.o.ddess, and as Vergilius Maro says: '_Et vera incessu patuit dea._'”

”Well?” asked the page.