Part 31 (1/2)

”Ah! madame!” she cried when she saw the queen. ”Oh! madame! tell me, is he dead?”

”Silence!” said Marguerite in that tone of voice which gives some indication of the importance of the command.

Gillonne was silent.

Marguerite then took from her purse a tiny gilded key, opened the closet door, and showed the young man to the servant. La Mole had succeeded in getting to his feet and making his way to the window. A small poniard, such as women at that time were in the habit of carrying, was at hand, and when he heard the door opening he had seized it.

”Fear nothing, sir,” said Marguerite; ”for, on my soul, you are in safety!”

La Mole sank on his knees.

”Oh, madame,” he cried, ”you are more than a queen--you are a G.o.ddess!”

”Do not agitate yourself, sir,” said Marguerite, ”your blood is still flowing. Oh, look, Gillonne, how pale he is--let us see where you are wounded.”

”Madame,” said La Mole, trying to fix on certain parts of his body the pain which pervaded his whole frame, ”I think I have a dagger-thrust in my shoulder, another in my chest,--the other wounds are not worth bothering about.”

”We will see,” said Marguerite. ”Gillonne, bring me my balsam casket.”

Gillonne obeyed, and returned holding in one hand a casket, and in the other a silver-gilt ewer and some fine Holland linen.

”Help me to lift him, Gillonne,” said Queen Marguerite; ”for in attempting to get up the poor gentleman has lost all his strength.”

”But, madame,” said La Mole, ”I am wholly confused. Indeed, I cannot allow”--

”But, sir, you will let us do for you, I think,” said Marguerite. ”When we may save you, it would be a crime to let you die.”

”Oh!” cried La Mole, ”I would rather die than see you, the queen, stain your hands with blood as unworthy as mine. Oh, never, never!”

And he drew back respectfully.

”Your blood, sir,” replied Gillonne, with a smile, ”has already stained her majesty's bed and chamber.”

Marguerite folded her mantle over her cambric peignoir, all bespattered with small red spots. This movement, so expressive of feminine modesty, caused La Mole to remember that he had held in his arms and pressed to his heart this beautiful, beloved queen, and at the recollection a fugitive glow of color came into his pallid cheeks.

”Madame,” stammered La Mole, ”can you not leave me to the care of the surgeon?”

”Of a Catholic surgeon, perhaps,” said the queen, with an expression which La Mole understood and which made him shudder. ”Do you not know,”

continued the queen in a voice and with a smile of incomparable sweetness, ”that we daughters of France are trained to know the qualities of herbs and to make balsams? for our duty as women and as queens has always been to soften pain. Therefore we are equal to the best surgeons in the world; so our flatterers say! Has not my reputation in this regard come to your ears? Come, Gillonne, let us to work!”

La Mole again endeavored to resist; he repeated that he would rather die than occasion the queen labor which, though begun in pity, might end in disgust; but this exertion completely exhausted his strength, and falling back, he fainted a second time.

Marguerite, then seizing the poniard which he had dropped, quickly cut the lace of his doublet; while Gillonne, with another blade, ripped open the sleeves.

Next Gillonne, with a cloth dipped in fresh water, stanched the blood which escaped from his shoulder and breast, and Marguerite, with a silver needle with a round point, probed the wounds with all the delicacy and skill that Maitre Ambroise Pare could have displayed in such a case.

”A dangerous but not mortal wound, _acerrimum humeri vulnus, non autem lethale_,” murmured the lovely and learned lady-surgeon; ”hand me the salve, Gillonne, and get the lint ready.”

Meantime Gillonne, to whom the queen had just given this new order, had already dried and perfumed the young man's chest and arms, which were like an antique model, as well as his shoulders, which fell gracefully back; his neck shaded by thick, curling locks, and which seemed rather to belong to a statue of Parian marble than the mangled frame of a dying man.