Part 48 (1/2)

”Aha!” said Catharine.

”Oh, heavens! yes. You thought as I did, mother, the dogs had eaten a wedding dinner off him, but it was not so. My people, my dear people, my good people, had a clever idea and have hung the admiral up at the gibbet of Montfaucon.

”_Du haut en bas Gaspard on a jete,_ _Et puis de bas en haut on l'a monte_.”[3]

”Well!” said Catharine.

”Well, good mother,” replied Charles IX., ”I have a strong desire to see him again, dear old man, now I know he is really dead. It is very fine weather and everything seems to be blooming to-day. The air is full of life and perfume, and I feel better than I ever did. If you like, mother, we will get on horseback and go to Montfaucon.”

”Willingly, my son,” said Catharine, ”if I had not made an appointment which I cannot defer; and beside, to pay a visit to a man of such importance as the admiral, we should invite the whole court. It will be an occasion for observers to make curious observations. We shall see who comes and who stays away.”

”Faith, you are right, mother, we will put it off till to-morrow; that will be better, so send out your invitations and I will send mine; or rather let us not invite any one. We will only say we are going, and then every one will be free. Good-by, mother! I am going to play on the horn.”

”You will exhaust yourself, Charles, as Ambroise Pare is always telling you, and he is right. It is too severe an exercise for you.”

”Bah! bah! bah!” said Charles; ”I wish I were sure nothing else would be the cause of my death. I should then bury every one here, including Harry, who will one day succeed us all, as Nostradamus prophesies.”

Catharine frowned.

”My son,” she said, ”mistrust especially all things that appear impossible, and meanwhile take care of yourself.”

”Only two or three blasts to rejoice my dogs, poor things; they are wearied to death with doing nothing. I ought to have let them loose on the Huguenots; that would have done them good!”

And Charles IX. left his mother's room, went into his armory, took down a horn, and played on it with a vigor that would have done honor to Roland himself. It was difficult to understand how so weak a frame and such pale lips could blow a blast so powerful.

Catharine, in truth, was awaiting some one as she had told her son. A moment after he had left her, one of her women came and spoke to her in a low voice. The queen smiled, rose, and saluting the persons who formed her court, followed the messenger.

Rene the Florentine, the man to whom on the eve of Saint Bartholomew the King of Navarre had given such a diplomatic reception, had just entered her oratory.

”Ah, here you are, Rene,” said Catharine, ”I was impatiently waiting for you.”

Rene bowed.

”Did you receive the note I wrote you yesterday?”

”I had that honor.”

”Did you make another trial, as I asked you to do, of the horoscope cast by Ruggieri, and agreeing so well with the prophecy of Nostradamus, which says that all my three sons shall reign? For several days past, affairs have decidedly changed, Rene, and it has occurred to me that possibly fate has become less threatening.”

”Madame,” replied Rene, shaking his head, ”your majesty knows well that affairs do not change fate; on the contrary, fate controls affairs.”

”Still, you have tried the sacrifice again, have you not?”

”Yes, madame,” replied Rene; ”for it is my duty to obey you in all things.”

”Well--and the result?”

”Still the same, madame.”

”What, the black lamb uttered its three cries?”