Part 112 (1/2)

Marguerite pointed them out to Charles.

”Well!” said the King, ”what does this mean?”

”It means,” replied Marguerite, ”that Monsieur le Duc d'Alencon may put his cord back into his pocket, and that Messieurs d'Anjou and de Guise may sheathe their swords, for Monsieur de la Mole will not pa.s.s through the corridor again to-night.”

CHAPTER XL.

THE ATRIDES.

Since his return to Paris, Henry of Anjou had not seen his mother Catharine alone, and, as every one knows, he was her favorite son.

This visit was not merely for the sake of etiquette, nor the carrying out of a painful ceremony, but the accomplishment of a very sweet duty for this son who, if he did not love his mother, was at least sure of being tenderly loved by her.

Catharine loved this son best either because of his bravery, his beauty,--for besides the mother, there was the woman in Catharine,--or because, according to some scandalous chronicles, Henry of Anjou reminded the Florentine of a certain happy epoch of secret love.

Catharine alone knew of the return of the Duc d'Anjou to Paris. Charles IX. would have been ignorant of it had not chance led him to the Hotel de Conde just as his brother was leaving it. Charles had not expected him until the following day, and Henry of Anjou had hoped to conceal from him the two motives which had hastened his arrival by a day, namely, his visit to the beautiful Marie of Cleves, princess of Conde, and his conference with the Polish amba.s.sadors.

It was this last reason, of the object of which Charles was uncertain, which the Duc d'Anjou had to explain to his mother. And the reader, ignorant on this point as was Henry of Navarre, will profit by the explanation.

When the Duc d'Anjou, so long expected, entered his mother's rooms, Catharine, usually so cold and formal, and who since the departure of her favorite son had embraced with effusion no one but Coligny, who was to be a.s.sa.s.sinated the following day, opened her arms to the child of her love, and pressed him to her heart with a burst of maternal affection most surprising in a heart already long grown cold.

Then pus.h.i.+ng him from her she gazed at him and again drew him into her arms.

”Ah, madame,” said he, ”since Heaven grants me the privilege of embracing my mother in private, console me, for I am the most wretched man alive.”

”Oh, my G.o.d! my beloved child,” cried Catharine, ”what has happened to you?”

”Nothing which you do not know, mother. I am in love. I am loved; but it is this very love which is the cause of my unhappiness.”

”Tell me about it, my son,” said Catharine.

”Well, mother,--these amba.s.sadors,--this departure”--

”Yes,” said Catharine, ”the amba.s.sadors have arrived; the departure is near at hand.”

”It need not be near at hand, mother, but my brother hastens it. He detests me. I am in his way, and he wants to rid himself of me.”

Catharine smiled.

”By giving you a throne, poor, unhappy crowned head!”

”Oh, no, mother,” said Henry in agony, ”I do not wish to go away. I, a son of France, brought up in the refinement of polite society, near the best of mothers, loved by one of the dearest women in the world, must I go among snows, to the ends of the earth, to die by inches among those rough people who are intoxicated from morning until night, and who gauge the capacity of their king by that of a cask, according to what he can hold? No, mother, I do not want to go; I should die!”

”Come, Henry,” said Catharine, pressing her son's hands, ”come, is that the real reason?”

Henry's eyes fell, as though even to his mother he did not dare to confess what was in his heart.

”Is there no other reason?” asked Catharine; ”less romantic, but more rational, more political?”