Part 137 (2/2)

”I should prefer you to give it to him yourself, Francois, that would be surer.”

”I have already said that I do not dare, madame,” replied the duke.

”Very well; but at least put it where he can see it.”

”Open? Is there any reason why it should not be open?”

”None.”

”Then give it to me.”

D'Alencon tremblingly took the book, which Catharine with a firm hand held out to him.

”Take it,” said the queen, ”there is no danger--I touch it; besides, you have gloves on.”

This precaution was not enough for D'Alencon, who wrapped the volume in his cloak.

”Make haste,” said Catharine; ”Henry may return at any moment.”

”You are right, madame. I will go at once.”

The duke went out, trembling with fright.

We have often introduced the reader into the apartments of the King of Navarre, and he has been present at the events which have taken place in them, events bright or gloomy, according to the smile or frown of the protecting genius of the future king of France.

But perhaps never had these walls, stained with the blood of murders, sprinkled with the wine of orgies, scented with the perfumes of love,--perhaps never had this corner of the Louvre seen a paler face than that of the Duc d'Alencon, as with book in hand he opened the door of the bedchamber of the King of Navarre. And no one, as the duke had expected, was in the room to question with curious or anxious glances what he was about to do. The first rays of the morning sun alone were lighting up the vacant chamber.

On the wall in readiness hung the sword which Monsieur de Mouy had advised Henry to take with him. Some links of a coat of mail were scattered on the floor. A well-filled purse and a small dagger lay on a table, and some light ashes in the fireplace, joined to the other evidence, clearly showed D'Alencon that the King of Navarre had put on the s.h.i.+rt of mail, collected some money from his treasurer, and burned all papers that might compromise him.

”My mother was not mistaken,” said D'Alencon ”the knave would have betrayed me.”

Doubtless this conviction gave added strength to the young man. He sounded the corners of the room at a glance, raised the portieres, and realizing from the loud noise in the court-yard below and the dense silence in the apartments that no one was there to spy on him, he drew the book from under his cloak, hastily laid it on the table, near the purse, propping it up against a desk of sculptured oak; then drawing back, he reached out his arm, and, with a hesitation which betrayed his fears, with his gloved hand he opened the volume to an engraving of a hunt. This done, D'Alencon again stepped back, and drawing off his glove threw it into the still warm fire, which had just consumed the papers.

The supple leather crackled over the coals, twisted and flattened itself out like the body of a great reptile, leaving nothing but a burned and blackened lump.

D'Alencon waited until the flame had consumed the glove, then rolling up the cloak which had been wrapped around the book, he put it under his arm, and hastily returned to his own apartments. As he entered with beating heart, he heard steps on the winding stairs, and not doubting but that it was Henry he quickly closed his door. Then he stepped to the window, but he could see only a part of the court-yard of the Louvre.

Henry was not there, however, and he felt convinced that it was the King of Navarre who had just returned.

The duke sat down, opened a book, and tried to read. It was a history of France from Pharamond to Henry II., for which, a few days after his accession to the throne, Henry had given a license.

But the duke's thoughts were not on what he was reading; the fever of expectation burned in his veins. His temples throbbed clear to his brain, and as in a dream or some magnetic trance, it seemed to Francois that he could see through the walls. His eyes appeared to probe into Henry's chamber, in spite of the obstacles between.

In order to drive away the terrible object before his mind's eye the duke strove to fix his attention on something besides the terrible book opened on the oak desk; but in vain he looked at his weapons, his ornaments; in vain he gazed a hundred times at the same spot on the floor; every detail of the picture at which he had merely glanced remained graven on his memory. It consisted of a gentleman on horseback fulfilling the duties of a beater of hawking, throwing the bait, calling to the falcon, and galloping through the deep gra.s.s of a swamp. Strong as was the duke's will, his memory triumphed over it.

Then it was not only the book he saw, but the King of Navarre approaching it, looking at the picture, trying to turn the pages, finally wetting his thumb and forcing the leaves apart. At this sight, fict.i.tious and imaginary as it was, D'Alencon staggered and was forced to lean one hand against a table, while with the other he covered his eyes, as if by so doing he did not see more clearly than before the vision he wished to escape. This vision was in his own thoughts.

Suddenly D'Alencon saw Henry cross the court; he stopped a few moments before the men who were loading two mules with the provisions for the chase--none other than the money and other things he wished to take with him; then, having given his orders, he crossed the court diagonally and advanced towards the door.

<script>