Tueur du Roi, literally, the King's Killer. At midnight on the twenty-fourth of August, the tocsin sounded, and the massacre of St. Bartholomew began.

"It is at this stirring period of French history, abounding in horrors and bloodshed, and in plots and intrigues, that M. Alexandre Dumas commences Marguerite de Valois.' Beginning with the marriage of Henry and Margaret, he narrates, in his spirited and attractive style, various episodes, real and imaginary, of the great massacre, from the first fury of which, Henry himself, doomed to death by the remorseless Catherine of Medicis, was only saved by his own caution, by the indecision of Charles IX., and the energy of Margaret of Valois. The marriage between the King of France's sister and the King of Navarre was merely one of convenance, agreed to by Henry for the sake of his fellow Protestants, and used by Catherine and Charles as a lure to bring those of the religion,' as they were called, to Paris, there to be slaughtered, unsuspecting and defenceless. Margaret, then scarcely twenty years of age, had already made herself talked of by her intrigues; Henry, who was a few months younger, but who, even at that early period of his life, possessed a large share of the shrewdness and prudence for which his countrymen, the Béarnese, have at all times been noted, was, at the very time of his marriage, deeply in love with the Baroness de Sauve, one of Catherine de Medicis' ladies, by whom he was in his turn beloved. But although little affection existed between the royal pair, the strong links of interest and ambition bound them together; and no sooner were they married than they entered into a treaty of political alliance, to which, for some time, both steadily and truly adhered.

"The author, according to his custom, introduces a vast array of characters, for the most part historical, all spiritedly drawn and well sustained. M. Dumas may, in various respects, be held up as an example to our history spoilers, self-styled writers of historical romance, on this side the Channel. One does not find him profaning public edifices by causing all sorts of absurdities to pass, and of twaddle to be spoken, within their precincts; neither does he make his kings and beggars, high-born dames and private soldiers, use the very same language, all equally tame, colourless, and devoid of character. The spirited and varied dialogue in which his romances abound, illustrates and brings out the qualities and characteristics of his actors, and is not used for the sole purpose of making a chapter out of what would be better told in a page. In many instances, indeed, it would be difficult for him to tell his story, by the barest narrative, in fewer words than he does by pithy and pointed dialogue."

MARGUERITE DE VALOIS.

CHAPTER I.

M. DE GUISE'S LATIN.

ON Monday, the 18th of August, 1572, there was a splendid fête at the Louvre.

The windows of the ancient royal residence were brilliantly illuminated, and the squares and streets adjacent, usually so solitary after the clock of Saint Germain-l'Auxerrois had tolled nine, were now crowded with people, although it was past midnight.

All this assemblage, threatening, pressing, and turbulent, resembled, in the gloom, a dark and rolling sea, each swell of which increases to a foaming wave; this sea, extending all along the quay, spent its waves at the base of the walls of the Louvre, on the one hand, and against the Hôtel de Bourbon, which was opposite, on the other. There was in spite of the royal fête, and perhaps even because of the royal fête, something threatening in the aspect of the people.

The court was celebrating the marriage of Madame Marguerite de Valois, daughter of Henry II. and sister of king Charles IX., with Henry de Bourbon, king of Navarre; and that same morning the cardinal de Bourbon had united the young couple with the usual ceremonial observed at the marriages of the royal daughters of France, on a stage erected at the entrance to Nôtre Dame.

This marriage had astonished everybody, and occasioned much surmise to certain persons who saw clearer than others. They could not comprehend the union of two parties who

hated each other so thoroughly as did, at this moment, the protestant party and the catholic party; and they wondered how the young prince de Condé could forgive the duke l'Anjou, the king's father, for the death of his father, assasşinated by Montesquiou, at Jarnac. They asked how the young duke de Guise could pardon admiral de Coligny for the death of his father, assassinated at Orleans by Poltrot de Méré. Moreover, Jeanne de Navarre, the courageous spouse of the weak Antoine de Bourbon, who had conducted his son Henry to the royal espousals which awaited him, had died scarcely two months before, and singular reports had been spread abroad as to this sudden death. It was everywhere whispered, and in some places said aloud, that she had discovered some terrible secret; and that Catherine de Medicis, fearing its disclosure, had poisoned her gloves, which had been made by one René, her fellow-countryman, and deeply skilled in such affairs. This report was the more spread and believed, when, after the death of this great queen, at her son's request, two celebrated physicians, one of whom was the famous Ambroise Paré, were instructed to open and examine the body but not the skull. As it was by the smell that Jeanne de Navarre had been poisoned, it was the brain alone that could present any traces of the crime, and that was the sole part excluded from dissection. We say crime, for no one doubted for a moment that a crime had been committed.

This was not all. The king, Charles, in particular had set his heart on this union, which not only re-established peace in his kingdom, but also attracted to Paris the principal Huguenots of France, and his anxiety almost approached to obstinacy. As the two betrothed belonged one to the catholic religion and the other to the reformed religion, they were obliged to obtain a dispensation from Gregory XIII., who then filled the papal chair. The dispensation was slow in coming, and the delay causing great uneasiness to the late queen of Navarre, she had one day expressed to Charles IX. her fears least the dispensation should not arrive; to which the king replied

"Be under no alarm, my dear aunt. I honour you more than I do the pope, and I love my sister more than I fear his holiness. I am not a huguenot, but neither am I a fool; and

if the pope makes any difficulties, I will myself take Margot by the hand, and unite her to your son in the sight of open day."

This speech was soon spread through the Louvre and the city, and whilst it greatly rejoiced the huguenots, had given the catholics wherewithal to reflect upon; and they asked one another, with a low voice, if the king really meant to betray them, or was only playing a part which some fine morning or evening might have an unexpected finale.

It was particularly with regard to admiral de Coligny, who for five or six years had been so bitterly opposed to the king, that the conduct of Charles IX. appeared inexplicable: after having put on his head a price of a hundred and fifty thousand golden crowns, the king now swore by him, called him his father, and declared openly that he should in future confide the conduct of the war to him alone. To such a pitch was this carried, that Catherine de Medicis herself, who until then had controlled the actions, will, and even desires of the young prince, seemed beginning to be really uneasy, and not without reason; for, in a moment of confidence, Charles IX. had said to the admiral, in reference to the war in Flanders, My father, there is one other thing against which we must be on our guard, and this is, that the queen, my mother, who likes to poke her nose everywhere, as you well know, shall learn nothing of this undertaking; we must keep it so quiet that she does not hear a word of it, or, meddler as she is, she will spoil all."

Now, wise and experienced as he was, Coligny had not kept this counsel secret; and, albeit he had come to Paris with great suspicions, and albeit at his departure from Chatillon, a peasant had thrown herself at his feet, crying, "Ah! sir, our good master, do not go to Paris, for if you do you will die-you and all who are with you!"—these suspicions were lulled and almost destroyed in his breast, and in that of Teligny, his son-in-law, to whom the king was especially kind and attentive, calling him "brother," as he called the admiral his "father," and behaving to him as he did to his best friends.

The huguenots, then, excepting some few morose and suspicious spirits, were completely re-assured. The death of the queen of Navarre passed over, as having been caused by a pleurisy, and the spacious apartments of the Louvre were

filled with those brave protestants to whom the marriage of their young chief Henry promised an unexpected return of good fortune. Admiral Coligny, La Rochefoucault, the young prince de Condé, Teligny, in short, all the leaders of the party were triumphant when they saw so powerful at the Louvre, and so welcome in Paris, those whom, three months before, king Charles and queen Catherine would have hanged on gibbets higher than those of assassins. The king, the queen, the duke d'Anjou, and the duke d'Alençon did the honours of the royal fete with all courtesy and kindness.

The duke d'Anjou received from the huguenots themselves well-merited compliments as to the two battles of Jarnac and Montcontour, which he had gained before he was eighteen years of age, more precocious in that than either Cæsar or Alexander, to whom they compared him, of course placing the conquerors of Pharsalia and Issus as inferior to the living prince. The duke d'Alençon looked on, with his bland, false smile, whilst queen Catherine, radiant with joy and diffuse in compliment, congratulated the prince Henry de Condé on his recent marriage with Marie de Clèves, and the messieurs de Guise themselves looked gracious on the formidable enemies of their house, and the duke de Mayenne discoursed with M. de Tavanne and the admiral on the impending war, which was now more than ever threatened against Philippe II.

In the midst of these groups moved backwards and forwards, his head a little on one side, his ear open to all that was said, a young man about nineteen years of age, with a keen eye, black hair cut very close, thick eyebrows, and a nose curved like an eagle's, with a sneering smile and a growing moustache and beard This young man, who had first distinguished himself at the battle of Arnay-le-Duc, for which he had been very highly complimented, was the dearly beloved pupil of Coligny and the hero of the day. Three months anterior, that is to say, when his mother was living, they called him the prince of Bearn, now he was called the king of Navarre, and in after-time, Henry IV.

From time to time a gloomy cloud passed suddenly and rapidly over his brow; questionless, he recollected that "two months, two little months," had scarce elapsed since his mother's death, and he less than any one doubted that she