man, the right hand of la Mole reposed in the left hand of Coconnas. There was a look of love beneath the eyelids of la Mole; there was a smile of disdain under those of Coconnas. Marguerite knelt down beside her lover, and, with her hands glittering with jewels, gently raised the head of him she had loved so well. The duchess de Nevers, leaning against the wall, could not take her eyes off that pale face she had so often gazed upon with joy and love. "La Mole! dearest la Mole!" murmured Marguerite. "Hannibal! Hannibal!" cried the duchess. "So handsome, so proud, so brave, why dost thou not answer me?" and a torrent of tears gushed from her eyes. Marguerite then put into a bag, embroidered with pearls and perfumed with the finest essences, the head of la Mole, which looked still more striking when in contact with the velvet and gold, and whose beauty a peculiar preparation, used at the period in royal embalmings, could not fail to preserve. Henriette folded the head of Coconnas in the skirt of her mantle. And both, bending beneath their poignant sorrow, ascended the stairs, after one last lingering look at the loved remains they left to the mercy of an executioner, in this gloomy den of common criminals. "Fear nothing, madame," said Caboche, who comprehended the look; "the gentlemen shall be buried in holy ground: this I swear to you." "And have masses said for their souls, which this will pay for," said Henriette, taking from her neck a magnificent necklace of rubies, which she gave to the headsman. They returned to the Louvre, and the queen, going to her own apartments, deposited the melancholy relic in the cabinet of her bedchamber, destined from that moment to become an oratory; then, leaving Henriette in her room, the queen, paler and lovelier than ever, about ten o'clock entered the splendid ball-room-the scene in which we commenced the first chapter of this our history, two years and a half previously. All eyes were turned towards her, and she supported the universal gaze with a proud and almost joyous look, for she had religiously accomplished the dying wish of the beloved of her heart. Charles, when he saw her, passed through the gilded throng, and said aloud "Thanks, my dear sister!" and then, in a lower tone— "Mind! you have a spot of blood upon your arm.” "What consequence is that, sire, if I have but a smile upon my lips?" CHAPTER LXII. THE SWEAT OF BLOOD. SOME days after the terrible scene we have related, that is, on the 30th of May 1574 the court was at Vincennes, when suddenly a great noise was heard in the antechamber of the king, who had been ill in the midst of a grand ball he had given the very day of the young men's execution, and by advice of his physicians, had come to Vincennes for change of air. It was eight o'clock in the morning; a small group of courtiers was assembled in the antechamber, when the nurse appeared at the door of the royal apartment, crying 66 Help! help! the king is dying!" "The king is worse, then?" said de Nancey, whom, as we have seen, Charles had attached to his own person. "Oh, summon the doctors! summon the doctors!" cried the nurse. Mazille and Ambroise Paré attended the king by turns, and Paré, having seen Charles fall asleep, had profited by the opportunity to retire for a few moments. Meantime, Charles had broken into a profuse perspiration, and as he suffered from a relaxation of the capillary vessels, which occasions hæmorrhage of the skin, this strange appearance had alarmed the nurse, who, being a protestant, declared it was a judgment for the blood shed in the massacre of St. Bartholomew. Every one hastened in search of the doctor, in order to display his zeal and activity. A door suddenly opened, and Catherine appeared; she traversed the antechamber, and entered the king's apart ment. Charles was lying across the bed, his eyes closed, and his chest heaving; his body was covered with a reddish perspiration, and from the end of each finger hung a drop of blood. At the sound of steps Charles looked up, and beheld his mother. "Excuse me, madame," said he, "I would fain die in peace." "Die!" replied Catherine; "do not thus be discouraged, this is a passing attack." "I tell you, mort de tout les diables! I am dying-I know it and I feel it!" 66 66 Sire," said the queen, your mind is diseased; since the death of those two assassins, la Mole and Coconnas, your bodily sufferings ought to have abated, and as for your mental anguish, if I had ten minutes' conversation with you, I could prove Nurse," interrupted Charles, "let no one enter: the queen Catherine de Medicis wishes to speak with her beloved son, Charles the Ninth." The nurse obeyed. "This interview must have taken place," continued he, sooner or later, and perhaps to-morrow it may be too late, but a third person must be present." "Why?" "Because, I repeat," said Charles, with a terrible solemnity, "Death is at the door of this chamber, and may enter one moment from another, and it is time to put my affairs in order." "And who is this third person?" My brother." "Sire," said the queen, "I see with pleasure that these denunciations, dictated by hate rather than pain, have not left any prejudice on your mind. Nurse-nurse!" The nurse appeared. "Nurse," said Catherine, "when M. de Nancey comes, order him in the king's name to summon M. d'Alençon." Charles made a sign to the nurse to stay. "I said, my brother," repeated he. Catherine's eyes glistened with rage, but an imperious gesture of Charies stopped her. "I wish to speak with my brother Henry of Navarre," continued he; "he alone is my brother." "And do you think," cried the queen, daring (so great was her hate to Henry) to brave Charles's anger-" do you think, that if you are really, as you say, dying, I will suffer a stranger to usurp my right as a queen and as a mother, to be present at your last moments?" "Madame," said Charles, "I am yet king-I yet command; and if you will not summon Henry, I have yet strength enough left to fetch him myself." And Charles half rose from the bed. "Sire," cried Catherine, detaining him, "think what you do--as for me, the laws of nature and of etiquette alike bid me stay." "By what title do you stay?" "By that of your mother." "You are no more my mother than d'Alencon is my brother." "You rave! when did I forfeit that title?" 66 When you took that which you gave." away "What mean you, Charles? I do not understand you," murmured Catherine, all amazement. Charles felt under his pillow, and drew forth a small silver key. "Take this key, open my travelling-casket there, and you will find papers that will speak for me.' Charles pointed to a casket of carved oak, fastened with a silver lock, that stood in the centre of the apartment. Catherine, controlled, spite of herself, by Charles's terrible look, opened the casket; but no sooner had she done so, than she recoiled, as if she had seen a serpent inside it. "What do you see that alarms you, madame ?" asked Charles. "Nothing," said Catherine. "Then put your hand in, and give me a book; for there is one there is there not?" "Bring it to me. Catherine, trembling in every limb, did as he bade her. 66 “Listen,” continued Charles. "This book-I was foolish -I loved the chase above everything-I read this book too much. Do you understand?" Catherine uttered a suppressed groan. "It was a folly!" said Charles. "Burn it, madame, the world must not know the weaknesses of kings." Catherine advanced to the fire, cast the fatal book in, and stood, motionless and haggard, watching the blue flames that ♦ devoured the poisoned leaves of the volume. As it burnt, a strong odour like garlic pervaded the apartment. It was soon entirely consumed. "And now, madame," said the king, with irresistible majesty, summon my brother Henry." 66 Catherine, overwhelmed, crushed beneath a complicated emotion she could not analyse, quitted the room. "Curse him!" cried she, as she passed the threshold"he triumphs-he reaches the goal! Curse him!-curse him!" "Henry!-my brother Henry!" cried Charles, following his mother with his voice-"I wish to see him instantly, to speak about the regency." At this moment, Ambroise Paré entered by the opposite door. "Who has been burning arsenic here?" said he. CHAPTER LXIII. THE PLATFORM OF THE DONJON AT VINCENNES. HENRY of Navarre was walking alone on the terrace of the donjon. He knew the court was at the chateau, and it seemed to him he could see, through the walls, Charles on his deathbed. It was a summer's eve. A broad ray of light bathed |