had been poisoned. But the cloud was transitory, and disappeared like a fleeting shadow, for they who spoke to him, they who congratulated him, they who elbowed him, were they who had assassinated the brave Jeanne d'Albret.

Some paces distant from the king of Navarre, almost as pensive and gloomy as the king affected to be joyous and free from cares, was the young duke de Guise conversing with Teligny. More fortunate than the Bearnais, at two-andtwenty he had almost attained the reputation of his father, François, the great duke de Guise. He was an elegant gentleman, very tall, with a noble and haughty look, and gifted with that natural majesty, which caused it to be said that by his side other princes seemed to belong to the people. Young as he was, the catholics looked up to him as the chief of their party, as the huguenots considered Henry of Navarre, whose portrait we have just drawn, to be their chief. He had heretofore borne the title of prince de Joinville, and at the siege of Orleans fought his first fight under his father, who died in his arms, denouncing admiral Coligny as his assassin. It was then the young duke, like Hannibal, took a solemn oath to avenge his father's death on the admiral and his family, and to pursue the foes to his religion without truce or respite, promising God to be his exterminating angel on earth, until the very last heretic should be cut off. It was therefore with the deepest astonishment that the people saw this prince, usually so faithful to his word, extend the hand of fellowship to those whom he had sworn to hold as his eternal enemies, and discourse familiarly with the son-in-law of the man whose death he had promised to his dying father.

But as we have said, this was an evening of astonishments. All continued smilingly within, and a murmur more soft and flattering than ever pervaded the Louvre at the moment when the youthful bride, after having laid aside her toilette of ceremony, her long mantle and flowing veil, returned to the ball-room, accompanied by the lovely duchess de Nevers, her most intimate friend, and led by her brother, Charles IX., who presented her to the principal guests.

The bride was the daughter of Henry II., was the pearl of the crown of France, MARGuerite de ValOIS, whom, in his familiar tenderness for her, king Charles IX. always called Ma sœur Margot, "my sister Madge.”

Never was a more flattering reception, never one more merited than that which awaited the new queen of Navarre. Marguerite at this period was scarcely twenty, and already she was the object of all the poets' eulogies, some of whom compared her to Aurora, others to Cytherea; she was, in truth, a beauty without rival in that court in which Catherine de Medicis had assembled the loveliest women of the age and country.

She had black hair and a brilliant complexion; a voluptuous eye, veiled by long lids, coral and delicate lips, a graceful neck, a full, enchanting figure, and concealed in a satin slipper a tiny foot, scarce larger than an infant's. The French, who possessed her, were proud to see so lovely a flower flourishing in their soil, and foreigners who passed through France returned home dazzled with her beauty, if they had but seen her, and amazed at her knowledge, if they had discoursed with her, for not only was Marguerite the loveliest, she was also the most erudite woman of her time, and on all sides was quoted the remark of an Italian savant who had been presented to her, and who, after having conversed with her for an hour in Italian, Spanish, and Latin, had said, on quitting her presence: "To see the court without seeing Marguerite de Valois, is to see neither France nor the court.'

Thus it may be supposed, that addresses to king Charles IX. and the queen of Navarre were not wanting. The huguenots were great hands at addresses. Many strong hints to the past, and stronger hints as to the future, were adroitly slipped into these harangues; but to all such allusions and speeches he replied, with his pale lips and artificial smile:

"In giving my sister Margot to Henry of Navarre, I give my sister to all the protestants of the kingdom."

This phrase assured some and made others smile, for it had really a double sense: the one paternal, and with which Charles IX. would not load his mind; the other, injurious to the bride, her husband, and also to him who said it, for it recalled some scandalous rumours with which the chroniclers of the court had already found means to smirch the nuptial robe of Marguerite de Valois.

However, M. de Guise was conversing, as we have de

scribed, with Teligny; but he did not pay to the conversation such sustained attention but that he turned away somewhat, from time to time, to cast a glance at the group of ladies, in the centre of whom glittered the queen of Navarre. When the princess's eye thus met that of the young duke, a cloud seemed to overspread that lovely brow, around which stars of diamonds formed a tremulous circlet, and some agitating thought might be divined in her restless and impatient

manner.

The princess Claude, the eldest sister of Marguerite, who had been for some years married to the duke of Lorraine, had observed this uneasiness, and going up to her, was about to inquire the cause, when all stood aside at the approach of the queen-mother, who came forward, leaning on the arm of the young prince de Condé, and the princess was thus suddenly shut out from her sister. There was then a general movement, by which the duke de Guise profited to approach madame de Nevers, his sister-in-law, and Marguerite.

Madame de Lorraine, who had not lost sight of her sister, then remarked, instead of the cloud which she had before observed on her forehead, a burning blush come into her cheeks. The duke approached still nearer, and when he was within two steps of Marguerite, she appeared rather to feel than see his presence, and turned round, making a violent effort over herself in order to give to her features an appearance of calmness and indifference. The duke, then respectfully bowing, murmured, in a low tone, Ipse attuli. "I have brought it."

Marguerite returned the salute of the young duke, and as she stooped, replied, in the same tone, Noctu pro more. "To-night, as usual."

These words, uttered softly, were so lost in the enormous collar which the princess wore, as to be heard only by the person to whom they were addressed; but brief as had been the conference, it doubtless composed all the young couple had to say, for after this exchange of two words for three, they separated, Marguerite more thoughtful, and the duke with his brow less clouded than when they met. little scene took place without the person most interested appearing to remark it, for, on his side, the king of Navarre

This

had eyes but for one individual amongst those whom Marguerite de Valois had around her, and that was the lovely madame de Sauve.

Charlotte de Beaune-Semblançay, grand-daughter of the unfortunate Semblançay, and wife of Simon de Fizes, baron de Sauve, was one of the ladies in waiting to Catherine de Medicis, and one of the most redoubtable auxiliaries of this queen, who poured forth to her enemies philtres of love when she dared not pour out Italian poison. Delicately fair, and by turns sparkling with vivacity or languishing in melancholy, always ready for love or intrigue, the two great occupations which for fifty years employed the court of the three succeeding kings: a woman in every acceptation of the word, and in all the charm of the idea, from the blue eye, languishing or beaming fire, to the small and perfectly formed feet, hidden in their slippers of velvet, madame de Sauve had already for some months seized on every faculty of the king of Navarre, then making his début as lover as well as politician, so completely, that Marguerite de Valois, a magnificent and royal beauty, had not even excited admiration in the heart of her spouse; and what was more strange, and astonished all the world, even on the part of that soul so full of darkness and mystery, Catherine de Medicis, whilst she prosecuted her project of union between her daughter and the king of Navarre, had not ceased to favour almost openly his amour with madame de Sauve. But despite this powerful aid, and despite the easy manners of the age, the lovely Charlotte had hitherto resisted, and this resistance, unheard-of, incredible, unprecedented, even more than the beauty and wit of her who resisted, had excited in the heart of the Béarnais a passion which, unable to satisfy itself, had destroyed in the young king's heart all timidity, pride, and even that carelessness, half philosophy, half idleness, which formed the basis of his character.

Madame de Sauve had been only a few minutes in the apartment; from spite or grief, she had at first resolved on not being present at her rival's triumph, and under the pretext of an indisposition, had allowed her husband, who had been for five years secretary of state, to go alone to the Louvre; but when Catherine de Medicis saw the baron without his wife, had learned the cause that kept away

her dear Charlotte, and that the indisposition was but slight, she wrote a few words to her, which the lady instantly obeyed. Henry, sad as he had at first been at her absence, had yet breathed more freely when he saw M. de Sauve enter alone; but at the moment when, not expecting her appearance, he was about to pay some court to the charming creature whom he was condemned, if not to love, at least to treat as his wife, he saw madame de Sauve arise, as it were, from the further end of the gallery. He was nailed to the place, his eyes fastened on the Circe, who enthralled him as if by magic chains, and instead of continuing his steps towards his wife, by a movement of hesitation which betrayed more astonishment than alarm, he advanced to meet madame de Sauve.

The courtiers, seeing the king of Navarre, whose inflammable heart they knew, approach the beautiful Charlotte, had not the courage to prevent their meeting, but drew aside complaisantly; so that at the same moment when Marguerite de Valois and M. de Guise exchanged the few words in Latin which we have noted above, Henry, having approached madame de Sauve, began in a French, very intelligible, although with somewhat of a Gascon accent, a conversation by no means so mysterious.

"Ah ma mie!" he said, "you have, then, come at the very moment when they assured me that you were unwell, and I had lost all hope of seeing you?"

"Your majesty," replied madame de Sauve, "would perhaps wish me to believe that it had cost you something to lose this hope?"

"Sang Diou! I believe it!" replied the Béarnais; "know you not that you are my sun by day, and my star by night? By my faith, I was in deepest darkness till you appeared and illumined all."

"Then, monseigneur, I serve you a very ill turn." "What mean you, ma mie ?" inquired Henry.

"I mean that he who is master of the handsomest woman in France should only have one desire-that the light should disappear, and give way to darkness and to happiness."

"You know, cruel one, that my happiness is in the hands of one woman only, and that she laughs at poor Henry.” "Oh!” replied the baroness, "I believed, on the contrary,