Queen Jezebel

Two

IN THE LOUVRE THE BALLETS AND MASQUEScontinued. Outside the common people gathered in groups. They looked up at the lighted windows and said: ‘What does it mean? Huguenots and Catholics dance together; they join hands; they sing; they watch the same tourneys, the same nymphs and shepherds. They are joined in amity . . . and yet, what does it mean?’

The days were hot; there was not a breath of wind. When it was dark the stars seemed big in the sky; and all through the night the sounds of revelry could be heard throughout the city. People danced in the streets and when they were exhausted lay on the cobbles, since Paris could not provide beds for so many visitors. It was all gaiety and celebration and yet there was hardly a person in the city who did not feel that there was something false, a little unreal, about these wedding festivities.

Least concerned of any was perhaps the bride. She danced wildly; she seemed more fascinating than ever, more alluring; the reluctant bride enjoying her role, too absorbed in her own affairs to think of anything that might be happening about her.

She was the most enchanting figure in that ballet which Henry of Guise with his two brothers and sisters had devised for the entertainment of the court., ‘The Mystery of the Three Worlds’ they called it, and it was a brilliant charade into which they had infused a certain mockery, a certain defiance of their enemies. Henry of Navarre and that other Henry, the Prince of Condé, had been dressed as knights and had been shown as entering Paradise, where they found among others such beauteous nymphs as Marguerite, the bride, and Charlotte de Sauves. They danced together rapturously to the applause of the onlookers; but it seemed that this was not the end of the ballet, for quite unexpectedly the King and his brother Anjou appeared, more richly dressed than Navarre and Condé, and there was a mock battle between the four knights which Navarre and Condé realized they must lose, for none—even in play—must overcome the King of France. And so Navarre and Condé were driven from the women; and there appeared numbers of courtiers dressed as devils who made sport with Navarre and Condé and drove them into the company of more courtiers in similar dress; curtains were parted to show a great fire, and it was understood immediately that the Huguenot Princes had been driven to Hell.

The Catholics cheered wildly as the King and Anjou danced with the ladies while the ‘devils’ pranced wildly about the bewildered Navarre and Condé, prodding them towards the fire.

The Huguenots watched in silence and with apprehension. Only the King of Navarre seemed to be enjoying himself, having a riotous time in Hell, trying to fight his way back to Paradise and almost succeeding in wresting Madame de Sauves from Anjou and carrying her to Hell with him.

Afterwards, dancing with Henry of Guise, Margot said to him: ‘You spoil the fun with such masques as that.’

‘Nay,’ said Guise. ‘All enjoyed it.’

‘The Catholics jeered,’ said Margot, ‘but the Huguenots were uneasy:

‘Then perhaps they will change their ways before they are driven to Hell in very truth.’

‘I wish that you were less of a fanatic. Fanaticism is folly.’ He looked at her sharply. ‘Who has been counselling you?’

‘No one. To whose counsel do you think I would listen? I am sickened by this strife between Huguenots and Catholics.’

‘Not long ago you were a firm Catholic. Has this marriage of yours anything to do with the change?’

‘I am still a firm Catholic, and my marriage has not changed me in the least.’

‘Are you sure of that? It seems to me that you do not view your husband with the same disfavour.’

‘What is the use now that I am married to him? You are jealous?’

‘Maddeningly. What do you imagine my feelings have been these last days and nights?’

‘Ah!’ sighed Margot. ‘It was when I looked at you that I could not make the responses.’

‘I know.’

‘Henry, do something for me.’

‘Anything in the world.’

‘Then stop this baiting of Huguenots. Let us be peaceful for a change. That stupid masque of the Three Worlds, and that one in which you made my husband and Condé Turks and my brothers Amazons to beat them in battle . . . in such you go too far. All remembered how the Turks were beaten at Lepanto, and they knew what insults you intended to convey. It is tasteless and inelegant.’

‘Marriage has made you tender to these Huguenots.’

‘Huguenots! Catholics! Let us think of something else. But you cannot, can you? Even now when you talk to me, talk of love, your thoughts are elsewhere. Do I not know it? What are you thinking of? What are you hatching?’

She had moved closer to him and as she looked up into his brilliant eyes, just for a second she saw distrust in them. They had been passionate lovers; but although he desired her as she desired him, he would not trust her with his secrets, for now she was the wife of a Huguenot, and nothing—desire, passion, love—could make him forget that the Huguenots were his bitterest enemies.

‘I am thinking of you,’ he said.

She laughed, a trifle scornfully. Still, he was very handsome and to be near him was to realize afresh his charms; his vitality matched that of her husband, but how different he was. He was beautiful, elegant; he moved with grace; his manners were perfect; he was skilled in chivalry. How could she compare such a man with her coarse provincial husband, quick-witted and amusing though he might be? Henry of Guise and Henry of Navarre! As well compare an eagle with a crow, a swan with a duck. Henry of Guise was serious; Henry of Navarre careless. Henry of Guise looked for greatness and honour; Henry of Navarre for women to give him pleasure. I cannot be blamed for loving Henry of Guise, thought Margot.

‘I must see you alone,’ she said.

‘Why yes,’ he answered, but his eyes had strayed beyond her, and she noticed that they had settled on someone in the crowd about the door of the hall. Angry jealousy beset her; but it was quickly turned into curiosity, for it was not a woman at whom he looked but a man whom she recognized as one of his old tutors, the Chanoine de Villemur.

The Chanoine’s eyes met those of Guise, and the two men exchanged glances which seemed to Margot full of meaning. ‘Well,’ she demanded, ‘when?’

‘Margot,’ he said, ‘I will see you later. I must have a word with the old man over there. Later, my darling . .

She stood angrily watching him as he went across the hall. She saw him pause and mutter something to the old man before the two of them were lost in the crowd; but a few seconds later she saw the old man alone, saw him hesitate for a while and then slip quietly out of the hall; but although she looked for Henry of Guise she could not see him.

How dared he! He had made an excuse to leave her. Doubtless he had some assignation with a woman. That she would not endure. She looked about her and was faintly relieved to see Charlotte de Sauves chatting animatedly with Henry of Navarre.

When Henry of Guise left the Louvre he went hurriedly to the house of the Chanoine de Villemur, which was situated nearby in a narrow street leading to the Rue Béthisy, where Coligny had his house.

Guise let himself into the house, shut the door quietly behind him and mounted the wooden staircase.

In a candlelit room several members of his family were waiting for him; among these were his brothers, the Duke of Mayenne and the Cardinal of Guise, and his, uncle, the Duke of Aumale. There was a stranger with them, a dark, swarthy man, whose appearance suggested that he had recently undertaken a long journey.

‘Toshingi has arrived,’ said Mayenne, pushing the man forward.

Toshingi knelt and kissed the hand of the young Duke. ‘Welcome,’ said Guise. ‘Did any see you enter Paris?’ ‘None, sir. I came disguised and in the dark.’

‘You know what is expected of you?’ asked Guise.

‘We have told him,’ said the Cardinal, ‘that his victim is a man of some importance.’

‘That is so,’ said Guise. ‘I will tell you more. The man you must kill is Gaspard de Coligny. Have you the stomach for the deed?’

‘I have stomach for any deed you should command me to do, sir.

‘That is well. We are making careful provisions for your escape.’

‘I thank you, sir.’

‘The shooting will not take place from this house. Next door there is an empty house. If you wait at one of the lower windows you will catch him as he passes through the street on his way to the Rue Béthisy. It is imperative that you do not miss.’

‘Sir, you know my reputation.’

‘There is not a better marksman in Paris,’ said Mayenne. ‘We have the utmost confidence in you, Toshingi.’

‘Thank you, sir. I shall see that it is deserved.’

‘A horse will be saddled ready for you in the Chanoine’s stables. Immediately after firing the shot you must, with all speed, make your way to the back of the house, over the low wall and into the stables. Now, let us go through to the empty house. Let us make sure that everything is in order so that nothing can stand in the way of our success.’

The small party descended the wooden staircase and went into the empty house next door.

The council meeting was over and the King wished for a game of tennis.

‘Walk with me, Father,’ he said to Coligny. ‘Walk with me to the tennis court, and then go home and rest, for you are tired. Guise and Téligny will join me in a game, will you not, my friends?’

Both Guise and Téligny expressed their delight to share a game with the King.

A group of gentlemen accompanied them to the courts and, after watching the game for a while, Coligny expressed his intention of returning to the house in the Rue Béthisy. Some dozen of his followers left with him

Gaspard only vaguely heard their conversation as they walked behind him; he himself was in no mood for talk; the King, he guessed, was ready to grant his requests, but there were many of the councillors who were against him. He remembered the masques and ballets with their mockery of the Huguenots. It was clear enough that the new friendship which the Catholics in Paris had feigned to feel for the Huguenots during the celebrations of these nuptials, was an entirely false friendship.

He began to read one of the papers in his hand; he had moved a little ahead of his friends and was deep in the study of the papers when a sheet fell from the packet he carried and fluttered to the ground. He had no sooner stooped to pick it up than a bullet whizzed over his head and was embedded in the wall of one of the houses. He turned and saw a man at one of the windows of a nearby house. He pointed and as he did so another shot was fired; it carried off Coligny’s finger, grazed his arm and became embedded in his shoulder.

He shouted: ‘That house. Through that window.’

Some of his followers obeyed; others clustered about him. The sleeve of his jacket was saturated with his blood and he felt dizzy from its loss.

‘The king . . .’ he said. ‘Tell him . . . at once .

Merlin, one of his ministers, realizing that the Admiral was fainting from the loss of blood, put an arm about him.

‘Let us get to your lodging,’ he said. ‘In all haste . .

‘Ah,’ murmured Coligny leaning against Merlin, ‘this will be the work of the Guises. What a noble fidelity was intended when the Duke made his peace with me . .

Very slowly and now quiet painfully, the Admiral, surrounded by those friends who had not gone in search of the assassin, went into his house in the Rue Béthisy.

When the news was taken to the King, he was still playing tennis.

‘Sire, the Admiral has been shot. It happened while he was on his way to his home. The shot came from an empty house.’

Charles stood still, clutching his racquet. He was afraid. He looked at Guise; the man was impassive, betraying nothing; he was aware of the anguish in Téligny’s eyes.

‘Sire, give me leave to go to him.’ That was Téligny speaking.

Charles said nothing He continued to stare before him. There was no peace anywhere. No one was safe. There was no peace.

‘Shall I never have a moment’s peace?’ he sobbed.

‘Sire, Sire, I beg of you . . . leave to go to him.’

‘Go, go!’ cried Charles. ‘Oh, God in Heaven, what have they done to my friend?’

Guise was at his elbow. ‘Sire, it would be well to send doctors. Something may yet be done.’

Charles’ voice rose to a scream. ‘Yes, yes. Send them all. Send Paré. Paré will save him. I myself will go. I . .

He was sobbing as he ran into the palace.

Catherine was sitting quietly in her apartments when Madalenna came running in with the news.

‘Madame, the Admiral has been shot.’

‘Shot?’ she was exultant, but her eyes expressed horror, ‘Madelenna, you lie. It cannot be.’

‘Oh yes, Madame. He was on his way to the Rue Béthisy from the palace when a shot was fired through the window of an empty house.’

‘But this is terrible.’ She did not move; she was thinking: I will send the head to Rome. It should arrive almost as soon as news of the wedding. ‘And . . . who fired the shot? Have you discovered that, Madelenna?’

‘It is not yet known, Madame, but the house is next to that of the Chanoine of Saint-German l’Auxerrois, and the Chanoine was once a tutor of the Guises.’

‘And . . . have they caught the assassin?’

‘I do not know, Madame.’

‘Then go and see what you can discover. Go into the streets and hear what people are saying.’

Catherine was ready to meet the King when he came into the palace. His eyes were wild and she noted the familiar twitching of the lips, the foam on the mouth.

‘Have you heard? Have you heard?’ he shouted to his mother. ‘They have tried to kill my dear friend, the Admiral. They have tried to kill the great Gaspard de Coligny.’

‘If they have tried and failed, my son, let us be thankful. If he is not dead we must save him.’

‘We must save him. Paré! Paré! Where is Paré? Do not stand staring at me, dwarf. Go . . . go and bring Paré to me. Let all go . . . All go and find Paré. There may not be a moment to lose. When you have found him send him to the house of the Admiral. Tell him to lose no time . . . or he shall answer to me. Mother, I must go there at once. I must tell him to live . . . to live. . .’

‘My son, you must calm yourself. You cannot leave in this state, my darling. You must be guided by me. Wait . . . wait until there is more news. Send Paré by all means, but do not yet go yourself. You do not know how ill he is. Wait awhile, I beg of you. You cannot suffer more shocks this day.’

He was tearing at his coat; he was sobbing wildly. ‘He was my father. I trusted him. They have killed him. He must have suffered cruelly. Oh my God, how he suffers. There will be blood . . . his blood . . .

‘And you must not see it,’ soothed Catherine. ‘Wait, my son. Ah, here is Paré. Paré, the King’s orders are that you go immediately to the house of the Admiral and . . . save his life. Go . . . go at once.’

‘Yes, Paré, go . . . go! Do not delay, but go now.’

Catherine said to her dwarf: ‘Call Madeleine and Mademoiselle Touchet. Tell them to come to the King’s apartments at once:

Between them they did their best to soothe the tortured King.

All the chief Huguenots were assembled at the house in the Rue Béthisy. Téligny, Henry of Navarre, the Prince of Condé, the Duke de la Rochefoucauld waited in an outer chamber. Nicholas Muss, Gaspard’s oldest and most faithful servant, and Merlin, his minister, remained in the sick-room. A message had been sent to Montgomery at Saint-Germain. Outside the house a crowd of Huguenots were gathered; there were angry murmurings in that crowd and the name of Guise was repeated again and again.

A cheer of hope went up when Ambroise Paré, the greatest surgeon in Paris and a Huguenot, was seen hurrying to the house. The crowd parted to make a way for him

‘The good God aid you, Monsieur Paré. May you snatch the life of our great leader from these wicked men who would murder him.’

Paré said he would do his best and hurried into the house.

He found the Admiral very weak. The wound in itself did not appear to be a mortal one, but Coligny had lost a good deal of blood and there was a possibility that the bullet, which was lodged in his shoulder, might be poisoned.

Navarre and Condé, Téligny and Rochefoucauld followed Paré into the room.

‘Messieurs,’ said Paré, ‘it may be necessary to take off the arm. If that could satisfactorily be done, the danger would be considerably lessened.’

Coligny had heard. ‘If that is your opinion,’ he said resignedly, ‘then let it be done.°

Paré examined the arm more thoroughly, washing the stains away and prodding the tissue. He smiled. ‘Not so bad as I at first thought,’ he said. ‘The arm is sound enough. If I remove what is left of the finger and extract the bullet, that may be all that is necessary.’

It was going to be an excruciating ordeal, for there was no opium available, and Coligny must look on while Paré performed the operation with a pair of scissors. Muss and Téligny held the Admiral who, with his pale face and bloodless lips already had the appearance of a corpse; yet it was Téligny who groaned; it was Muss who sobbed.

‘Have courage, my friends,’ said the Admiral. ‘The pain is not yet such as cannot be borne, and it will soon be over. All that comes to us is through the will of God.’

Merlin whispered: ‘Yes, my friends. Let us thank God for sparing the Admiral’s life, for sparing his head and his understanding, rather than reproach Him for what has happened.’

The stump of forefinger was at length amputated, and after several very painful attempts, Paré extracted the bullet. The Admiral lay back fainting in the arms of Muss and Téligny. He longed for unconsciousness to escape the pain, but he had disciplined himself for so long, and the needs of his body had always been sacrificed for the good of the cause. He was afraid—not so much of his own sufferings, but of what this attempted assassination meant to all his friends and followers now assembled in Paris.

He murmured: ‘I have now . . . no real enemies . . . but the Guises. But remember, my friends, it may not have been they who struck this blow. We must be sure before making accusations.

He heard a murmur about him. Someone said: ‘We will go and kill the Guises. Shall they escape punishment for what they have done to the Admiral?’

Coligny tried to lift a hand and groaned. ‘Nay . I beg of you. No bloodshed . . . now. That would indeed be the ruin of France.’

Paré whispered: ‘Leave him now. He must rest.’

All left but Téligny, Muss, Paré and Merlin.

There were moments during that pain-racked morning when Coligny could not remember where he was. At one time he thought he was at Châtillon with his, first wife, and that Andelot had just been born. Then the child seemed to be François, not Andelot. Now he was hearing of the death of that other Andelot. Then he was with Jacqueline and Jeanne of Navarre in his rose gardens.

‘Rest, rest!’ begged Paré. ‘That is what you must do. You are strong, Monsieur l’Amiral, but you need rest for you have lost much blood.’

But the Admiral could not rest; and when those staunch Huguenots, and Maréchal de Cossé with Damville and Villars, called to see him, he remembered what had been worrying him.

‘I am afraid, my friends, afraid, but not of death.’ And then it seemed to him that his dazed consciousness was granted clarity. In his mind’s eye he saw the young King, the bewildered madness in his eyes, and holding him by the hand was the woman in black with the smiling, evil face.

He must warn the King. That was what he had to do. He must free the King from her whom he knew to be his evil influence.

‘I am not afraid to die,’ he said, ‘if die I must. But before doing so I must see the King. It may be that some will try to keep him from me. But my greatest wish is that I may see the King before I die . . . and see him alone.’

Charles waited in gloomy apprehension for something to happen. His mother refused to leave him; he knew that she was determined that he should do nothing without her consent.

His first visitors were the King of Navarre and the Prince of Condé, who had come to the Louvre direct from the Admiral’s bedside.

‘What news? What news?’ demanded Charles.

‘Bad news, Sire.’

‘He is . . . dead?’

‘No, Sire, but badly wounded. Monsieur Paré thinks that there may be a faint hope that he will pull through. But he has lost much blood.’

‘Thank God he is not dead,’ said Catherine,

The King wept. ‘It is I who am wounded,’ he moaned.

‘It is the whole of France,’ said Catherine. ‘Ah, Messieurs, who is safe? They will come and attack the King in his own bed soon.’

Her eyes were on her shuddering son. Leave this to me, said those eyes. You are in danger, but all will be well if you leave this to me.

‘Sire,’ said the Prince of Condé, ‘we found the gun in that empty house. It was still smoking. And it belonged to one of the guards of the Duke of Anjou.’

Catherine gasped. ‘It must have been stolen,’ she said. ‘And to whom does this house belong?’

‘I do not know, Madame, but what we have discovered is that it was next door to that of the Chanoine de Villemur.’ ‘And how did the assassin get away?’

‘The doors of the Canon’s stables were open; a horse must have been ready saddled and waiting for him ‘

The King cried out: ‘The. Canon is the servant of the Guises. I’ll have their heads. They shall not escape my vengeance. Go now. Bring the Canon to me. Bring the Duke and his uncles and his brothers. They are the leaders. The people of Paris shall see what happens to those who harm my friends.’

‘The people of Paris,’ said Catherine ironically, ‘would not stand by and see Your Majesty harm their friends. Your Majesty is overwrought by this terrible tragedy. Let us be calm. Let us wait and see what happens, and meanwhile we will pray for the Admiral’s recovery.’

‘Madame,’ said, Henry of Navarre, ‘my cousin Condé and I feel that trouble might be avoided if we left Paris for a while.’

‘No,’ cried the King. ‘You will stay.’

Catherine smiled. ‘My lords, we could not let the new bridegroom leave us. Why, the marriage is only a few days old. You must stay with us for a little while yet.’

She heard the sound of voices in an outer chamber and sent an attendant to see who had come and what fresh news had been brought.

Damville and Téligny were ushered in.

‘The Admiral?’ cried Charles.

‘He is resting peacefully, Sire,’ said Téligny, ‘and he has asked if you would do him the great honour of calling on him, since he is unable to come to you.’

‘That I will!’ cried the King; and Catherine knew that she could do nothing to stop him. ‘I will come this instant.’

Téligny said: ‘Sire, he has asked that you shall come alone.’

Catherine put in quickly: ‘We shall accompany the King—his brothers and I, for we are as anxious as he is to tender our best wishes to the admiral in person.’

Charles wanted to protest, but Catherine had already ordered that Anjou and Alençon should be sent to her; and when the party set out she arranged that it should be followed by a group of noblemen, all of whom had worked against Coligny; and so the Maréchal de Tavannes, the Duke of Montpensier, the Count of Retz and the Duke of Nevers, with certain gentlemen of their suites, followed the King’s party to the house in the Rue Béthisy.

Catherine was uneasy. She was aware of the murderous looks which were thrown at her train by the groups of people in the streets, and she knew that their anger was directed against herself more than any other; she caught those words which she had heard so many times during her life in France—Italian Woman—and she was well aware of the suspicion which they were meant to convey. She heard the name Guise again and again. If the Admiral died, the Huguenots, she was sure, would rise against the Catholics. She heard the jeers directed against her beloved son. Pervert! they called him. Murderer! Italian! She was glad that a strong Catholic party followed close behind.

As they came nearer to the Rue Béthisy they found that the crowd was more dense. It had formed outside the Admiral’s house as though to protect him from further attempts on his life. These were the Huguenots who had come to Paris for the wedding. Who would have thought there could be so many? The royal House of Valois and, above all, the King and the Queen Mother were in danger.

As Catherine and their followers passed through the lower rooms of the house the Protestants who were assembled there showed them little respect.

‘My friends,’ said Catherine, ‘we pray with you for the recovery of this great good man. Let us pass, for our beloved Admiral himself has asked us to come.’

They made way suspiciously, and the King went straight to the Admiral’s bed, where, kneeling, he wept bitterly.

‘Sire,’ said Gaspard, ‘you are kind indeed to come to me.’

‘Oh, my Father,’ sobbed Charles, ‘you have the wound but I have the perpetual pain. Do not call me Sire. Call me Son, and I will call you Father. I swear by God and all the saints that I will renounce salvation if I do not take such vengeance on those who have brought you to this pass . . . such vengeance, my Father, that the memory of it shall never fade.’

‘Speak not of vengeance, my dear Son,’ said the Admiral with tears in his eyes. ‘My regret is that my wounds should deprive me of the great happiness which working for you can give me.’

Catherine was now standing by the bed and Gaspard was aware of her. She seemed to him like a black vulture who waited eagerly for his death.

‘Oh, my Son,’ he said, ‘people have tried to tell you that I am a disturber of the peace, but I swear before God that all my life long I have been Your Majesty’s faithful servant. God will decide between me and my enemies.’

‘My Father, you shall not die. I will not allow it. I am the King . . . remember that.’

‘There is a greater King than you, Sire, and it is He who ‘decides such matters. But I must speak to you.’ He looked imploringly at Catherine, who smiled gently, refusing to see the plea in his eyes.

‘I was always faithful to your father,’ said Gaspard to Charles, ‘and I will be to you. And now I feel it my duty—it may be my last duty—to implore you not to lose the great opportunity which will mean the salvation of France. The war in Flanders has already begun. You must not disown it; if you do you forfeit peace in your kingdom. You expose France to great dangers. Purge your council of the servants of Spain, Sire.’

‘Dear Admiral,’ said Catherine, ‘you excite yourself. You must not, for Monsieur Paré’s orders are that you should rest.’

‘She is right,’ said the King. ‘You must not disturb yourself, dearest friend.’

‘Sire, Sire, you must not break your promises. Every day your promises to bring peace to our provinces are broken.’

‘Dear Admiral, my mother and I will put that right. We have already sent our Commissioners into the provinces to keep the peace.’

‘That is so, Monsieur l’Amiral,’ said Catherine. ‘You know it is true.’

‘Madame,’ said Gaspard, ‘I know it is true that you have sent Commissioners into the provinces who are offering rewards for my head.’

‘Do not be distressed,’ said Catherine as the King looked at her with horror. ‘Others who are above suspicion shall be sent.’

‘You are so hot,’ said Charles, touching the Admiral’s brow. ‘This talk does you no good. I will do all you ask and, in return, you must do what I ask, which is that you should rest. You must get well.’ He called to Paré to bring the bullet which had wounded the Admiral. ‘I would like to see that villainous object,’ he said.

It was brought and the King stared at it, his lips twitching. Catherine took it and weighed it in her white hand.

‘Such a little thing to do so much harm,’ she said. ‘How glad I am that it was extracted. Do you remember, Monsieur l’Amiral, when Monsieur de Guise was shot near Orléans? Of course you do. Who does not remember the death—some call it murder—of that great man? The doctors told me at the time that, even though the bullet was poisoned, if it had been removed there might have been a chance of saving the life of Monsieur de Guise.’

The King kept staring at the bullet. He demanded to see the Admiral’s coat.

‘Do not look at it, my son,’ warned Catherine.

But he stubbornly demanded that it should be brought, and when he saw the bloodstains on the sleeve be began to sob.

‘Let us return,’ said Catherine. ‘No good can come of such weeping.’

‘My Father,’ cried the King, ‘you must come with us. You shall have the apartments next to mine own. I will look after you. My sister of Lorraine shall give her apartments to you. Please! I insist.’

But Gaspard refused. He must cling to life. He must fight death with all his might, for his work was not finished. Should he go to the Louvre to walk into a trap? Should he expose himself to the woman in black—the Italian woman—who was now eagerly urging him to accept the King’s invitation?

Paré came hastily forward and said that the Admiral could not possibly be moved.

‘Very well,’ cried the King. ‘I will have this house surrounded by followers—your followers, my Father. You shall rest in peace and safety while I find those who sought to murder you, and do to them what they would have done to you.’

He rose, but Gaspard whispered: ‘Sire, stay awhile. I greatly wish . . . I greatly desire .

‘Speak, dear Father. Any wish of yours shall be immediately granted.’

‘It is that I may speak with you alone.’

Charles looked at his mother. She smiled, bowing her head, but she was furious. The very thing which she had determined to avoid had happened.

‘Come, Monsieur Paré,’ she said. ‘You and I will wait outside.’

When they were alone the King knelt by the bed.

‘Speak to me, my Father. Tell me what it is that you wish to say to me.’

‘Sire, I love you . . . not only as a King, but as my son in very truth.’

Tears poured down Charles’ cheeks. He kissed the coverlet. He was beside himself; he could not stop thinking of the torn sleeve of the Admiral’s coat and the stains of blood on it.

‘Oh, my Father, what a terrible world it is we live in. You must not die. You must not leave me . . . for I am afraid.’

‘You must not be afraid, my beloved son. You are the King of this realm and it is in your hands to save it from disaster. You must be strong. You must be brave. Calm yourself, dear Sire. Listen to me, for we may not have long together alone. Reign by yourself. Use your own judgement. There is one above all others whom you must not trust. This is hard for me to say, but I must say it.’ He lowered his voice and whispered: ‘Beware of your mother. Do not trust her. Reign without her. Many of the ills which have come to our poor suffering country have come through her work. She is your evil genius, my son. You must escape from her. You are a man. You are of an age to govern. Be strong. Be brave. And pray God that you may receive His guidance in the difficult tasks ahead of you.’

‘You are right,’ whispered the King. ‘I must rule alone. I must rule alone.’

‘Be strong. Be worthy. Give freedom of worship to all. Do not use religion for reasons of state. Religion and diplomacy should be things apart. Keep your promises. Lead a good life and pray continually for the help of God. And above all, my son . . . above all . . .’

The King was sobbing now. ‘Gaspard, my father, I cannot bear, this. You talk as though you will never speak to me again.’

‘Nay, it may well be that I shall recover. There is much life in me yet. Keep your promises to Orange. Remember you are in honour bound to do so. Do not follow your mother’s guidance. Follow the word of God, never the example of Machiavelli. You can make your reign a good one, Sire, so that when you come to your last hours, you can thank God that He called you to rule this land.°

‘I keep seeing the blood on your coat. Such rich, red blood. The blood of the greatest Admiral France has ever known. What shall we do without you?’

‘Do not weep, I beg of you. I am still here. Remember . . . oh remember what I have said. And above all remember what I have said about . . . your mother.’

The door had opened quietly and Catherine was standing on the threshold watching them. The King caught his breath in fear. He knew that he was terrified of her and that she was the source of all his fear.

‘This will never do,’ said Catherine briskly. ‘Our dear Admiral is worn out. He must rest. Come, Your Majesty must leave him now. Monsieur Paré, he is worn out. Is that not so?’

‘He needs rest,’ said Paré.

‘Then leave me now, Sire,’ said the Admiral.,

‘I will come again,’ said the King; and he whispered: ‘I shall remember all that you have said to me.’

On the journey back to the Louvre, Catherine seemed serene, but she was deeply aware of her son beside her.

No sooner were they back at the Louvre than she dismissed all attendants and shut herself in with the King.

‘And what had our Admiral to say to you, my son?’

The King turned his tear-stained face away from her. ‘It was between ourselves,’ he said with dignity.

‘Matters of state?’ asked Catherine.

‘Matters of state between a King and his Admiral, Madame.’

‘I trust he was not urging you to folly.’

‘Only to wisdom, Madame. I pray to God that he may recover, for what this land will do without him, I dare not think.’

‘When one great man dies there is another to replace him,’ said Catherine. ‘Why, when one King dies there is another to take the throne.’

‘Mother, I have much to do and I would wish to be allowed to proceed with it.’

‘What did that man say to you?’ she asked.

‘I have told you it was a matter between us two.’

‘You little fool!’ she cried.

‘It would be well for you to remember to whom you speak, Madame.’

‘I do not forget. I speak to a man who is scarcely more than a boy, and who is so foolish that he allows his enemies to deceive him.’

‘Madame, I have allowed you too much power . . . too long.’

‘Who said so?’

‘I say so. I say so. I .

‘You have never said anything but what you were told to say.’

‘Madame, I will . . . I will . . .’

He faltered and she laid her hands on his shoulders. ‘Do not hang your head, my son. Look into my eyes and tell me what you will do. Tell me what the Admiral ordered you to do . . .’

‘He ordered nothing. He respects me as his King, as . . . as others do not. All I do, I do because I wish to.’

‘So all that time you were alone with him he told you nothing, gave you no orders?’

‘What was said was between us two.’

‘You are bemused by all that piety. Did he say, “Pray for God’s guidance, Sire, Pray, Pray.”? Of course he did. And by God’s guidance he means his own, for in the estimation of Monsieur l’Amiral, Monsieur l’Amiral is. God.’

‘You blaspheme, Madame.

‘Nay, it is he who does that. What else did he tell you?’ ‘I wish to be left alone.’

‘You saw what his enemies had done to him, did you not? How would you feel if his friends did the same to you? I heard what happened when they took off his finger. The pain of it! You have no idea. Two men had to hold him while Monsieur Paré got to work with a pair of scissors. You would never have been able to endure that, my son. And did you see the blood on his coat? He was but slightly wounded. Men have suffered more than that. Did you notice the scowls of the people as we passed along the streets to his house? Did you hear their murmurings? They murmured against me, did they not? But who am I? I am merely the mother. It is you at whom they would strike. Oh, what a dangerous world we live in! There is bloodshed all around us. Great men die. Kings die too; and as Kings live more grandly than ordinary men, so they die more fearfully.’

‘Mother . . .’

‘My son, when will you learn that you are surrounded by your enemies? How can you say, “This is my friend? . . .” How can you know who is your friend? This Admiral . . . this Huguenot . . . has no friendship to give you. He has only his faith. He would see you torn limb from limb for the sake of the Huguenots. He is a brave man; I grant you that. He does not care if he suffers. . . if he dies . . . for his cause. Do you think that, caring so little for himself, he would care for you? He would lead you to your death; he would run a sword through your heart . . . for the good of his cause. He would put you on the rack; he would stretch your limbs, break your bones . . . he would lop off your head for the sake of his cause.’

The King was staring straight in front of him and she laid a hand on his trembling arm. ‘But the mother who bore you has a tenderness for you which none but a mother can feel. A King you may be, but you are still her son. You are the baby . . . the child she suckled at her breast. A mother never forgets that, my son. She would die for her children’s happiness. And if they should be Kings, she is the only one they should trust. Others? What do they care? They care only for power. They would laugh to see you tortured. “The King is dead,” they would say. “Long live the new King.” Oh, you are a fool indeed to allow yourself to be deceived by a man who, great though he may be, has no thought but to see the Huguenots rule this realm . . . a Huguenot King on the throne. He will strive to put him there, even though he wades through your blood to do so. Tell me, what did he say to you? What advice did he give?’

Charles plucked at his coat with shaking hands. He turned his tortured eyes on his mother.

She embraced him tenderly. ‘Tell me, my darling,’ she whispered. ‘Tell your mother what he said.’

‘I cannot . . . I cannot . . . It was between us two.’

‘Did he mention . . . your mother?’

The King glared at her in silence, his eyes bulging, his lips awry.

‘What did he say of me, my son?’ she coaxed.

‘You torture me,’ cried the King. ‘Leave me. I would be alone.’

He flung her off, and throwing himself on to a couch began biting one of the cushions. ‘I will not tell. I will not tell. Leave me. He was right when he said you were evil . . . my evil genius. He was right when he said I must rule alone. I will, I tell you. Leave me . . . Leave me . . .’

Catherine bowed her head; he had confirmed her suspicions. She called Madeleine and sent her to soothe the King. Anjou was waiting for her in her apartments. He had caught the general fear, for he had seen the looks which the people had cast at the royal party in the streets.

‘Mother,’ he said, ‘what now?’

‘The first thing we must do,’ she said, ‘is to kill off that tiresome Admiral, and without delay.’

‘And how shall this be accomplished? He has a talisman . . . a greater magic than ours. It seems impossible to kill the man.’

‘We will find a way,’ she said grimly.

Charles, having recovered under the tender care of Madeleine, had made up his mind.

He had sworn to take revenge on those who had attempted to take the Admiral’s life and he was determined to fulfil his oath.

Without consulting his mother, he ordered the arrest of several servants of the Guises, among them the Chanoine de Villemur.

‘By God,’ cried the King, ‘if Henry of Guise is implicated, even he shall lose his life.’

Catherine sought an early opportunity to be alone with the King.

‘Ah, my son,’ she said sadly, ‘how ill-advised you are to talk thus against Henry of Guise. Do you not yet know the power of that man? Had you talked thus at Blois or Orléans, Chambord or Chenonceaux, I should have said you spoke without thinking; but to utter such threats here in Paris is to commit the greatest folly. If you dared lay a hand on the Duke, you would have the whole city against you, for Paris does not follow you, it follows Guise. He has but to lift a hand and this city rallies to his cause. You may be King of France, but he is King of Paris.’

But the King would not be diverted from his purpose. He remembered the words of his friend, Coligny. He was going to avenge Coligny; he had sworn to avenge him, and if that meant the death of Guise, then it should be the death of Guise, no matter what the consequences.

She tried to reason with him. ‘At such times as this we must resort to diplomacy. You can easily find a scapegoat for your Admiral. One of your brother’s men would do very well as they say the gun belonged to one of his guards. The Chanoine himself . . . if you must. But, I warn you, if you wish to remain King of France, do not touch the King of Paris!’

‘Madame,’ said the King, in an unusually calm voice, ‘my mind is made up.’

She smiled serenely, but she was far from serene.

She left the King and, dressing herself in the clothes of a market woman, she slipped into a little-known passage which led out of the Louvre, and made her way through the crowded streets to the Rue St Antoine. The atmosphere in the streets was unhealthy. Everywhere, it seemed, people were discussing the attempt on the Admiral’s life—the Catholics with gratification, the Huguenots with horror. She slipped into a back entrance of the Hôtel de Guise and told one of the lower servants that she had a message for the Duke; she was amused to see that she was unrecognized.

‘It is imperative that I see the. Duke,’ she said. ‘I come from the Queen Mother.’

She was at length taken to the Duke, who was with his brother Mayenne; and when Henry of Guise saw who his visitor was he immediately dismissed all attendants.

As soon as the doors were shut, Catherine said: ‘Are you sure that we cannot be overheard?’

‘It is quite safe to speak, Madame,’ said Guise.

She turned on him angrily. ‘Here is a pretty state of affairs. It seems it would have been better to have employed the Duchess after all. That bungling fool should have his hands chopped off for this.’

‘Your Majesty must realize,’ said Mayenne, ‘that it was no fault of the man’s. A better shot does not exist in France.’

‘Madame,’ put in Guise, ‘it was not his fault the Admiral stooped when he did. It was Fate.’

‘Ah!’ said Catherine, and her fingers closed over her bracelet. ‘I have always feared that some great magic protects him. Why . . . why should he have stooped at that moment?’

‘And merely to pick up a paper which had fluttered to the ground,’ said Guise gloomily. ‘But for that, he should no longer be troubled with him.’

‘Listen,’ said Catherine. ‘The King has arrested some of your servants, as you no doubt have heard. That fool left his gun behind him. It is known that he escaped on a horse from one of your friends’ stables. The King swears vengeance on you. You must leave Paris at once.’

Guise smiled. ‘But, Madame, that would indeed be folly. Leave Paris now? That would be to admit our guilt.’

‘I think,’ said Mayenne, ‘that Her Majesty has some plan to lay before us.’

‘You are right. Matters cannot rest as they are. Those Huguenots stand about the streets muttering threats. They dared insult me when I was on my way to the Admiral’s house. They simmer, Messieurs, and they are ready to boil over.’

‘Let them,’ said Guise, putting his hand on his sword. let them boil all over Paris, and they will see what Paris thinks of them.’

‘We cannot have civil war in Paris, Monsieur. I would wish this trouble to be put right before it grows beyond our control.’

Catherine’s eyes were gleaming and there was the faintest colour under her skin. She saw now that the time had come, the moment for which she had said she would wait, when she had paced the gallery of the palace of Bayonne with Alva.

Here was the moment. It was inescapable. There must be no fighting between the Catholics and Huguenots in Paris. If there was, Guise would assume the role of King, and who knew what outcome that would have? Ironical it would be if the Catholics won and decided they would put their hero on the throne! He was a Prince; he had a slight claim. It might be that, in spite of the stoppage of the mail, the news of the Catholic-Huguenot wedding was already carried over the border and into Spain . into Rome. If what she planned could be brought to pass, she would have more heads than that of Coligny to send to Rome. And the news she would send would make both Philip and Gregory forget all about a mere marriage.

‘I do not mean that you should leave Paris in fact, Messieurs. No. Pretend to leave Paris with the members of your family who are here with you. Ride out by the Porte St Antoine . . . ride a little way out . . . then assume a disguise and, at dusk, come riding back. Keep yourselves hidden for a little while . . . here in this house, so that none but your trusted followers know that you are here. I could not have you leave Paris, my friends, for you will be needed for the task which lies ahead of us.

‘And the task, Madame?’ asked Guise.

‘To rid France of these pestilential Huguenots for ever . . . and at one sweep.’

Later that day the city was seething with excitement. The Guises had left Paris! They had, it appeared, almost slunk out without ceremony and without followers, as though they were eager to escape from the city at the greatest possible speed. The Catholics were aghast; the Huguenots were jubilant. What could this mean, they asked each other, but that the Guises were in disgrace? The King then was siding with the Huguenots. If this were so, said the Huguenots, all that the Admiral had suffered was not in vain.

There was an incident in the Tuileries gardens; a Huguenot started trouble with a member of the King’s Guard who had refused him entry, whereupon Huguenots rushed into the gardens and demanded justice. Téligny, with great wisdom, managed to avert disaster, but the tension had increased.

Catherine had now determined to act quickly. She called a meeting, but it was a secret gathering, and it took place in the shady alleys of the Tuileries gardens, whither her fellow conspirators came to join her and Anjou, who had her confidence in this matter. All these conspirators were Italian, and she had selected them because she believed that her fellow countrymen were more skilled in the art of murder than the French. There were Retz and Birago, those two whom she had set to tutor the King; Louis of Gonzaga, the Duke of Nevers; and the two Florentines, Caviaga and Petrucci.

‘My friends,’ whispered Catherine when they were all assembled, ‘the Admiral must die and die speedily. You can see there will be no peace in this land until he is dead.’

It was agreed that what she said was true.

‘And now,’ she said, ‘we must decide which are the best means to employ.’

And while she talked she was alert for the arrival of a man whom she had employed more than once in delicate matters, and who, she had arranged, should on this occasion burst in on them with news of a plot which he had just discovered; for she had decided that she would need great justification for what she was about to propose, and the alleged discovery by this man would provide that justification.

His entrance was perfectly timed.

He had the alert eyes of the spy, this Bouchavannes. Installed in the house in the Rue Béthisy ever since the Admiral had been in Paris, it had been his duty to repeat to the Queen Mother all that he had heard and seen during his sojourn there. Now he had a startling story to tell. The Huguenots, he declared, planned revolt. They were going to rise and take possession of the Louvre, kill every member of the royal family, set Henry of Navarre on the throne of France and subdue the Catholics for ever.

‘Messieurs,’ said Catherine, ‘now we know what we must do. There is only one path open to us.’

‘What are Your Majesty’s plans?’ asked Retz.

Catherine replied calmly: ‘To destroy, monsieur, not only the Admiral, but every Huguenot in Paris . . . before they destroy us. We must preserve absolute secrecy. Only those who are with us and whom we can trust must know our plans. And, Messieurs, we must get to work at once, for there is little time to be lost if we would strike at them before they strike at us.’

‘Madame,’ Nevers reminded her, ‘it would be necessary to obtain the consent of the King before such a matter could be undertaken. It must have a seal of authority. If Guise were in Paris we could rely on him to rally every Catholic in Paris to the cause.’

Catherine permitted herself a smile. ‘Have no fear. Monsieur de Guise will be here at the right moment. As for the King, leave him to me. Monsieur de Retz, you were his tutor and you know him well. I may need your help in persuading him.’

‘Madame,’ said Retz, ‘the King has changed. He is not the pliable boy we once knew. He is now obsessed by the idea of avenging the Admiral.’

‘Then we must jerk him out of his obsession.’ She turned her cold stare on Retz, and looked from him to the others. ‘We must meet again. We must call together all those whom we can trust. I will see that Monsieur de Guise and his family are with us. As for the King we must get to work on him at once.’

Together, Retz and Catherine worked on him; but the King showed unwonted determination, and the influence of the Admiral was aggravatingly apparent.

‘Madame,’ he shouted at Catherine, ‘I have sworn to bring to justice those who would have murdered him, and this I will do.’

‘You are a fool,’ said Catherine. ‘You do not know what he plans for you.’

‘He is my friend and I trust him. Whatever happened, the Huguenots would never harm me. He is their leader and he loves me as a son.’

‘He has bewitched you with his fine words.’

Retz said: ‘Sire, you are misled by this man. He would sacrifice you if the need arose. You remember what I told you of atrocities committed by Huguenots against Catholics. Let me remind you . .

‘There is no need to remind me. You may go, Comte. I have matters to attend to.’

The Comte hesitated, but the King was eyeing him sternly. Catherine signed to Retz to go, and when he had left, Charles turned to Catherine.

‘You also, Mother,’ he said; but Catherine was not going to be dismissed as easily as that.

‘My dear son,’ she said, ‘I must speak to you of certain matters which are for your ear alone and which I would not discuss even before a faithful servant like the Comte de Retz. News has been brought to me—news of which you should be made aware at once.’

‘And this news is?’

‘Of a Huguenot plot to murder you.’

The King shrugged his shoulders impatiently. ‘I have seen the Admiral. I know that he wishes me nothing but good. Would he allow such a plot to be made?’

‘Yes, he would; and he is the ringleader. I see that you do not believe your mother who has worked so assiduously for your good. Perhaps others may be able to impress you.’ She pulled a bell rope and when an attendant appeared, asked that Bouchavannes should be sent to her.

‘Bouchavannes?’ said the King. ‘Who is this?’

‘A good friend to Your Majesty, and one who, at great peril to himself, took a post in the Admiral’s house, that he might watch your interests. He will tell you what he heard while he was there.’

Bouchavannes entered.

‘Ah, Monsieur,’ said Catherine, ‘I have brought you here that you may tell the King in person what you have discovered in the house of his enemy.’

Bouchavannes kissed the King’s hand while Charles scowled at him.

‘Speak, man,’ growled the King.

‘Your Majesty, there is a plot against your life. The Huguenots under the Admiral are about to rise. It is for this reason that they are here in Paris. They plot to take your family, to kill your mother, your brothers and sisters, in most brutal fashion. Yourself they will keep in confinement. They will tell the people that they are offering you a chance to keep the throne if you become a Huguenot. They will torture you; they will say it is to make a Huguenot of you, but it will not matter if you do change your religion, for they do not wish you to reign. They propose to set up their own King in your place.’

‘It is a lie!’ cried the King.

‘I can only say, Sire, that this is what I heard in the Admiral’s house where there were constant meetings and councils. I listened at doors. I kept my eyes and ears open . . . for love of Your Majesty and the Queen Mother who has always been my friend. Your Majesty, be warned in time.’

The King’s fingers were twitching. ‘I do not believe a word of this.’ He turned to his mother. ‘Ring for the guards. I will have him arrested. I will confront him with the Admiral and we will see if he can tell his lies then. Ring! Ring! Or shall I do it myself?’

Catherine signed for Bouchavannes to leave them; she herself restrained the King, but he struggled in her grasp and she was alarmed. He was not strong, but his strength seemed to grow when his mad moods were on him, and she noticed with dismay that one was threatening now. She must keep him balanced on the side of sanity that she might terrify him utterly and so make sure of his obedience to her wishes.

‘Listen to me, my son. You give in too easily. Horrible death awaits you. That is true. The good God only knows what diabolical torture they are planning for you. All we know is this: it will be more terrible than that meted out to ordinary men. It is not every day that they have a King to torture. Oh,, my darling, do not tremble so. Here, let me wipe the sweat from your poor brow. You must not give in. Do you think your mother will allow them to hurt her son, her little King?’

‘How . . . could you stop them? They will kill you too.’

‘No, my son. All these years since the death of your father, I have fought the enemies of our family. I . . . single-handed, a weak woman. Your brother was King until he died, poor boy; then you were King, and for twelve years I have kept the throne for you in difficulties and against odds such as you cannot yet understand. When my history is written it will be said: “There was a woman who lived for her sons alone. There is the most devoted mother the world has ever known, for in spite of plots and treachery, in spite of the suspicion of her own children, she won their rights for them, and she held their rights; she sacrificed her life for them.” That is true, is it not, my son? Have you not been King since the death of your brother Francis? And that in spite of all the wicked men who have sought to dethrone you!’

‘Yes, Mother, it is true.’

‘Well then, will you not listen to your mother now?’

‘Yes, Mother, yes. But I cannot believe that Coligny would be treacherous towards me. He is such a good man. He is so brave.’

‘He is a good man according to his lights as a Huguenot. He is undoubtedly brave. But he is not your man, my son. To his enemies we know he is ruthless, and you, perforce, are his enemy.’

‘No! I am his friend. He loves me as a son. He would not lie to me when it might well be that he is about to face his God.’

‘He would think he did right to lie for the sake of his faith. That is his way, my son. It is the way of them all. Oh, be guided by your mother. Do not let them drag you from your family. Do not let them take you to the torture chambers, stretch your poor limbs, mutilate your dear body. I would not let Bouchavannes tell you of all the things they threaten to do to you.’

‘You know then! You . . . you must tell me.’

‘It is better not to know, my son. If you are determined to sacrifice yourself and your family for the Admiral, then for the love of God do not ask me to tell you of the tortures they are preparing for you. Have you ever seen a man roasted to death over a slow fire? No. You could not face it. Have you ever seen flesh torn with red-hot pincers and molten lead poured into the wounds? Nay! You could never bear to see such things.’

‘They have said . . . they will do . . . these things to me!’

She nodded.

‘I do not believe it. Men like Coligny . . . Téligny . . . my dearest Rochefoucauld!’

‘My darling, the mob takes matters out of the hands of such men. When the mob rises the leaders must give them a free hand with the prisoners. Do you remember Amboise and the executions there? I made you look on, did I not, because I wished you to know of such things. You and your brothers and sisters looked on and saw men’s limbs cut off . . . saw them die a hundred deaths . . . quick and slow.’

‘Do not speak of it!’ cried the King.

He had flung himself down. He was biting his fists and she saw the saliva foaming at his lips. She did not want him to lose complete control, for then he demanded blood. She must keep him in a state of terror as he was at such times when he hovered between sanity and madness.

‘Charles, control yourself. It is not too late. You have many friends. I have called some of them together. They are waiting to see you now.’

He stared at her with wide bewildered eyes.

‘Your friends, my dear son,’ she said, ‘Those who would stand between you and the horrible fate these traitors are preparing for you. Pull yourself together, my dearest. We must fight this and we will emerge triumphant. Do you think your mother would let them hurt her boy? Already she has laid her plans against your enemies, and your friends are ready to help her. These traitors make plans; but the real friends of the King also make plans. Come, my darling. Get up.’ She stroked his cheek with her fingers. ‘There, that is better, is it not? Your mother, who has always protected you, has protected you now, and when I take you to the council who are now waiting for you, you will see gathered together the great men of France, all ready, with their swords at their sides, to fight the traitors who would harm their King. You will be heartened, dear son, by what you see. Will you come to the meeting now?’

‘Yes, Mother.’

‘And will you believe what I and my friends have discovered as a result of working unfalteringly for you?’

‘Yes, Mother.’

‘Come, my darling. We will rid you of that spell which your enemies have laid upon you.’ He was faltering and she went on. ‘It is difficult, I know. The Admiral has some magic to help him. He stooped at that moment when the shot was fired. His devils were at his elbow, you see. They are with him now. But we will fight them with magic of our own, my son; and you know this: there is some magic in a mother’s love for her son, in the loyalty of good friends. That is good magic, and evil spirits are afraid of good.’

She was leading him to the door. He was now hypnotized by her as he had been so many times during his childhood. He did not trust her; she terrified him; but he had to follow her; he had to obey.

In the council chamber the first person he noticed was Henry of Guise.

Guise bowed low. ‘I have returned, Sire,’ he said, ‘hearing that Your Majesty had need of my sword.’

His brothers and his uncles were there. They each had a few words to say on their loyalty to the King. They had risked his displeasure, they assured him, solely that they might be at hand if needed.

The King saw that the members of the council were all Catholics. They talked of the plot against the King and the royal family which, so they said, had been discovered by their spy. They talked of the need for immediate action; they but asked the consent of the King.

Charles looked round at the group of men and wanted to fling himself on to the floor and give way to the paroxysm that he felt was so close. He wanted to lose consciousness of reality, in his mad, fantastic world. He did not know how long he would be able to restrain himself. He felt the mad pumping of his heart; it was difficult to breathe. And as he stood there, he thought of the stern yet kindly face of the Admiral, of the last words he had spoken to him: ‘Beware of your evil genius . . .’

And there, close to him, stood this evil genius . . . his own mother, her eyes large, the largest things in the room . . . so large that he could not escape from them; and as he looked at them he seemed to see there all the horrors of which she had talked to him; it seemed to him that he was not in this room, but in the torture chambers; they had taken off his clothes; they were putting him on the rack; and the torturer was bending over him. The torturer had the stern and noble face of Gaspard de Coligny.

He heard his own voice; it sounded faint, but that was only because of the pounding of the blood in his head which made such a noise; he knew that he was shouting.

‘By the death of God, since you have decided to kill the Admiral, then I consent. My God . . . but then you must kill every Huguenot in France, so that none is left to reproach me with that bloody deed after it is done!’

He was aware of his mother’s triumphant smile. He turned from her. He was trembling violently and the foamy saliva spattered his velvet jacket.

He stared at Catherine. His evil genius! ‘This is your wish!’ he said. ‘To kill . . . kill . . . kill!’ He ran to the door of the chamber. He shouted: ‘Kill . . . kill then . . . kill them all. That is it. Death . . . blood . . . blood on the cobbles . . . blood in the river . . . Kill them all, for that is what you wish.’

He ran sobbing to his apartments while the councillors looked from one to another in dismay. They had rarely seen even the King in such a sorry state.

Catherine turned on them sharply. ‘Gentlemen,’ she said, ‘you have heard the command of the King. There is little time to be lost. Let us make our plans.’

And so discussion went on in the council chamber.

‘Monsieur de Guise, it is only right that to you should be left the destruction of the Admiral, his suite and all his noblemen in the quarters about Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois.’

‘Madame, you may safely leave my father’s murderer and his followers to me and mine.’

‘Monsieur de Montpensier, you should make yourself responsible for the suite of Condé.’

‘Madame,’ said Montpensier, ‘what of the young Prince himself?’

Guise said: ‘Did not the King say, “Kill every Huguenot”? Why should you wish to exclude the Prince of Condé, Monsieur? Every Huguenot was the King’s command; and by that is included Condé, Navarre, Rochefoucauld and all Huguenots.’

Catherine was silent. Here was an old problem. She looked at them, these Princes of the House of Guise and Lorraine. They were full of arrogance and ambition. Henry of Guise was already in command of Paris; what if all the Bourbon Princes were destroyed? Why, then there would be no one between the House of Valois and the House of Guise and Lorraine. The men of Valois were not strong; they did not enjoy the rude physical health of the Guises. She had only to compare Henry of Guise with the mad King, or even with her own Henry, beautiful though he was. Even her beloved Henry could not compare with Henry of Guise for virility and strength of body. The Guises were irrepressible; they were natural leaders. Even now this Henry of Guise was ready to take over the management of the massacre as though he had been its instigator. Remove the Bourbons, and the House of Guise and Lorraine would know no restraint whatsoever.

She decided then that Navarre and Condé must not die.

The Duke of Nevers, whose sister had married the young Prince of Condé, had no wish to see his brother-in-law killed. Catherine glanced at him and with a look encouraged him to plead for young Condé, which he did with eloquence.

Catherine said: ‘Let us give Condé and Navarre the chance of changing their religion.’

‘That,’ said Guise, ‘they will never do.’

‘In that case,’ she promised him, ‘they must go the way of the others. But I insist that they shall be given the chance to change. Now to more practical matters. What shall the signal be? Let the bell of the Palais de Justice give the signal. You must all be ready when it is given. l suggest it shall be when the first sign of dawn is in the sky. How many men can we rely on in Paris?’

An ex-prévôt answered her. ‘Twenty thousand at this time, Madame. Later we could call in thousands more.’

‘Twenty thousand,’ repeated Catherine. ‘They would all be ready to follow the Duke of Guise?’

The Duke reassured her that this would be so.

He gave instructions to the prey& who was then in office. ‘Monsieur le Charron, it will be necessary to close all city gates so that none may leave or enter. There must be no movement of boats on the Seine.’

Catherine, visualizing revolt, insisted that all the artillery should be moved from the Hôtel de Ville.

‘Later, Monsieur le Charron,’ she said, ‘you will learn where it is to be placed.’

Le Charron was aghast. He had come to the council expecting to discuss the dispatch of a dangerous enemy, and now he found himself confronted with a plan for wholesale murder. Catherine saw his hesitancy and it terrified her. She had caught her son’s fears. This was, she knew, the most dangerous period she had yet lived through. One false move and the tables could be turned; it might be herself, her sons, the royal House of Valois, who were massacred in place of the Huguenots.

She said sharply: ‘There will be no orders given until the morning; and, Monsieur le Charron, all traitors to our Catholic cause need expect no mercy.’

‘Madame,’ said the terrified le Charron, ‘I am at your command.’

‘That is well for you, Monsieur,’ she said coldly, but she was shaken.

They went on with their plans. Each Catholic should wear about his arm a white scarf, and there should be a white cross in his hat. Everything must be planned to the minutest detail. There must be no false moves.

Finally the council broke up and the nerve-racking period of waiting began.

It seemed to Catherine that the night would never come. She did not believe she had ever before experienced such fear. Up and down her apartment she paced, her black garments flowing about her, her lips dry, her heart pounding, her limbs trembling, while she sought in vain that calm which she had maintained in the course of so many dangerous years.

All those in the secret were awaiting the signal, but first there was a night to be lived through, a night of suspense and fear. Guise and his family with their followers were in their hôtel waiting for the hours to pass. Instructions had been given to trusted friends. But who could still be trusted? She had seen the revulsion in the face of le Charron, the prévôt. Could le Charron be trusted?

Never had time passed so slowly for the Queen Mother. This was the most critical, the most important night of her life. It must be successful. It must put an end to her fears. It must convince Philip of Spain that she was his friend, and in such a way that he would never doubt her again. He would know she was keeping a promise which she had made long ago at Bayonne. But would the dawn never come?

What could go wrong? The prévôt could be trusted. He was a man with a family; he could be trusted not to put them in danger. A Catholic never betrayed Catholics to Huguenots. She rejoiced that, for the time being, she and the Guises were allies. She could rely on them. There was no greater hater of Huguenots than Henry of Guise, and there was nothing he wished for more than the death of the Admiral. All those who, she had feared, might not be trusted, knew nothing of the venture. Alençon was in the dark. He had flirted with the Huguenot faith—oh, just out of perversity, for that youngest son of hers was as mischievous as Margot. Margot herself had been told nothing of what was to take place, because she was married to a Huguenot and seemed to be on better terms with him since her marriage than she had been before; and Margot had previously shown that she was not to be trusted. There was nothing to fear . . . nothing . . . nothing. But the minutes would not pass.

If only Henry were King in place of Charles! Henry was as eager for this as Guise, and she could trust Henry. But Charles? ‘Kill every Huguenot!’ he had cried; but that was while the madness was on him. What when it faded? She was terrified of what he might do. She sent for the Comte de Retz.

Retz went to the King. Charles was pacing up and down his apartment, his bloodshot eyes staring wildly about him.

Retz asked the King to dismiss all his attendants that he might speak with him alone.

‘How long it seems,’ said Charles when this had been done. ‘Too long to wait. I am afraid, Comte, that they will start before we do. What then? What then?’

‘Sire, we are controlling everything. We need fear nothing.’ But he thought: except the King.

‘Sometimes I think I should go to the Admiral, Comte.’

‘Nay, Sire. You should do no such thing,’ cried Retz in horror. ‘It would ruin all our plans.’

‘But if there is a plot against us, Comte, it would be against the Guises. It is they whom they accuse of trying to kill the Admiral.’

‘That is not so, Sire. They accuse also your mother and the Duke of Anjou. And rightly, because, Sire, your mother and your brother knew that it was necessary to kill the Admiral to protect you. That is not all. It is believed that you also were involved in the plot. That is why they make their plans to . remove you. Nothing you could say to the Admiral would convince him and his friends that you had no hand in the attempt to assassinate him. There is no way out of this other than the way we plan.’

‘When blood flows,’ said the King, ‘I am always so sorry afterwards. And then . . . people will say that King Charles the Ninth of France shed the blood of Huguenots who came in innocence to his sister’s wedding. They will say it for ever . . . . they will remember it always . . . And they will blame me . . . the King!’

Retz was alarmed. He knew the King’s moods as well as his mother did. A return to complete sanity would be disastrous at this point.

‘Sire,’ he said, ‘I beg of you to recall what they have planned to do to you. As for recriminations, why, all will know that it is the result of a feud between the Houses of Guise and Chatillon. Henry of Guise never forgave the murder of his father. You are outside this, Sire. It is no fault of yours. Henry of Guise is the man behind it. The blame will be placed on him; to you it will mean safety.’

‘To me it will mean safety,’ said the King; and he began to sob.

While the long night progressed the King took fright suddenly. He went in great haste to the apartments of Marie Touchet. His appearance alarmed her.

‘What ails you, Charles?’

‘Nothing, Marie. I shall lock you in tonight. You will be unable to get out. No matter who comes to the door . . . remember you are not to answer.’

‘What has happened? Why do you look so strange?’

‘It is nothing . . . nothing, Marie. But you must stay here. Promise me you will stay here.’ He laughed madly and cried: ‘You will have no choice. I shall lock you in. You will have to stay.’ He laughed gleefully. ‘You are my prisoner, Marie.’

‘Charles, what is wrong? Tell me.’

‘Nothing is wrong. All is well. After tonight it will be well indeed.’ His face crumpled. ‘Oh, Marie, I forgot. There is Madeleine.’

‘What of Madeleine?’

‘I cannot tell. I shall lock you in now. You are my love, my prisoner. Tomorrow you will know.’

When Marie was alone she began to cry. She was very frightened. She was to have the King’s child, and this fact half delighted, half ter- rified her.

‘Madelon,’ cried the King. ‘Where are you, Madelon? Come here to me at once.°

Madeleine was in her own small chamber close to the King’s apartments; she was singing a Huguenot hymn.

‘Do not sing that. Donot!I forbid it. You must not sing it, Madeleine.’

‘But, Sire, it is just one of the hymns which you have heard me sing many times. I used to sing you to sleep with it. You will remember it. It was a favourite of yours.’

‘Not tonight, Madeleine. Dearest Madelon, be silent. Come with me. You must come with me.’

‘Chariot, what ails you? Is it the strangeness again?’

He stood still and his face puckered. ‘Yes, Madelon, it is the strangeness. Here . . . in my head.’ His eyes had grown wild. There was excitement in them now as though he looked forward to something with most joyful anticipation ‘Come, Madelon. Come at once. Marie needs you. You must stay with her tonight.’

‘Is she ill?’

‘She needs you. She needs you. I command you to go to her. Go at once. You must stay with her all through the night, Madelon. And you must not leave her apartment. You will not be able to. Madelon, you must not sing that hymn . . . or any of your hymns. . . not tonight. Swear you will not tonight, Madelon.’

‘Chariot, Charlot, what ails you? Tell Madelon . . . you know how that used to help.’

‘It would not help now, Madelon. Nor do I need help.’ He took her roughly by the arm and pushed her towards Marie’s apartment.

Marie was at the door when he unlocked it. He pushed Madeleine in, and stood there watching them. He put his fingers to his lips—a gesture he had learned from his mother.

‘Not a sound from you. Only I have a key to this room. Rest assured it shall not leave my possession. No singing. No sound . . . or it will be death . . . death . . .’

He locked the door and the two women looked at each other with puzzled apprehension.

‘He sent me because you were ill,’ said Madeleine. ‘But I was not ill, Madeleine.’

‘He must have thought you would need me.’

Marie sank on to her bed and began to cry bitterly.

‘What ails you, my little one?’ asked Madeleine. ‘Tell me, for he has sent me to comfort you. There has been some quarrel?’

Marie shook her head. ‘Oh, Nurse, I am so frightened sometimes. What is it? What is happening? Everything seems so strange tonight. I am frightened . . . frightened of his strangeness!’

‘It is nothing,’ said Madeleine. ‘It is only some wild notion that he has got into his head. He thinks we are in danger and he wishes us to protect each other.’

But Marie, feeling the child within her, could not be so easily comforted.

Retz tried to calm the King, but the King was in a frenzy. ‘Marie!’ he cried. ‘Madeleine! Who else?’

He remembered Ambroise Paré; and, ignoring Retz, he rushed to the door of his apartment shouting to his attendants: ‘I wish Ambroise Paré brought to me at once. Find him. Lose no time. And when you have found him send him to me . . . at once . . . at once . .

An attendant ran off, spreading the report that the King was ill and calling for his chief doctor.

Retz begged the King to go with him into a small private chamber, and when they were there he locked the door. ‘This is madness, Sire. You will betray the plan.’

‘But I cannot let Paré die. Paré is a great man. He does much good in France. He saves lives. Paré must not die.’ ‘You will betray us, Sire, if you act thus.’

‘Why does he not come? Fool that he is! He will be caught. It will be too late. Paré, you fool, where are you? Where are you?’

In vain did Retz try to soothe the King. He was unsure of what method was needed to keep Charles balanced between madness and sanity. If he were quite mad, there was no knowing what he might do; yet if he were wholly sane he would not agree to the massacre.

Paré arrived, and when Retz let him into the chamber, Charles fell on him, embracing him, weeping over him.

‘Sire, are you ill?’

‘No, Paré. It is you . . . you . . . You will stay here. You will not move from this room. If you attempt to, I will kill you.’

Paré looked startled. He expected guards to enter the chamber and arrest him. He could not imagine of what he was about to be accused.

Charles laughed with abandon to see the terror in Paré’s face and to guess its reason.

‘My prisoner!’ he cried in hysterical mischief. ‘There will be no escape for you tonight, my friend. You shall stay here under lock and key.’

Laughing wildly, he allowed Retz to lead him away, leaving the bewildered and alarmed surgeon staring at the locked door.

Margot was disturbed. Henry of Guise had failed to meet her as they had planned. What could have happened to detain him?

She had been occupied all that day with the thoughts of two men—Henry of Guise and Henry of Navarre. This was a piquant situation such as she delighted in. This husband of hers was not such an oaf after all. He could be amusing; she was even a little jealous of his pursuit of Madame de Sauves, though she could counter that by continuing her liaison with Henry of Guise. But where had her lover been this night, and why had he not kept his appointment?

It was certainly disturbing. She had met him coming from a council meeting when she had thought he was not even in Paris. She had noticed his discomfiture on meeting her, and he told her somewhat shamefacedly that he had hurried back to the capital in some secrecy. She had accepted that explanation at the time, but now when he did not keep his promise to meet her she began to wonder what was meant by this secret coming and going.

It was now time for her mother’s coucher, which she must, of course, attend, and this night there seemed more people than usual in the bedchamber. Margot was suddenly alert. There was something different about these people tonight, some tension, some excitement. Little groups seemed to be whispering animatedly, but it seemed to her that when she approached, the conversation which had previously been so lively became dull and commonplace. Could it be that there was some new scandal in the court of which she knew nothing and which they were keeping from her? Could it be concerned with Guise’s failure to keep his appointment?

She sat down on a coffer and looked about her, watching the ceremony of the coucher.

Her mother was now in bed and several people were talking to her.

Then Margot noticed her sister, the Duchess of Lorraine, and she saw that she looked sad and frightened rather than excited.

Margot called to her sister and patted the coffer.

‘You look sad tonight, my sister,’ said Margot; and she saw that Claude’s lips were trembling as though she had been reminded of something which was terrifying.

‘Claude, what is it? What is the matter with you?’ ‘Margot . . . you must not . . .’ She stopped.

‘Well?’ said Margot.

‘Margot . . . I am frightened. Terribly frightened.’

‘What has happened, Claude? What has happened to everybody tonight? Why do you persist in this secrecy? Tell me!’ Charlotte de Sauves was beside them.

‘Madame,’ she said to Claude, ‘the Queen Mother desires you to go to her at once.’

Claude went to the bed, and Margot, watching, saw the angry glance her mother gave her sister, saw Claude bend her head and listen to Catherine’s whispered words.

It was bewildering. Margot noticed now that some of those present watched her with concern.

‘Marguerite,’ called Catherine. ‘Come here.’

Margot obeyed. She stood by the bed, aware of her sister’s terrified eyes still fixed upon her.

‘I did not know that you were here,’ said Catherine. ‘It is time you retired. Go now.’

Margot wished her, mother goodnight, but even as Catherine waved her impatiently away, she was conscious of her sister’s eyes which had not left her. When Margot reached the door Claude darted after her and seized her arm.

Tears ran down Claude’s cheeks, ‘Margot!’ she cried. ‘My dearest sister.’

‘Claude, are you mad!’ cried Catherine.

But Claude was overcome by her fears for her sister. ‘We cannot let her go,’ she cried wildly. Not Margot! Oh, my God! Oh, dear dear Margot, stay with me this night. Do not go to your husband’s apartments.’

Catherine had raised herself from her pillows. ‘Bring the Duchess of Lorraine to me this instant . . . this instant . .

Margot stood by, watching Claude almost dragged to their mother’s bedside.

She heard her mother’s whispered words: ‘Have you lost your senses?’

Claude cried: ‘Would you send her off to be sacrificed? Your daughter . . . my sister . . .’

‘You have lost your senses. What has come over you? Do you suffer from your brother’s malady? Marguerite, your sister suffers from delusions. I have already told you it is time you retired. Pray leave us and go to your husband immediately.’

Margot went out, apprehensive and bewildered.

In the King’s apartment, where his gentlemen attended his ceremonial coucher, Catholics mingled with Huguenots; there was not, as there had been in his mother’s apartments, that atmosphere of secrecy and suspense, and Catholics chatted amicably with Huguenots as they had done each night since they came to Paris for the wedding.

The King felt worn out by the events of the day. He wanted to rest; he wanted to forget everything in sleep.

‘How tired I am!’ he said; and the Comte de Retz, who had not left his side for many hours, was there to soothe him. ‘Your Majesty has had a busy day. You will feel better after a night’s rest.’

But, thought Charles, it was no use trying to pretend that this day was just like any other. Tomorrow? How he longed for tomorrow. Then it would be over and done, the rebellion quelled, and he would be safe. He would let Marie and Madeleine out of their little prison. He would release Monsieur Paré. How they would thank him for saving their lives!

His head was throbbing and he could scarcely keep his eyes open. Had there been some drug of his mother’s in the wine Retz had brought him, something to make him spend the next hours in sleep?

Huguenot and Catholic! Looking at them, who would believe in this great animosity between them! Why could they not always be friends as they seemed to be now?

Soon the wearisome ceremony would be over, the curtains drawn about his bed, and sleep . . . gentle sleep . . . would come. But what if he dreamed! He had reason to dread his dreams. Dreams of torn flesh . . . mutilated bodies . . . the agonized cries of men and women . . . and blood.

The Duc de la Rochefoucauld was bending over his hand. Dear Rochefoucauld! So handsome and so gentle. They had long been friends; the Duke was one of the few whom Charles really loved; he had always been happy in his company.

‘Adieu, Sire.’

‘Adieu.’

‘May only the pleasantest of dreams attend Your Majesty.’

There was tenderness in those eyes. There was real friendship there. Even if I were not the King he would love me, thought Charles. He is a true friend.

Rochefoucauld was moving towards the door. He would leave the Louvre and go through the narrow streets to his lodgings, accompanied by his followers: he would laugh and joke as he went, for there was none so fond of a joke as dear Rochefoucauld. Dear friend . . . and Huguenot!

No, thought the King. It must not be. Not Rochefoucauld! He threw off his drowsiness. “Foucauld,’ he cried urgently, ‘Foucauld!’

The Duke had turned.

‘Oh, ‘Foucauld, you must not go tonight. You may stay here and sleep with my valets de chambre. Yes, you must. You will be sorry if you go, my friend, my dearest ‘Foucauld.’

Rochefoucauld looked surprised; but Retz had darted forward.

‘The King jests,’ said Retz.

Rochefoucauld gave the King a smile and inclined his head slightly while Charles watched him with dazed eyes. He was murmuring under his breath: “Foucauld, come back. ‘Foucauld . . . oh, my dear friend . . . not my ‘Foucauld.’

Retz drew the curtains about the King’s bed.

The coucher was over.

Tears fell slowly down the cheeks of the King of France and there was silence in the Louvre.

Catherine lay in bed counting the minutes as they passed. Two hours, and then she would rise, but she could not lie there waiting. She thought bitterly of that fool Claude, who must have aroused suspicions in Margot’s mind. She thought of stupid Charles who, according to Retz, had done his best to warn Rochefoucauld. What if Rochefoucauld had got an inkling? He was one of the Huguenot leaders. What would he do? What would any sane man do if he realized what was afoot? Make counter-plans, of course.

She could not endure it. It was not yet time to rise, but she could not stay in bed. She could not wait for disaster to overtake her. She must act. While she was active she could endure the suspense.

She rose and dressed hastily; she went stealthily along to Anjou’s apartment, and drawing the curtain close about his bed, shut herself in with him.

He had not slept for his fear was far greater than hers. She saw the sweat glistening on his forehead; and his hair was uncurled.

‘My darling, you must get up and dress,’ she said. ‘There are some hours yet. But it is better to be dressed.’

‘Mother, it is just past midnight, and the bell of the Palais de Justice is not to ring until an hour before daybreak.’

‘I know, my son, but I am afraid. I wonder if the folly of your brother and your sister may have disclosed our intentions. I wonder if our enemies plan to strike first. I will give other orders. We must start earlier in case we have been betrayed. We must surprise them. Now rise and dress and I will awaken the King. We should not waste more time in our beds. I must get a message through to Monsieur de Guise. If he knows of the change in our plans, the procedure can be safely left to him.’

‘But, Mother, is it wise to change at this late hour?’

‘I fear it may be unwise not to. Come.’

This was a better than lying in bed waiting. Action was always more stimulating than idleness. She sent Bouchavannes with a message to the Hôtel de Guise, and Retz to awaken the King and send him to her.

She had chosen a position at one of the windows where she might have a good view of what was happening outside; and here the King arrived, bewildered and agitated.

‘What means this, Madame?’

‘Our plans had to be changed. We have discovered a further and most devilish plot. It is necessary to advance . . . delay is dangerous.’

Charles covered his face with his hands. ‘Let us give up this affair. I have had enough of it. If there is a plot against us by the Huguenots there are many Catholics to defend us.’

‘What! You would let them come and murder us here in the Louvre!’

‘It seems there will be murder in any case.’

His mother and Anjou looked at him in horror. He was mad. He was unaccountable. They had been right not to trust him. How did they know what he would plan from one minute to the next? Delay was dangerous and it was largely due to this unstable King that it was so.

‘There must be killing, I know,’ sobbed Charles. ‘There must be bloodshed and murder. But do not let us start it.’

‘Do you realize,’ said Catherine quietly, ‘that the Huguenots attack our Holy Church? Is it not better that their rotten limbs should be torn asunder, than that the Church. the Holy Bride of Our Lord, should be rent?’

‘I do not know,’ cried the King. ‘I only know that I wish to stop this bloodshed.’

The tocsin of Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois opposite the Louvre began to ring out; and almost immediately it seemed as though all the bells in Paris were ringing.

Noise broke forth. Shouts; screams; laughter that was cruel and mocking; the agonized cries of men and women mingled with their pleas for mercy.

‘It has begun then . .’ said the King in a whisper.

‘God in Heaven!’ murmured Anjou. ‘What have we done?’

He looked at his mother and he saw in her face that which she had rarely allowed him to see—fear . . . such fear that he never hoped to see in any face again.

She repeated his words softly as though to herself: ‘What have we done? And what will happen now?’

‘All Hell is let loose!’ screamed the King. ‘All Hell is let loose.’

‘Stop it,’ entreated Anjou. ‘Stop it before it goes too far. Before we are destroyed . . . stop it, I say!’

Catherine did then what she had never done before: she panicked.

She muttered: ‘You are right. We must stop it. I will send a message to Guise. The Admiral must not die yet .

But although the dawn was not yet in the sky, all Paris had awakened to the Eve of St Bartholomew.

The Admiral was in too much pain for sleep. Paré had wanted to give him an opiate. but he would not take it. He had much to think of. In an ante-chamber his son-in-law was sleeping, lightly, he surmised, eager to answer his slightest call. Dear Téligny! God had been good to allow him to give his daughter into such hands

Nicholas Muss, the Admiral’s faithful servant, was dozing in a chair. Merlin, his pastor, sat in another. He had many faithful servants in his house; he had many friends in Paris. The Prince of Condé and the King of Navarre had visited him earlier in the evening, but they had now left for the palace of the Louvre. Ambroise Paré, who had made such great efforts to save his life, had been with him until a few hours ago; he had been reluctant to leave him and would not have done so but for an urgent command from the King himself.

What disquiet there was all through Paris! If only the King would throw off the influence of his mother and his brother Anjou, together with that of the Guises, what good could be achieved! The Admiral knew that they hated him; he knew that when the Queen Mother had uttered her condolences and spoken of her sympathy, she was furiously angry because the shot from the gun of the Guise hireling had failed to kill him outright. He knew that when the King had ordered a guard to protect this house, Anjou and his mother had seen to it that the men who arrived had been led by a certain man named Cosseins, and this man was an old enemy of the Admiral and the Huguenot cause. This was ominous and he knew that danger was all about him and his friends.

How quiet it was tonight! There had been so many nights of feasting and roystering during the celebrations of the wedding that on this night the silence seemed all the more impressive.

He wondered fitfully if he would ever see Châtillon again. Had news reached Jacqueline of his accident? He trusted not. She would be beside herself with anxiety, and that would be so bad for her and the child. He was glad that François and Andelot were safe at Châtillon, and Louise with them. Perhaps, if he recovered, as Paré assured him that he would, he would be in Châtillon in a few weeks’ time . . . perhaps by the end of September. The roses would not be all gone. What joy to wander in the alleys once more, to gaze at the grey walls of the castle and not care whether he went in or stayed out, since there could be no dispatches waiting for him!

Who knew, perhaps he would be home by the end of September, for it was now nearing the end of August. Today was the . . . yes, the 23rd. St Bartholomew’s Eve.

He started suddenly; the sound of bells crashed on the air.

Whence did it come? Who was ringing the bells at this hour? Muss started up from his chair; Merlin opened his eyes.

‘Is it morning then?’ asked Merlin. ‘What mean these bells?’

‘I wonder,’ said the Admiral. ‘Bells before daybreak! What can it mean?’

‘And they startled you from your sleep master,’ said Muss.

‘Nay, I was not sleeping. I was lying here thinking oh, thinking most happily, of my wife and family and my roses at

Téligny had come into the room.

‘You heard the bells, my son?’ asked the Admiral.

‘They awakened me, Father. What is the reason for them? Listen. Do you hear? The sound of horses’ hoofs . . . coming this way.’

The men looked at each other, but none spoke his thoughts. A great terror possessed them all except the Admiral. For hours now he had lain in pain, expectant, waiting for death; and if this were death it would merely mean that the end of his pain was at hand.

‘Muss,’ he said, ‘go to the window, my friend. Tell us what you see below.’

The man went and, when he drew back the hangings, the room was filled with the wavering light from the torches and cressets below.

‘Who is there, Nicholas?’ asked the Admiral.

Téligny was at the window. He turned his pale face towards the Admiral and stammered: ‘Guise . . . and ten . . . twenty more mayhap.’

Gaspard said: ‘They have come for me, my friends. You must help me to dress. I would not care to receive my enemies thus.’

Téligny ran from the room and hurried down the staircase.

‘Be on guard!’ he shouted to the men who were posted on stairs and in corridors. ‘Our enemies are here.’

As he reached the main door, he heard Cosseins shout: ‘Labonne, have you the keys? You must let this man through. He has a message from the King to the Admiral.’

‘Labonne!’ shouted Téligny. ‘Let no one in!’

But it was too late. The keys were already in Cosseins’ hands. He heard Labonne’s shriek; and he knew that that faithful friend had been murdered.

‘Fight!’ cried Téligny to the men. ‘Fight for Coligny and the cause!’

He ran back to the bedchamber, where Merlin knelt in prayer while Muss was helping the Admiral to put on a few clothes. The sound of shots and shouts could now be distinctly heard in the room.

Suddenly a Huguenot soldier burst in upon them. ‘Monsieur l’Amiral,’ he cried, ‘you must fly. You must waste no time. The Guisards are here. They are breaking down the inner door.’

‘My friends,’ said the Admiral calmly, ‘you must go . . . all of you. For myself I am ready for death. I have long expected it.’

‘I will never leave you, Father,’ said Téligny.

‘My son, your life is too precious to be recklessly thrown away. Go . . . go at once. Remember Louise. Remember Châtillon, and that it is for such as you to live and fight on. Do not be over-troubled because I must die. I am an old man and my day is done.’

‘I will fight beside you,’ said Téligny. ‘We may yet escape.’

‘I cannot walk, my son. You cannot carry me. It is folly to delay. I hear them on the staircase. That means they are coming over the dead bodies of our faithful friends. Go, my son. Jacqueline will know much sorrow, for this night she will be a widow. If you love my daughter do not subject her to the same fate. You grieve me. I am most unhappy while you stay. Give me the joy of knowing that you have escaped these murderers. Son, I beg of you. There is yet time. The roofs . . . through theabat-son. Now . . . for the love of God, for the love of Louise . . . for Châtillon . . . I beg of you . . . go!’

Téligny kissed his father-in-law and sobbed: ‘I will, Father. I will . . . since it is your wish. For Louise . . .’

‘I beg of you, make haste. To the attics . . . to the roofs . . .’

‘Goodbye, my father.’

‘Goodby, my dearest son.’

Gaspard wiped the sweat from his brow, but he was smiling as he saw the last of his son-in-law. He turned to Merlin. ‘You too, my dearest friend, go .

‘Dear master, I have no wife to make a widow. My place is here with you. I will not leave you.’

‘Nor I, master,’ said Muss. ‘I have my sword and my arm is strong.’

‘It is certain death,’ said the Admiral wearily. ‘We are so few, they so many.’

‘But I would not wish for life, master,’ said Muss, ‘if I left you now.’

‘Dear friends, I would not have those who hold you dear, reproach me with your deaths. You would please me if you went. Merlin, you can do much good elsewhere. Go . . . Follow my son-in-law to the roofs. Listen. They are on the staircase now. Merlin . . . I entreat you. I have learned to pray. I can pray without you. You waste a life . . . a Huguenot life. I beg of you. I command you . . .’

The pastor was persuaded that he could do no good by remaining, but old Nicholas Muss was resolutely standing by the bed, his sword in hand, and Coligny knew that nothing he could say to his servant would make him leave his side.

Then Coligny knelt by the bed. He began to pray. ‘Into Your hands, oh God, I commend my soul. Comfort my wife. Guide my children, for they are of such tender age . . . Into your hands . . . into your hands . . .’

The door was burst open. Cosseins and a man whom the Admiral recognized as an enemy and whose name was Besme, rushed into the room. Behind them came others, among whom were the Italians, Toshingi and Petrucci. They all wore white scarfs about their arms and crosses in their’ hats.

They fell back at the sight of the old man kneeling by the bed. Hastily they crossed themselves. The serenity of the Admiral’s face and the calm manner in which he lifted those noble eyes to their faces temporarily unnerved them.

‘You are Gaspard de Coligny?’ said Toshingi.

‘I am. And you have come to kill me, I see. Do what you will. My life is almost over and there is little you can do.’

Nicholas Muss lifted his sword in defence of his master, but the blow was parried by Toshingi, while Petrucci thrust his dagger into the old man’s chest. The others crowded round to finish what Toshingi had begun, and Muss fell groaning beside the bed.

‘So perish all heretics!’ cried one of the men.

This was the signal; together they rushed on the prostrate Admiral. Besme thrust his sword through the body of the noble old man, while all in turn stabbed him with their daggers, each eager to anoint his blade with the most distinguished of the blood that they had promised themselves they would shed that night.

Coligny lay stretched out before them, and they stood silently looking down at him, none willing that his companions should see that look of shame which he feared he might be weak enough to show.

Besme went to the window and opened it.

‘Is the deed done?’ called Henry of Guise.

‘Yes, my lord Duke,’ answered Besme.

The Chevalier of Angouleme, bastard of Henry the Second and half-brother to the King, who was below with Guise, shouted: ‘Then fling him out of the window that we may see that you speak truth.’

The assassins lifted the body of the Admiral.

‘He still lives,’ said Petrucci.

‘He will not live for long after he has made contact with the courtyard below,’ answered Toshingi. ‘Ah, my good friend, my noble Admiral, if you had not stooped to pick up a paper when I took a shot at you, what a lot of trouble you might have saved yourself . . . and us! Hoist him, my friends. What a weight he is! Steady . . . Over!’

The Admiral made a feeble effort to grasp the windowsill; one of the men pricked his hand with his dagger and then . . . Gaspard de Coligny was lying in the courtyard below.

The Chevalier d’Angoulême, who had dismounted, said to Guise: ‘It is not easy to see that it is he. His white hair is red tonight. It is as though he has followed Madame Margot’s fashion and put a wig of that colour on his head.’

Henry of Guise knelt to examine the body. ‘It is he,’ he said: and he placed his foot on the Admiral. ‘At last, Monsieur de Coligny,’ he said. ‘At last you die, murderer of my father. You have lived too long since you bribed a man to kill Francis of Guise at Orléans.’

Angoulême kicked the body and ordered one of his men to cut off the head.

A cheer went up as the head was held high by the blood-stained hair.

‘Adieu, Coligny!’ the shout went up.

‘Adieu, murderer of François de Guise!’ cried the Duke; and those about him took up the cry.

‘You may take the head to the Louvre,’ said Angoulême. ‘A gift for the Queen Mother, and one which she has long coveted.’

‘What of the body, sir?’ asked Toshingi.

‘A gift to the people of Paris to do with what they will.’

It was at that moment that a messenger came galloping up.

‘From the Queen Mother, my lord Duke. “Stop,” she says. “Do not kill the Admiral.” ‘

‘Ride back with all speed,’ said the Duke. ‘Tell the Queen Mother that you came too late. Come, my men. Death to the heretics! Death to the Huguenots! The King commands that we kill . . . kill . . . kill.’

Téligny, from the roofs, looked down on the city. Lights had sprung up everywhere, and there were torches and cressets to pick out the horrible sights. The air was filled with the cries of dying men and women—hoarse, appealing, angry and bewildered.

Which way? Which way to safety and Louise? He knew that the Admiral had no chance of survival, and he must reach those loved ones at the Château de Châtillon to comfort them, to mourn with them.

He could already smell the stench of blood. What was happening on this mad, most fantastic of nights? What were they doing down there in the streets? What were they doing to his friends?

He was too young to die. He had not yet lived. The Admiral had known adventure, love, as well as devotion to a cause; he had known the joy of rearing a family; but Téligny as yet knew little of these things. He thought of the fair face of Louise, of walking with her in the flower gardens, through the shady green alleys. How he longed for the peace of Châtillon, how he longed for escape from this nightmare city!

He would wait here on the roof until all was quiet. He would escape through one of the gates of the city. Perhaps he could disguise himself, for if they were murdering the friends of the Admiral, they would never let him live; and he must live; he must get to Châtillon . and Louise.

A bullet whined over his head. He heard a shout from below. They had seen him. They had picked him up by the light from their cressets.

‘There he goes . . . On the roof . . .’

There was a hot pain in his arm. He looked about him, bewildered.

‘I must escape,’ he murmured. ‘I must reach Châtillon . . . and Louise . . .’

The torchlight showed him the outline of the roof. He saw the way he had come; the blood he had shed lay behind him in pools like dark, untidy footprints. He could hear the malignant shouting as more shots whined about him.

He clambered on. He was weak and dizzy. ‘For Louise . . .’ he panted. For Châtillon . . . and Louise . . .’

He was still murmuring ‘Louise’ when he rolled off the roof.

The mob, recognizing his quivering body, fell upon him and called to one another that Téligny was dead. They tore his clothes to shreds to keep as mementoes of this night.

Margot had gone uneasily to her bedchamber. Her husband was already there. He lay in bed and was surrounded by members of his suite.

She retired to an ante-chamber, called her women to help her disrobe and, when this was done, joined Navarre in the bed.

It seemed that he, like herself, was disinclined to sleep.

She could not forget her sister’s words, nor the anger which they had aroused in her mother. Something threatened her, she was sure. She longed for the gentlemen to depart so that she might tell her husband what had taken place, but the gentlemen showed no signs of departing, and Navarre showed no sign of wishing them to do so.

They were excitedly discussing the shooting of the Admiral, and what the outcome would be.

‘In the morning,’ said Navarre, ‘I shall go to the King and demand justice. I shall ask Condé to accompany me, and I shall demand the arrest of Henry of Guise.’

Margot smiled cynically. Her husband had much to learn. Here in Paris. Henry of Guise was of as great importance as the King. No one—not even her mother or brother—would dare accuse Guise in Paris.

They went on talking of Coligny, of the audience they would demand, of the justice for which they would ask. Margot listened. She was tired, yet she could not sleep while the men remained, and her husband did not dismiss them. So the long night dragged on, and at length, declaring that it would soon be day, Navarre announced that he was going to play tennis until the King should wake up. ‘Then,’ he said, ‘I shall, without delay, go to him and demand audience.’ He turned to his men. ‘Let us go and prepare ourselves for a game. I shall not sleep until I have won justice for Coligny.’

He leaped out of bed and Margot said: ‘I will sleep till daybreak. I am tired.’

They drew the curtains about her and left her, and it was not long before she slept.

She was suddenly awakened. In the streets bells were ringing and people were shouting. She sat up in bed listening in amazement, and now she realized that what had awakened her was a repeated hammering on her own door Immediately she remembered the strange events of the previous evening.

The hammering on her door persisted: it was accompanied by loud cries. She listened. ‘Open . . . Open . . . For the love of God. Navarre! Navarre!’

‘Who is there?’ cried Margot. She called to one of her women who came running in from the ante-chamber. ‘Someone knocks. Unlock the door.’

The woman stumbled to the door. Margot, her bed-curtains parted, saw a man rush into the room. His face was deathly pale, his clothes spattered with blood; the blood dripped on to the carpet.

He saw the bed. He saw Margot. He staggered towards her with his arms outstretched.

Margot had leaped out of bed, and the intruder, flinging his arms about her knelt and, lifting his agonized face to hers, cried: ‘Save me . . . Navarre . . . Navarre . . .’

Margot, for once, was completely bewildered. She had no idea who this man was, why he should be in such a condition and why he should thus break into her bedchamber; but even as he knelt there, his blood staining her nightgown, four men rushed into the room, their bloodstained swords in their hands, their eyes like those of wild animals lusting for the kill.

Ever emotional in the extreme, Margot was roused to pity, anger and indignation all at once. With a quick gesture she released herself from the clinging hands of the man and stood in front of him; her black hair in disorder, her black eyes flashing, she faced those bloodthirsty men in such a manner that even in their present mood they were aware that they stood in the presence of a Queen.

‘How dare you!’ she cried. ‘How dare you come thus into my chamber!’

The men fell back, but only a pace. Margot felt a twinge of fear, but only enough to stimulate her. She called to her women: ‘Bring the Captain of the Guard to me immediately. As for you, cowards . . . bullies . . . murderers . . . for I see you are all three . . . stay where you are or you will suffer.’

But on this night of bloodshed, such killers as these were not going to be over-impressed by nobility or even royalty. One of them had, ten minutes before, stained his sword with the blood of a Duke. And who was this . . . but the wife of a Huguenot!

She saw the fanatical gleam in their eyes and haughtily she held up her hand.

‘If you dare come a step nearer, I will have you beaten, tortured . . . and put to death. Down on your knees! I am the Queen, and you shall answer for this unless you give me immediate obedience.’

But they did not fall on their knees, and she saw now, in those four pairs of eyes, lust for herself mingled with their lust for blood. She realized that terrible things were happening about her; and she knew that she was in great danger, that these men were of the mob and that on nights such as this, a Queen meant nothing more than a woman.

How long could she hold them off? How long before they dispatched the poor half-dead creature who lay behind her? How long before they dealt with her?

But here, thank God, was Monsieur de Nançay, the Captain of the Guard, handsome, charming, a man on whom Margot had bestowed smiles of warm regard and promise.

‘Monsieur de Nançay!’ she cried. ‘See what indignity these rogues put me to!’

She noticed that he, like the intruders, wore a white cross in his hat.

He shouted to the men: ‘What do you here? How dare you enter the apartments of our Most Catholic Princess?’

One of them pointed to the man whom Margot was trying to hide in the folds of her nightgown.

‘He ran in here, sir, and we but followed. He escaped after we had. caught him.’

‘You followed him here! Into the apartments of Her Majesty! It will be well for you if you make yourself scarce at once before Her Majesty has time to note your evil faces.’

‘Shall we take the heretic, sir? He is making a mess in the lady’s bedchamber.’

Margot said haughtily: ‘I will deal with him. You have heard what Monsieur de Nançay said. You will be wise to go at once.’

When they had gone, reluctant and almost sheepish, de Nançay’s lips began to twitch.

‘You will help me to get this man into my ruelle, Monsieur,’ said Margot coldly. ‘And while you do so perhaps you will tell me why you are amused at your low soldiers’ daring to insult me.’

‘Madame, Your Majesty’s pardon,’ said de Nançay, lifting the semi-conscious man in his arms, ‘but Your Majesty’s kindness is well known, and if I seemed to smile, it was because I was thinking that this man might have heard of it.’

‘Take him to my ruelle at once.’

‘Madame, he is a Huguenot.’

‘What of that?’

‘The King’s orders are that no Huguenot shall survive this night.’

She stared at him in horror. ‘My . . . husband? His . . . friends?’

‘Your husband will be safe, together with the Prince of Condé.’

Now she understood the meaning of the terrible noises in the streets below. She was nauseated. She hated bloodshed. They were all concerned in this—her mother, her brothers . . . her lover.

De Nancay spoke gently to her. ‘I will take this man away, Madame. He shall not defile, your chamber further with his blood.’

But Margot shook her head. ‘You will obey me, Monsieur, and take him to my ruelle.’

‘But, Madame, I beg of you to remember the King’s orders.’

‘I am not accustomed to having my orders disobeyed,’ she said. ‘Take him in there at once. And, Monsieur de Nancay, you will tell none that he is here. And you will obey me, or I will never forgive your insolence of this night.’

De Nançay very gallant and Margot was very charming. What, he asked himself, was, one Huguenot among thousands?

‘I promise you, Madame,’ he said, ‘that none shall know you keep him here.’

He laid the man on the black satin-covered couch, while Margot called to her women to bring her ointments and bandages; she had been a pupil of Paré’s was more skilled than most in the use of these things. Tenderly she bathed and bandaged the wounds, and, as She did so, determined that here was at least one Huguenot who should not die.

The Duc de la Rochefoucauld had been sleeping soundly, a smile on his fresh young face; but he had awakened suddenly, and was not sure what had awakened him. He had dreamed he was at a masque, the noisiest masque he had ever known, and the King was calling to him not to leave his side. He heard the voice distinctly: “Foucauld. ‘Foucauld, do not go tonight.’

What noise there must be in the streets tonight! It was as bad as it had been during the wedding celebrations. It would be well when all the visitors had gone back to their homes. But these were strange noises. Bells at this hour? Screams? Shouts? Cries?

He turned over and tried to stop up his ears.

But the noise would not be shut out. It came nearer. It seemed as though it were in his own house.

He was right. It was. The door was flung suddenly open. Someone was in his room; several people seemed to have called on him.

He was fully awake now that they had parted his bed-curtains.

He grinned. He thought he understood. This was why the King had advised him to stay in the palace. Here was the King with his merry followers prepared to play that game of beating his friends. In a moment he would hear the voice of the King. ‘Your turn tonight, ‘Foucauld. Do not blame me. I asked you to stay in the palace.’

‘Come on!’ he cried. ‘I am ready.’

A dark figure with a white cross in his hat had darted forward and de la Rochefoucauld felt the sharp pain of a dagger. Others closed in on him and he saw the gleam of their weapons.

‘Die . . . heretic!’ said one; and Rochefoucauld, the favourite of the King, lay back moaning, while his life-blood stained the bedclothes a vivid scarlet.

Now that the massacre was in full swing, Catherine’s fear had left her. It was apparent that the Huguenots had been taken completely by surprise and that there was no danger of serious retaliation. She was safe; her family was safe; and she would have the best possible news for Philip of Spain, to counterbalance that unpleasant pill, the Huguenot marriage of her daughter; and this marriage, the gloomy monarch would readily see, had been a necessity, a bait to catch his enemies in one big trap. She had kept her word; the promise she had made to Alva at Bayonne was fulfilled. Now she could rest, assured of her temporary safety in an unsafe world; for temporary safety was the best for which she could hope.

The head of Coligny had been brought to her, and she, surrounded by members of her Flying Squadron, had gloated over it.

‘How different the Admiral looks without his body!’ said one of those cynical young women.

‘But death has somewhat impaired his beauty!’ tempered another.

‘Ah, my big salmon!’ cried Catherine exultantly. ‘You were hard to catch, but now you will give us no further trouble.’

She was laughing, and her women noticed that the excitement made her look years younger. She was as energetic as ever, remembering those who must die tonight, mentally ticking them off as news of their deaths was brought to her. ‘Ah, another name to cross off my list!’ she would cry. ‘My red list!’

Trophies were brought to her. ‘A finger of Monsieur de Téligny, which was all the mob would let us have, Madame.’

‘A little part of Monsieur de la Rochefoucauld . . . for one of your ladies who did so admire him.’

There was ribald laughter and many a joke between the women, for some had known the victims very well indeed. There was great hilarity when the mutilated body of a certain Soubise was brought in, for this gentleman’s wife had sued him for a divorce on account of his impotency. The Escadron Volant amused its mistress with its clowning over his body.

Catherine, watching them, burst into loud laughter which was largely the laughter of relief.

Through the streets rode the Duke of Guise accompanied by Angoulême, Montpensier and Tavannes, urging the excited Catholics to fresh slaughter. They were determined that no Huguenot should survive.

‘It is the wish of the King!’ cried Guise. ‘It is the command of the King. Kill all heretics. Let not one of these vipers live another hour.’

Not that such exhortation was necessary. The bloodlust was rampant. How simple to wipe off old scores; for who would doubt that Monsieur So-and-So—a business rival—was a Huguenot in secret, or that the too-fascinating Mademoiselle Such-and-Such who had been receiving the attention of another’s husband, had been a convert to ‘The Religion’?

Ramus, the famous Greek scholar and teacher, was dragged from his bed and put to lingering death. ‘He is a heretic. He has been practising heresy in secret!’ was the cry of the jealous scholar who had long coveted the professorial chair of Ramus.

There was rape and brutality in plenty that night. It was so simple to commit the crime and kill afterwards, to leave no evidence of villainy. Bewildered Huguenots, running for shelter to the Admiral’s house or the Hôtel de Bourbon, were shot down or run through with swords. They lay where they fell, dead and dying heaped together.

Tavannes cried: let them bleed, my friends. The doctors say that bleeding is as beneficial in August as in May.’

Priests walked the streets, carrying swords in one hand, crucifixes in the other, making it a solemn duty to visit those quarters where there was a falling-off of bloodshed, a lack of enthusiasm to kill.

‘The Virgin and the saints watch you, my friends. Your victims are an offering to Our Lady who receives it with joy. Kill . . . and win eternal joy. Death to the heretic!’

The trunk of Coligny was being dragged through the streets, naked and mutilated. No obscenity was too vile, no insult too degraded to be played on the greatest man of his times. Finally, the remains of the Admiral were roasted over a slow fire, and the mob surrounding the spectacle, screaming and shouting at each other like the savages they had become, laughed at the sight of the distorted flesh, jocularly commented on its odour as it burned.

Men and women were murdered in their beds during that night of terror; heads and limbs severed from their bodies, fell from the windows. Nor were babies spared.

Lambon, the Catholic reader to the King, as great a bigot as lived in Paris at that time, on witnessing the horrible death of Ramus the scholar, was overcome by horror and died of the shock.

‘I cannot tell you what happened on that night,’ said an old Catholic in writing to another. ‘The very paper itself would weep, if I wrote upon it all I have seen.’

The poor King was lost in his madness. He could smell blood; he could see it flow. He stood at the windows of his apartments, shouting to the murderers, urging them to commit more horrible atrocities.

When he saw men and women trying to get into a boat which had been overlooked and was moored on the banks of the Seine, he himself fired at them and, missing, was in a raging frenzy lest they should escape; he called his guards and ordered them to shoot the people, and he laughed with glee when he saw the boat capsize and heard the cries of the victims as they sank in the bloodstained water.

Madness had come to Paris, and the light of morning showed up in hideous clarity the terror of the night before. Bodies were piled high in the streets; the walls were splashed with the blood and remains of what had been human beings; everywhere was the stench of the night’s carnage; and all through the day the horror continued, for that which it had been so easy to start, it was found impossible to stop.

The King of Navarre and the Prince of Condé stood before the King. The King’s eyes were bloodshot; there were flecks of foam on his clothes and his hands twitched.

The Queen Mother was with the King; several guards stood close by and all attendants were armed.

‘You are here, Messieurs,’ said Catherine, ‘for your own safety.’

The King shouted: ‘There must be one religion in France from now on. I will have only one religion in my kingdom. It is the Mass now . . . the Mass or death.’ He began to laugh. ‘You have perchance seen what is happening out there, eh? You have passed through the streets. The bodies are piled high. Men have been torn limb from limb . . . women too . . . babies . . . little girls, little boys. They were all heretics in my kingdom. The Mass . . . or death . . . Death or the Mass.’

Catherine said: ‘You, Messieurs, have been more fortunate than others who have not had the choice which is offered to you.’

Henry of Navarre looked shrewdly from the mad face of the King to the impenetrable one of the Queen Mother; he was aware of the guards who were posted, not only in the apartment, but in the corridors. He would be careful; he had no intention of losing his life over a mere matter of faith.

Condé had folded his arms. Poor Condé! thought his cousin of Navarre; he was emotional—sentimental—brave as a lion, and as stupid as an ass.

‘Sire,’ said Condé in a cold remote voice as though he faced death a hundred times a day and therefore to him such a situation was commonplace, ‘I will be faithful to my creed though I die for it.’

The King’s fingers closed about his dagger. He came close to Condé and held the weapon against the Prince’s throat. Condé stared up at the ornate hangings as though the King had merely asked him to admire them, and poor Charles lost his nerve before such a display of cool courage. His trembling hand fell to his side, and he turned to Navarre.

‘And you . . . you?’ he screamed.

‘Sire,’ said Navarre evasively, ‘I beg of you, do not tamper with my conscience.’

The King frowned. He suspected his uncouth kinsman of cunning; he had never understood him and he did not understand him now; but the look on Navarre’s face suggested that he was in fact ready to consider changing his religion, but that he did not wish to appear to do so readily. He needed time to consider how he might adjust his conscience.

Condé cried out: ‘Most diabolical things have been done. But I have five hundred gentlemen ready to avenge this most lamentable massacre.’

‘Do not be so sure of that,’ said Catherine. ‘Have you had a roll-call lately? I doubt not that many of those fine gentlemen will never again be in a condition to serve the Prince of Condé.’

The trembling King felt his frenzy passing; he was close to that mood of deep melancholy which often followed his more violent bouts. He said almost piteously to Navarre: ‘Show good faith and I may show you good cheer.’

At that moment there came hurrying into the room a beautiful girl with her dark hair loose about her shoulders. Margot knelt before the King, and taking his trembling hands in hers kissed them.

‘Forgive me, brother. Oh, Sire, forgive me. I heard that my husband was here, and I have come to ask you to spare his life.’

Catherine said: ‘Get up, Marguerite, and leave us. This affair is none of yours.’

But the King held his sister’s hands and the tears ran fast down his cheeks.

‘My husband is in danger,’ said Margot turning to her mother. ‘That, it seems, should be an affair of mine.’

Catherine was furious. She had no intention of letting Condé or Navarre die, but she was angry that her daughter as well as her son should dare to defy her; she was annoyed also by this display of what seemed to her yet another of Margot’s dramatic tricks. A little while ago the girl had hated that husband of hers; now she was making a spectacle of herself, as she said, to save his life. It was her love of drama not of Navarre that made her act so, Catherine was sure; but it was the effect on the King which was important.

‘I have offered him his life,’ said the King. ‘He only has to change his religion. “The Mass or death”, is what I said to him. “Death or the Mass . . .”’

‘And he has chosen the Mass,’ said Margot.

‘He will,’ said Catherine sardonically.

‘Then he is safe!’ cried Margot. ‘And, Sire, there are two gentlemen who have begged me to help them . . . gentlemen of my husband’s suite—De Mossans and Armagnac. You will give them this chance, Sire? Dearest brother, you will let them make this choice between death and the Mass?’

‘To please you,’ said Charles, embracing his sister hysterically. ‘To please my dearest Margot.’

‘You may leave us, Marguerite,’ said Catherine.

As. Margot went out her eyes met those of her husband. His seemed to signal: ‘Effective but unnecessary. Can you doubt that I would choose the Mass?’ But there was also a twinkle in those eyes, a smile of approval about his lips which seemed to add: ‘This means that we are friends, does it not? It means that we are to work together?’

When Margot had left, the King turned to Condé. ‘Give up your faith!’ he cried. ‘Accept the Mass. I give you an hour’s grace, and then if you will not accept the Mass, it shall be death. I will kill you myself. I will kill . . . kill . . .’

The Queen Mother signed to the guards to take Navarre and Condé away; then she gave herself up to the task of soothing the King.

Charles was weary. He lay on his couch, and the tears rolled down his cheeks. ‘Blood . . . blood . . . blood,’ he murmured. ‘Rivers of blood. The Seine is red with blood, the cobbles are red with it. It stains the walls of Paris like the leaves of creeping plants in autumn. Blood! Everywhere blood!’

His Queen came to him; her face was distorted with grief. The awkward gait which proclaimed her pregnancy made the King’s tears flow more copiously. Their child would be born into a cruel world. Who knew what would happen to it?

She knelt before him, ‘Oh, Sire, that terrible night! This terrible day! Do not let it go on. I beg of you. I cannot bear to hear the cries of the people. I cannot bear it.’

‘I cannot bear it either,’ he moaned.

‘They say you yourself are going to kill the Prince of Condé.’

‘It is all killing,’ he said. ‘It is all blood. It is the only thing which will make us safe.’

‘Oh, my lord, do not have murder on your soul.’

The King burst into loud laughter while his tears continued to flow. ‘All last night’s murders will be on my soul,’ he said. ‘What is one more?’

‘It was not your fault. It was others. Do not kill Condé. I beg of you, do not kill him.’

He stroked her hair and thought: poor little Queen. Poor little stranger in a strange land.

‘It is a sad life we live,’ he said, ‘we Princes and Princesses. They married you, poor child, to a King of France who is a madman.’

She kissed his hand. ‘You are so kind to me . . . so good to me. You are not a murderer. You could not do it. Oh, Charles, give me the life of Condé. It is not often that I ask for a gift, is it? Give me Condé’s life now, dearest husband.’

‘I will not kill him, then,’ he said. ‘Let him live. Condé is yours, my poor sad little Queen.’

Then she lay down beside him and, like two unhappy children, they wept silently together, wept for the terrible things which were happening in the streets below them, and for the terrible fate which had made them a King and a Queen in this cruel age.

The nightmare days went on. At noon, on St Bartholomew’s Day, le Charron the prévôt, came to the palace and begged Catherine to stop the massacre. Both Catherine and the King attempted to do this, but without success. That which had been started with the ringing of the bell of Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois could not be stopped, and all through that day and the next night the carnage continued.

The King’s madness returned and he called for fresh bloodshed. He was the instigator of those expeditions to witness the vilest executions. He made a pilgrimage, with priests and nobles, to that gibbet where they had now hung Coligny’s body after they had taken it out of the Seine; it had been thrown there following the roasting.

On the 25th a hawthorn in the Cemetery of Innocents unexpectedly blossomed. This, cried the excited Catholics, was a sign of Heaven’s approval. Any who said that hawthorn had been known to blossom in all other seasons, ran the risk of being named ‘Heretic’, which meant instant death, for it was so comforting to stifle any pangs of conscience by calling attention to Heaven’s approval. Solemn pilgrimages were made to this cemetery, led by the dignitaries of the Church. The chanting voices of the priests, singing praises to God and the Virgin, mingled with the screams for mercy, with the groans of the dying.

Charles had aged considerably since the Eve of St Bartholomew; he now looked more than ever like an old man; his moods were various and sadness came to him suddenly, to be dispersed in wild hilarity when he shouted for more excitement. He would be proud of the carnage at one hour; he would be deeply ashamed the next. In a moment of melancholy, he declared his innocence of responsibility for the massacre and announced that it had been brought about because of a feud between the House of Guise and Lorraine and that of ChâtiHon, a feud which had been simmering for years and which he had been unable to prevent boiling over.

Guise, who would not allow this, publicly declared that he had but obeyed the orders of the King and the Queen Mother. The Duke and his adherents brought such pressure to bear on the King that he was forced to declare before an assembly of his ministers that he, and he only, was responsible for what had taken place. He was nervous and exhausted; in turn humble and truculent, belligerent and repentant. He stooped more than usual and his breathlessness had increased. He seemed perpetually to be tottering on the brink of complete insanity.

Catherine on the other hand looked, so many remarked, ten years younger. Energetic, eager to take her place at all ceremonies, she was in the forefront of the religious processions that paraded the streets and entered the churches to sing Te Deums of praise, and the Cemetery of the Holy Innocents to rejoice at Heaven’s sign of approval. She herself rode out to see Coligny’s remains; she made a point of being present at executions whenever possible.

The King talked continually of the massacre. He longed, he said, to put back the clock, to live again through that fateful day of August the 23rd. ‘If I had that chance,’ he would sigh, ‘how differently I should act!’

Yet he was persuaded that the murder of Huguenots in Paris was not enough; so throughout the whole of France Catholics were ordered to commit murders and atrocities similar to those which had taken place in the capital. Readily the Catholics of Rouen, Blois, Tours and many other towns in the tortured land obeyed the commands that came from Paris.

There were some who protested, for there were Catholics in the provinces as humane as le Charron, the prévôt of Paris; chief among these were the Governors of Auvergne, Provence and Dauphine together with the Duc de Joyeuse of Languedoc, who refused to obey such command which came by word of mouth and would not kill until they received written orders from the King. In Burgundy, Picardy, Montpellier and in Lyons the governors declared that they had learned to take life for justice of war, but that cold-blooded murder was something with which they did not care to burden their souls.

This seemed like rebellion, and Catherine and her council were uncertain how to act until they decided on sending priests down to the rebellious provinces to explain to the citizens that St Michael, in a vision, had ordered the massacre.

This was accepted as the certain will of Heaven, and so the bloody orgy continued, and for weeks after the Eve of St Bartholomew thousands were slaughtered all over France.

When Philip of Spain heard the news he laughed aloud—as many said—for the first time in his life. Charles, he said, had now truly earned the title of the ‘Most Christian King’; he sent congratulations to Catherine for having brought up her son in her own image.

The Cardinal of Lorraine, who was in Rome at that time, gave the messenger who brought him news of the massacre a great reward. Rome was especially illumined to celebrate the death of so many of its enemies; Te Deums were sung, and the cannons of Castel St Angelo were fired in honour of the massacre. The Pope and his Cardinals went in special procession to the Church of St Mark, there to call God’s attention to the good and religious work of the faithful; and Gregory himself proceeded in state on foot from St Mark’s to St Louis’.

But if there was rejoicing in the Catholic world, there was deep consternation in England and Holland. William the Silent, who had been hoping for the help of France, through Coligny, was overcome with grief. He said that the King of France had been most evilly advised and that his realm would be plunged into fresh trouble ere long. The slaughtering of unsuspecting innocents, he went on, was no way in which to settle the differences of religion.

‘This,’ said Burleigh to the Queen of England, ‘is the greatest crime since the Crucifixion.’

A few weeks after the massacre, the King was in his apartments, which were full of members of the court, and they were trying to regain something of that gaiety which had once been theirs. It was not easy. There was no forgetting. Names were casually mentioned, and it would then be remembered with a shock that that person was no more. Such a short while ago he had been alive, full of gaiety; now he was dead, and there, among them, was his murderer. The massacre haunted them like some evil spectre which they had called up from the underworld and which would not now be banished.

As they sat or stood about, talking loudly, giving vent to laughter which was, more often than not, unnatural, a great croaking was heard outside the windows of the Louvre, and the croaking was accompanied by a flapping of wings.

There was a sudden silence in the apartment followed by a susurration. ‘It was as though,’ someone remarked afterwards, the angel of death hovered over the Louvre.’

Catherine, deeply disturbed, for she was as superstitious as any present, hurried to the window and, looking out, saw a flock of ravens flying just above the palace. She cried out and everyone ran to the windows to watch the birds. They flew round, cawing; they perched on the building; they flew against the windows; and they remained in the vicinity of the palace for a long time.

Although some assumed that the birds had been attracted by the carnage, all were unnerved that night.

Many believed that the birds were the spirits of those whom they had murdered come to haunt them and to remind them that their days also were numbered, that horrible death such as they had meted out to others might well await them.

Catherine called René and the Ruggieri brothers to her and demanded spells to protect her from impending evil.

The King called wildly to the birds: ‘Come . . . whoever you be. Come and kill us . . . Do to us what we did to them.’

Madeleine and Marie Touchet did their best to soothe him.

Alençon, who had been sulking because he had been told nothing of the proposed massacre and had not been allowed to have a part in it, was relieved and able maliciously to watch the effect of the birds on those about him. Margot and Navarre watched with a good conscience. Anjou went shuddering to his mother and would not leave her. Henry of Guise was unperturbed. If the birds were the spirits of dead Huguenots, he was sure that the spirit of his father would protect him. He had but kept the vow to avenge him which he had made on his father’s death.

But the King suffered most of all; and in the night he awakened from his sleep and ran screaming through the palace.

‘What is all the noise in the streets?’ he demanded. ‘Why do the bells ring? Why do the people shout and scream? Listen. Listen. I can hear them. They are coming to kill us . . . as we killed them.’

Then he fell on to the floor, his limbs jerking in his terror; he bit his clothes and threatened to bite any who came near him.

‘Stop them!’ he cried. ‘Stop the bells. Stop the people. Let us have done with bloodshed.’

Madeleine was brought to him. ‘Chariot,’ she whispered, ‘all is well. All is quiet. Chariot . . . Chariot . . . you must not distress yourself.’

‘But, Madelon, they will come for me . . . They will do to me what was done to them.’

‘They cannot touch you. They are dead and you are the King.’

‘They could return from their graves, Madelon. They have come as black birds to torment me. They are in the streets now, Madelon. Listen. Listen. They shout. They scream. They are ringing all the bells . . . .’

She led him to the window and showed him a quiet and sleeping Paris.

‘I heard them,’ he insisted. ‘I heard them.’

‘It was only in your dreams, my love.’

‘Oh, Madelon, I am responsible. I said so at the meeting. I . . . I did it all.’

‘You did not,’ she said. ‘It was not you. They did it. They forced you to it.’

‘I do not know, Madelon. I can remember it . . . parts of it. I can remember the bells . . . the shouting and the blood. But I cannot remember how it came about. How did it come about? My headpiece knows nothing of it.’

‘You knew nothing of it, my darling. You did not do it. It was they who did it.’

‘They . . .’ he stammered. ‘She . . . my evil genius, Madelon. It was my evil genius . .

Then he began to sob and declare once more that he could hear noises in the streets.

He kept Madelon with him, there at the window, looking out over the sleeping city.