THE two girls were startled and visibly trembled; but, recovering from their fright, rose and made their obeisance. For a moment Catherine gazed earnestly at them, as if divining the reason of their discomposure; then beckoning to the Princess, she led her daughter into her writing-room, where she seated herself beside a table covered with despatches and papers.

“My daughter,” said the Queen, contemplating Marguerite with satisfaction, as the Princess stood before her, her cheeks flushed by the fright that Catherine’s sudden entrance had occasioned. “I have commanded a masque to-night on the river, and a banquet in the water-gallery, to celebrate my return. You will attend me and be careful not to leave me, my child. Strangers have been seen among the woods. Did you not mark one as we approached riding near us?” And Catherine gave a searching glance at Marguerite. “I have given strict orders that all strangers (Huguenots, probably, with evil designs upon his Majesty) shall be arrested and imprisoned.”

Again Catherine turned her piercing eyes upon Marguerite, who suddenly grew very pale.

“My daughter, you seem indisposed, the heat has overcome you—be seated.”

Marguerite sank into a chair near the door. She knew that her mother had recognised the Duke, and that it would be infinitely difficult to keep her appointment with him that evening. Neither mother nor daughter spoke for some moments. Catherine was studying the effect of her words on Marguerite, and Marguerite was endeavouring to master her agitation. When the Queen next addressed her, the Princess was still pale but perfectly composed.

“My daughter, you passed much of your time before you left the Louvre with the Comte la Molle. I know he is highly favoured by my son Anjou. Does his company amuse you?”

Marguerite’s cheeks became scarlet.

“Your Majesty has ever commanded me,” replied she in a firm voice, “to converse with those young nobles whom you and my brother the King have called to the Court.”

“True, my child, you have done so, I acknowledge freely, and, by such gracious bearing you have, doubtless, forwarded his Majesty’s interests.” There was again silence. “Our cousin, the young Duc Henri de Guise, is also much in your company,” Catherine said at length, speaking very slowly and turning her eyes full upon Marguerite who, for an instant, returned her gaze boldly. “I warn you, Marguerite, that neither the King my son, nor I, will tolerate more alliances with the ambitious House of Lorraine. They stand too near the throne already.”

Marguerite during this speech did not look up, not daring to meet the steadfast glance of the Queen.

“Surely,” said she, speaking low, “your Majesty has been prejudiced against the Duke by my brother Charles. His Majesty hates him. He is jealous of him.”

“My child, speak with more respect of his Majesty.”

“Madame, the King has threatened to beat me if I dared to love the Duc de Guise. But I am your Majesty’s own child,” and Marguerite turned towards Catherine caressingly. “I fear not threats.” Catherine smiled and curiously observed her. “But your Majesty surely forgets,” continued Marguerite, warmly, “that our cousin of Guise is the chief pillar of the throne, a hero who, at sixteen, vanquished Coligni at Poitiers; and that at Massignac and Jarnac, in company with my brother Anjou, he performed prodigies of valour.”

“My daughter, I forget nothing. You appear to have devoted much time to the study of the Duke—our cousin’s life. It is a brilliant page in our history. I have, however, other projects for you. You must support the throne by a royal marriage.”

“Oh, madame!” exclaimed Marguerite, heaving a deep sigh, and clasping her hands as she looked imploringly at her mother, who proceeded to address her as though unconscious of this appeal.

“Avoid Henri de Guise, Princess. I have already remonstrated with his father on his uninvited presence here, of which he professes entire ignorance—for he is here, and you know it, Marguerite”—and she shot an angry glance at the embarrassed Princess. “Avoid the Duke, I say, and let me see you attended less often by La Molle, or I must remove him from Court.”

“Madame!” cried Marguerite, turning white, and looking greatly alarmed, well knowing what this removal meant; “I will obey your commands. But whom, may I ask, do you propose for my husband? Unless I can choose a husband for myself”—and she hesitated, for the Queen bent her eyes sternly upon her and frowned—“I do not care to marry at all,” she added in a low voice.

“Possibly you may not, my daughter. But his Majesty and the council have decided otherwise. Your hand must ultimately seal a treaty important to the King your brother, in order to reconcile conflicting creeds and to conciliate a powerful party.”

All this time Marguerite had stood speechless before the Queen. At this last sentence, fatal to her hopes of marrying the Duc de Guise, the leader of the Catholic party, her lips parted as if to speak, but she restrained herself and was silent.

“The daughters of France,” said Catherine, lifting her eyes to the ceiling, “do not consider personal feelings in marriage, but the good of the kingdom. My child, you are to marry very shortly the King of Navarre. I propose journeying myself to the Castle of NÉrac to conclude a treaty with my sister, Queen Jeanne, his mother. Henri de BÉarn will demand your hand. He will be accepted when an alliance is concluded between the Queen of Navarre and myself.”

“But, my mother,” answered Marguerite, stepping forward in her excitement, “he is a heretic. I am very Catholic. Surely your Majesty will not force me——”

“You will convert him,” replied Catherine.

“But, madame, the Prince is not to my taste. He is rough and unpolished. He is a mountaineer—a BÉarnois.”

“My daughter, he will be your husband. Now, Marguerite, listen to me. This marriage is indispensable for reasons of state. The King, your brother, and I myself like the King of Navarre as little as you do. That little kingdom in the valleys of the Pyrenees is a thorn in our side which we must pluck out. Those pestilent and accursed heretics must be destroyed. We call them to our Court; we lodge them in the Louvre—not for love, Marguerite—not for love. Have patience, my daughter. I cannot unfold to you the secrets of the council; but it is possible that Henry of Navarre may not live long. Life is in the hands of God,—and of the King.” She added in a lower voice. “Console yourself. A day is coming that will purge France of Huguenots; and if Henry do not accept the mass——”

“Madame,” said Marguerite, archly (who had eagerly followed her mother’s words), “I trust that the service of his Majesty will not require me to convert the King of Navarre?”

“No, Princess,” said Catherine, with a sinister smile. “My daughter,” continued she, “your dutiful obedience pleases me. The King may, in the event of your marriage, create new posts of honour about the King of Navarre while he lives. Monsieur la Molle, a most accomplished gentleman, shall be remembered. Au revoir, Princess. Send Charlotte de Presney to me. Go to your apartments, and prepare for the masque on the river I have commanded to-night in honour of our arrival.”

So Marguerite, full of thought, curtseying low before her mother, kissed her hand, and retired to her apartments.

As the sun sets and the twilight deepens, torch after torch lights up the river and the adjacent woods. Every window in the chÂteau is illuminated, and the great beacon-fires flash out from the turrets. The sound of a lute, the refrain of a song, a snatch from a hunting-chorus, are borne upon the breeze, as, one by one, painted barges shoot out from under the arches of the bridge along the current.

As night advances the forest on both sides of the river is all ablaze. On the southern bank, where the parterre is divided from the woods by marble balustrades, statues, and hedges of clipped yew, festoons of coloured lamps hang from tree to tree, and fade away into sylvan bowers deep among the tangled coppice. The fountains, cunningly lit from below, flash up in streams of liquid fire. Each tiny streamlet that crosses the mossy lawns is a thread of gold. Tents of satin and velvet, fringed with gold, border broad alleys and marble terraces of dazzling whiteness. The river, bright as at midday with the light of thousands of torches, is covered with gondolas and fantastic barques. Some are shaped like birds—swans, parrots, and peacocks; others resemble shells, and butterflies whose expanded wings of glittering stuff form the sails. All are filled with maskers habited in every device of quaint disguisement. Not a face or form is to be recognised. See how rapidly the fairy fleet cleaves the water, now dashing into deep shadows, now lingering in the torchlight that glances on the rich silks and grotesque features of the maskers. Yonder a whole boat’s crew is entangled among the water lilies that thickly fringe the banks under the over-arching willows. Some disembark among the fountains, or mount the broad marble steps leading to the arcades; some descend to saunter far away into the illuminated woods. Others, tired of the woods, are re-embarking on the river. In the centre of the stream is a barge with a raised platform covered with velvet embroidered in gold, on which are placed the Queen’s musicians, who wake the far-off echoes with joyous symphonies. Beyond, in the woods, are maskers who dance under silken hangings spread among the overhanging branches of giant oaks, or recline upon cushions piled upon rich carpets beside tables covered with choice wines, fruit, and confectionery. The merry laughter of these revellers mixes with strains of voluptuous music from flutes and flageolets, played by concealed musicians placed in pavilion orchestras hidden among the underwood, tempting onwards those who desire to wander into the dark and lonely recesses of the forest.

Among the crowd which thickly gathers on the parterre, a tall man of imposing figure, habited in a Venetian dress of yellow satin and wrapped in a cloak of the same colour, paces up and down. He is alone and impatient. He wears a red mask; conspicuous on his right shoulder is a knot of blue and silver ribbons. As each boat approaches to discharge its gay freight upon the bank he eagerly advances and mixes with the company. Then, as though disappointed, he returns into the shadow thrown by the portico of a shell grotto. Wearied with waiting, he seats himself upon the turf. “She will not come!” he says, and then sinks back against a tree and covers his face with his hands. The fountains throw up columns of fiery spray; the soft music sighs in the distance; crowds of fluttering maskers pace up and down the plots of smooth grass or linger on the terrace—still he sits and waits.

A soft hand touches him, and a sweet voice whispers, “Eternal love!” It is the Princess, who, disguised in a black domino procured by Charlotte de Presney, has escaped from the Queen-mother and stands before him.

For an instant she unmasks and turns her lustrous eyes upon him.

Henri de Guise (for it is he) leaps to his feet. He kneels before her and kisses her hands. “Oh! my Princess, what condescension!” he murmurs, in a low voice. “I trembled lest I had been too bold. I feared that my letter had not reached you.”

A gay laugh answers his broken sentences.

“My cousin, will you promise to take on your soul all the lies I have told my mother in order to meet you?”

“I will absolve you, madame.”

“Ah, my cousin, I have ill news! My mother and the King are determined to marry me to the King of Navarre.”

“Impossible!” exclaims the Duke; “it would be sacrilege!”

“Oh, Henry!” replies the Princess, in a pleading voice, and laying her hand upon his arm, “my cousin, bravest among the brave, swear by your own sword that you will save me from this detestable heretic!”

The Duke did not answer, but gently drew her near the entrance of the grotto. It was now late, and the lights within had grown dim. “Marguerite,” he says, in a voice trembling with passion, “come where I may adore you as my living goddess—come where I may conjure you to give me a right to defend you. Say but one word, and to-morrow I will ask your hand in marriage; the King dare not refuse me.”

“Alas! my cousin, my mother’s will is absolute.”

“It is a vile conspiracy!” cries the Duke, in great agitation. “The House of Lorraine, my Princess, save but for the Crown, is as great as your own. My uncle, the Cardinal, shall appeal to the Holy See. Marguerite, do but love me, and I will never leave you! Marguerite, hear me!” He seizes her hands—he presses her in his arms, drawing her each moment deeper into the recesses of the grotto. As they disappear, a voice is heard without, calling softly—

“Madame! Madame Marguerite! for the love of heaven, come, come!”

In an instant the spell is broken. Marguerite extricates herself from the arms of the Duke and rushes forward.

It is Charlotte de Presney, disguised like herself in a black domino. “Not a moment is to be lost,” she says, hurriedly. “Her Majesty has three times asked for your highness. She supposes I am in the chÂteau seeking you.” Charlotte’s voice is unsteady. She wore her mask to conceal her face, for it was bathed in tears.

In an instant she and the Princess, followed by the Duke, cross the terrace to where a boat is moored under the shade of some willows, and are lost in the crowd.

The Duke dashes into the darkest recesses of the forest, and is seen no more.