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.