‘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