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.’