His friends assured him that he had not been to blame. ‘Others were responsible. There was nothing you could have done to prevent it.’

But if Anjou lacked courage, he did not lack imagination, and those pictures recalled too many memories for his peace of mind. There was no sleep for him that night. He lay tossing and turning on his bed, calling to his friends not to sleep, but to talk to him, amuse him. He had them snuff out the candles; then he had them relighted. He could not make up his mind whether he would rather see the pictures or imagine them springing to life in the darkness.

A few hours before dawn, he got up. ‘I cannot rest,’ he said, ‘and I do not think I ever shall until I have written down what happened on that night. The world should know. So, I will write a confession. I will not excuse myself, for I am as guilty as most, of that horrible crime. I will write now . . . this instant. I cannot bear to wait.’

When writing material had been brought to him, he took one of the lighted candles and opened the door of a closet.

‘I shall write in here,’ he said, ‘and by the time I have finished, perhaps it will be morning. Then we will leave this place and ride on to Cracow with all speed.’

He stared, and fell backwards. It seemed to him that a man stood in the closet, a tall man of noble countenance, who looked down on him with stern and haughty eyes.

‘Coligny!’ screamed Anjou, and he fell on his knees, dropping the candle, which was extinguished. ‘Oh . . . Coligny . . .’ he gasped, ‘come back from the dead . . . to haunt me . . .’

His friends rushed to him, bearing lights. They grew pale when they saw what Anjou had seen. Some covered their eyes with a hand to shut out the vision. But one man, bolder than the rest, lifted his candle high and looked full into the face of what the others had believed to be the Admiral’s ghost.

‘Mon Dieu!’ he cried. ‘It is the Admiral to the very life. But . . . it is only a picture.’

Anjou went back to the main apartment, and spent the rest of the night in writing what he called his confession.

The next day he left the town in haste; he had no wish to-stay in a land where such cruel tricks were played upon him.

But he had learned something. The massacre of St. Bartholomew would never be forgotten while men lived on Earth, and those who had taken part in it would be held in horror and dismay by countless millions of their fellow men.

Anjou was in a high fever by the time he reached Cracow.


* * *

Margot was restless. Her love affair with Monsieur Léran, who had been so charmingly grateful since she had saved his life on the night of the massacre, was palling; and Margot was discovering that, although she could remain faithful to Monsieur de Guise for years, she could not be so for long to any other. At times she still hankered after the handsome Duke, and she would have taken him back but for his attachment to Charlotte de Sauves. She knew Charlotte too well; Charlotte never released a man until she was tired of him, and Margot had an idea that Charlotte was going to love Guise as constantly as she herself had. Surprisingly, it seemed that Charlotte could be in love, for she had changed, growing more softly beautiful; and Margot, sensing this had a good deal to do with Henry of Guise, was jealous, but her pride remained stronger than her jealousy.

She knew that in refusing to allow herself to be divorced from Navarre and married to Guise she had wounded her former lover deeply. He would never, she knew, forgive the slight; he would remember it against her as he had remembered his father’s death against Coligny. He no longer looked her way; he no longer sent those appealing and tender glances towards her. If he noticed her at all, it was to let her know how deeply absorbed he was in his new love affair, how delightful he found Charlotte de Sauves.

Dissatisfied, jealous and bored, Margot looked about her for fresh excitement. Perhaps she needed a new lover. But who was there? There was none who specially pleased her; if she selected one for his charming manners, for his handsome face, she would, before she realized what she was doing, find herself comparing him with Henry of Guise, and there would begin once more that battle between desire and pride.

She supposed it was not too late to ask for that divorce and to marry him. He would undoubtedly consent; it was ambition first with Monsieur de Guise; but should she marry him to satisfy his ambitions? And what if he continued his liaison with Charlotte de Sauves after their marriage!

No, she had sworn to have finished with Henry of Guise, and finished she had. She must find another lover, or some excitement. But now . . . what excitement was there? Masques, ballets . . . all commonplace to her; she could no longer be excited by a new gown, by a new wig or an exaggerated hairstyle. As for lovers, she must first be in love; and how could she fall in love at will?

It was while she was in this state of restlessness that one of her women, Madame de Moissons, who had always been anxious to serve her since Margot had saved her husband’s life at the time of the massacre, came to her and asked if she might have a word with her in private.

Madame de Moissons, who had suffered great mental torture when the life of her husband had been at stake, was a woman who lived in continual terror of further risings; it was this fear Which had now caused her to seek the help of Margot.

‘I would speak with Your Majesty alone,’ she said, ‘if you would grant me that honour.’

Margot, guessing from the woman’s demeanour that she was deeply perturbed, immediately granted the request.

When they were alone, Madame de Moissons burst out: ‘I do not know if I do right in telling you what I have discovered, but I think Your Majesty may know how to act. It concerns the King of Navarre and the Duke of Alençon. They plan to escape, join a Huguenot force and take the offensive against the Catholic army.’

‘They cannot be so foolish.’

‘Indeed yes, Madame. That is what they plan. Madame, can you plead with them, stop them? They will plunge France into civil war once more. There will be more bloodshed and when it starts who knows where it will end?’

‘They are like irresponsible children,’ said Margot. ‘And when is this plot to be put into effect?’

‘As soon as is possible, Madame. But the King of Navarre finds it difficult to tear himself away from Madame de Sauves, to whom, as you know, he is deeply attracted.’

Margot was seized with a jealous fury, but she managed to say calmly to Madame de Moissons: ‘Leave this to me. I will see that this plot is foiled.’

‘Madame, I would not care to bring trouble on the King of Navarre, who has always been so good to my husband.’

‘He will be safe enough,’ said Margot; and she dismissed the woman.

When she was alone she threw herself on to her bed and thumped the cushions angrily. She, Marguerite, the Princess of France and the Queen of Navarre had, she considered, been most vilely used. Her lover had deserted her for Madame de Sauves; and her stupid husband made dangerous plots and then hesitated to put them into action for love of the same woman. Henry of Guise had sworn to love her for ever and it seemed as though he had forgotten her; she and her husband were to have been allies, if not lovers, and he, with Alençon, had made this plot without her knowledge. She did not know who angered her most—Guise, Navarre or Charlotte de Sauves.

She acted impulsively as she always acted; and, rising from her bed, she went to the King.

He was with their mother and she asked if she might speak with them alone.

‘I have discovered a plot,’ she said.

They were alert. Neither of them trusted her, but they could see that she was not only excited but angry.

‘Tell us, my dear,’ said Catherine, and the sound of her mother’s voice sobered Margot. What was she doing? She was betraying her husband and her brother. She took fright. She had no wish to harm either of them; she discovered in that moment that she was quite fond of them both.

She temporized. ‘If I tell you what I have discovered, will you promise me that no harm shall come to the two people who are most deeply involved?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Catherine.

‘Charles,’ said Margot, ‘I want your word. I have discovered something which it is my duty to tell you, but I cannot do so until you promise me, on your sacred honour as King of France, that you will not harm those two involved’

‘I give my word,’ said the King.

Catherine smiled sardonically. So her word was not good enough! It seemed that all her children were banding together against her.

‘My husband and Alençon plan to escape from Paris, to join their friends and form an army which they intend to use against yours.’

The King began to sweat, his fingers to twitch,

‘You have proof of this?’ asked Catherine.

‘No. I have only heard of it. If you search their apartments, doubtless you will find evidence.’

‘We will have their apartments searched at once,’ said Catherine. ‘You have done well, daughter.’

‘And your promise not to harm them is not forgotten?’

‘My dear Marguerite, do you think I would hurt my own son and him who has become my son through his marriage with you . . . mischievous as they may be! Now, there is no time to be lost.’

Catherine was as energetic as ever. She made Navarre and Alençon her prisoners as a result of what she discovered; but they were not confined to dungeons, and continued to live, under guard, at the palace.