‘Leave Blois at once,’ this said. ‘Your life is in imminent danger. Do not spend another night there.’

Guise screwed up the paper in his hands. He was thinking a little of Charlotte and a good deal of death.


* * *

In his apartments Charlotte was waiting for him. She had never been so happy in the whole of her life. Guise was the only man she had ever loved. She was freed from the evil bondage in which Catherine had once held her, for she was no longer young, and in any case the Escadron was breaking up. How could the Queen Mother, so often sick and ailing, keep control over her women? How could she lead them in the hunt? There were some who, from time to time, were commanded to fascinate ministers of state, but age was robbing the Queen Mother of her vitality; and there was much that went on at court of which she knew nothing.

The Baron de Sauves had died two years ago and Charlotte had then married the Marquis de Noirmoutiers. She had not wished for this marriage, but it had been arranged for her by her family and approved by Catherine; she had found that her new husband was not so complaisant as the Baron de Sauves had been. He had threatened to kill Guise unless she ceased to be his mistress; but this she would not do. She sometimes wondered whether her husband would kill her as Villequier had killed his wife; she did not care. Her passion for Guise obsessed her; she was only happy when she was with him.

As he came in she noted that his stern expression changed when he saw her; he was as passionately in need of her as she of him. There were times when he thought of Margot, but he believed that the Margot of today was a different person from the Margot of his youth. He had loved Margot and she had disappointed him; she had allowed her pride to ruin the life they might have had together; he could forgive her most things, but not that which had seemed to him the height of folly. He had turned light-heartedly to Charlotte, and it was this woman—this loose woman of the Escadron—in whom he had found what he sought. It was many years since they had become lovers, but theirs was a devotion which had strengthened. Charlotte had her service to the Queen Mother; Guise had his service to France: these two facts had kept them apart for long periods; but they assured each other that they lived for those times when they were together, and there was truth in this.

Should I lose this, Guise asked himself, on account of plots and schemes to kill me?

But he could not help knowing—although he tried to disguise this fact even from himself—that it was not solely on Charlotte’s account that he stayed.

She embraced him fervently, but she was aware all through the night that he was uneasy, that the sighing of the December winds in the hangings made him start up and sometimes reach for his sword.

As they lay in the darkness she said: ‘Something has happened. You are listening for something . . . waiting . . . For what, my darling?’

‘For an assassin, perhaps.’

She shivered. She knew well that he was constantly in danger, but this could only mean that that danger had moved nearer to him. She would not rest until he had told her of the warnings he had received.

‘You must leave at once,’ she urged him. ‘Tomorrow . No . . . Now. Do not wait until the morning.’

‘It seems as though you would wish to be rid of me.’ ‘I fear for your safety, my dearest.’

‘Ah? he said lightly. ‘Are you sure you are not trying to get rid of me for the sake of another lover?’ And he began to sing the popular, ditty.

‘My little rose, a little spell

Of absence changed that heart of thine . . .’

But she had begun to weep silently. ‘You must go,’ she said. ‘You must.’

To comfort her, he answered: ‘Do not fret, my love. Never fear that I cannot defend myself. To please you, I will go tomorrow.’

But when the morning came he had changed his mind.

‘How can I go?’ he demanded. ‘How do I know when I shall see you again?’

‘Every hour you spend at Blois is a dangerous one. I know it. Go to Paris. You will be safe in Paris.’

‘What!’ he cried. ‘I in Paris! You in Blois! What use is that?’

She was frightened. She realized that he was fully aware of his danger and that he contemplated it with a delight which was beyond bravery. She knew him well, but she had never known him like this before. She had a feeling that he was eager for death.

He met her eyes and a quizzical expression crept into his own. He was aware that he had betrayed his most secret thoughts to the woman who loved him. She knew that the greatest man in the country, as he had seemed to so many, was afraid—of life more than of death. That for which he had longed all his life was almost within his grasp, but he was afraid of the last few steps he must take to reach it. He was half egoist, half idealist; and the two were in conflict. The bravest man in France was afraid—afraid of the price he must pay for the greatness he desired. He could only take the crown when he had murdered the King, and the general who had organized the killing of thousands on the battlefield—like the fastidious aristocrat that he was—shrank from the cold-blooded murder of one useless man.

He had come so far, and he now stood face to face with this murder he must commit; he could not turn back. There was only one road to escape the result of ambition. That was the road to his own death.

Charlotte was looking at him through her tears. ‘You will go?’ she begged. ‘You must leave Blois today.’

‘Later,’ he said. ‘Later.’

And as the day wore on he told her: ‘I will stay tonight and go tomorrow. Just one more night with you and then . . . I promise I will go.’

All through her life Charlotte remembered that day. During the supper they ate together, five notes of warning were brought to him. His cousin, the Duke of Elboeuf, arrived and asked to see him.

‘There is not a moment to lose,’ said Elboeuf. ‘Your horses are ready. Your men are waiting. If you value your life, go at once.’

Charlotte looked at him pleadingly, but he would not see the plea in her eyes.

He said: ‘If I saw Death coming in at the window, I would not go out by the door to avoid it.’

‘This is folly,’ said Elboeuf.

‘My love, he is right,’ said Charlotte. ‘Go . . . go now. Lose not another moment, I beg of you.’

He kissed her hand. ‘My dearest, how could you ask me to leave you? That is more cruel than any assassin’s knife.’

She said angrily: ‘This is no time for foolish gallantry.’

Guise looked from his mistress to his cousin, and answered with deep feeling: ‘He who runs away loses the game. If it be necessary to give my life in order to reap what we have sown. then I shall not regret it.’

Charlotte cried out: ‘You deceive yourself. It is not necessary to give your life. That is the pity of it!’

‘If I had a hundred lives,’ he went on as though she had not spoken, ‘I would devote them to preserving the Catholic faith in France and to the relief of the poor people for whom my heart bleeds. Go to your bed, cousin. And leave us to ours.’

Elboeuf, shrugging his shoulders in exasperation, eventually retired.

‘You are determined?’ asked Charlotte.

He nodded. ‘No more of death,’ he said. let it be life and love from now on.’

But when they were in bed, yet another messenger was brought to the bedchamber. He had a note for Guise which he had been ordered to hand to none other than the Duke himself, and that with all speed.

Guise read it and pushed it under the bolster.

‘Another warning?’ asked Charlotte fearfully.

He kissed her, but refused to answer.


* * *

The morning was dark and the rain beat against the windows of the Château of Blois. Catherine, racked with pain, lay in her bed. The King had risen early; he had urgent matters which demanded his attention. Guise did not awaken until eight o’clock. Then he raised himself and looked down on his Fleep-ing mistress.

Today there would be more warnings; today he would be asked to leave for Paris. All his friends would beg him to go, and Charlotte would join her appeals to theirs.

He shrugged his shoulders and got out of bed.

He put on a new grey satin suit in which he would attend the meeting of the council that morning. Charlotte, watching him, tried to chase away her fears. She found this easier by day, even on such a dark and gloomy day as this one was.

‘You like it?’ he asked, posing before her, speaking lightly, trying to cheer her.

‘Charming! But it is a little light for such a dark day, you will agree?’

He kissed her. ‘Charlotte, I am going to ask you to do something for me.’

‘Anything I can do for you I will gladly do.’

‘Then do not ask me today to leave Blois.’

‘But you said you would leave today.’

‘To ride through the rain, to spend the night at some gloomy chateau when I might spend it with you?’

She put her arms about him and laughed, because it was easy to laugh in the light of day; and when she looked at him, so much taller than all others, so much more distinguished than any man she had ever seen, she believed him to be invulnerable.

He was late for the meeting. As he walked through the corridors he seemed to sense the doom which lurked there. He felt a little cold, but he would not admit that was due to apprehension. It is a chilly morning, he thought.

He turned to one of the gentlemen who stood in the hall. ‘Go to the staircase door,’ he said, ‘and there you will see one of my pages. Ask him to bring me a handkerchief.’