He could not help but be aware of the strangeness about him, of the fear in the faces of his friends. It seemed that a long time elapsed before one of his valets brought the handkerchief to him.

‘How cold it is!’ he said. ‘Light the fire. I feel quite faint with the cold. Is there some trifle in the cupboard which might revive me?’

One of the men opened the King’s cupboard and found in it four Brignolles plums.

Guise ate one of these. ‘Would anyone care to eat some?’ he asked.

One of the King’s men appeared at the door of the chamber; the man looked pale and his hands were trembling.

‘Monsieur,’ he said, bowing to Guise, ‘the King requests your presence; he is in his old cabinet.’

The man did not wait for a reply, but rushed away unceremoniously. Guise’s friends looked at him; their glances warned him, but he would not see the warning.

He threw his cloak over his arm, and, picking up his gloves, walked to the door which led to the King’s apartments.


* * *

The King was aroused early that morning. He had many preparations to make, and he had asked to be called at four o’clock.

The Queen, who was with him, looked at him in bewilderment for the candlelight showed how pale he was and yet how purposeful; he took no pains with his appearance that morning.

He went into his privy closet, where forty-five men were waiting for him, as he had instructed they should. Inspecting them all closely, he ordered them to show him their daggers. There was a long time to wait, for he had risen too early. There would have been enough time to make his preparations had he been called at six. Standing there, speaking now and then in whispers, he was reminded of the Eve of St Bartholomew. He thought of his priests and pastors who Were already praying to Heaven for forgiveness for the crime which he had not yet committed.

He had had the corridors cleared so that none of the Duke’s supporters might be near him, for he was terrified that his plan might miscarry, and of what might happen if it did. One of them had to die—the King of France or the King of Paris—and, as he saw it, the one who survived would be the one who struck first.

One of his men came hurrying in with great agitation. He told the King that the Duke was in the council chamber, but that he had sent one of his gentlemen for a handkerchief, and this gentleman would discover that the corridors and staircases, on the King’s orders, had been cleared of the Duke’s followers, and would guess the reason. If he carried this story to Guise, the latter would know at once that his assassination was to take place this morning.

The King gave hurried orders. ‘When the valet approaches with the handkerchief, seize him, make him prisoner and bring the handkerchief to me.’

This was done. The King’s hand trembled as he held it out to take the handkerchief. It was neatly folded and, inside it was a hastily scrawled note:

‘Sauvez-vous, ou vous êtes mort.’

The King felt elated. His prompt action had been a wise one. He took the note and handed the handkerchief to one of his serving men—a humble man who would not be known to the Guisards in the chamber.

‘Take this,’ said the King. ‘Knock on the door of the council chamber and hand it to the nearest gentleman. Keep yourself hidden as much as possible and murmur that it is the handkerchief for which the Duke asked; then hurry away.’

It was done as the King ordered, and the gentleman who received the handkerchief did not realize that he who had given it had been one of the King’s men.

The time was at hand. The King looked at his men. Were they ready? he asked them; and their answer was to lay their hands on their daggers.

‘Révol,’ said the King to one of his secretaries, ‘go to the council chamber, knock on the door and tell the Duke of Guise that I wish to see him in my old cabinet. What is the matter, man? Do not look like that. You are the colour of parchment and you shake like a leaf in the wind. Pull yourself together. You will betray us all.’

Révol departed.

The King retired to his bedchamber, and in the old cabinet, the assassins, their daggers unsheathed, awaited the coming of the Duke of Guise.


* * *

Guise walked through the little doorway into. the King’s apart- ments. One of King’s guards shut the door behind him. As the Duke entered the old cabinet, a man who was standing by the door lurched forward suddenly and trod on Guise’s foot. Guise looked into the man’s face, immediately recognizing the look of warning there, and he knew that this was a last appeal to save himself. He was certain now that he was in acute danger, and with this knowledge came agreat desire to preserve his life. Perhaps when he had contemplated death so light-heartedly he had not seriously thought that the King would dare attempt to take his life; but as he stood in the gloomy cabinet he realized that men like Henry the Third will suddenly and recklessly throw off their hesitancy and act rashly.

He heard a movement behind him and turned; but he was too late. They had already plunged their daggers into his back.

He said on a faint note of surprise: ‘My friends . . . my friends . . .’

He felt for his sword, but it had become entangled in his cloak. He reeled, and one of the assassins struck him in the chest. His blood gushed forth, staining the new grey satin as he sank to the floor of the old cabinet.

He was not yet dead, and dying seemed to acquire the strength of two men. He had one of the assassins by the throat, and managed to crawl, dragging the man with him, across the floor of the cabinet.

‘The King . . . awaits me . . .’ he gasped. ‘I . . . will go to the King.’

And with an effort which astonished those who had stabbed him he dragged himself into the King’s bedchamber, and it was not until he reached the state bed that he collapsed and lay stretched out while his blood stained the King’s carpet.

‘My God,’ he muttered. ‘My God . . . have mercy on me.’

He lay still and the King came to look at him, while the murderers with their bloodstained daggers came to stand beside the King.

‘Is he dead?’ whispered the King.

One of the men knelt beside the Duke and opened the bloodstained coat.

‘He is dead, Sire. The glorious King of Paris is no more.’ The King touched Guise lightly with his foot.

‘There lies the man who wished to be King of France,’ he said. You see, my friends, where his ambition has led him. My God, how tall he is! He seems even taller now that he is dead than he did when he was living.’ Then he began to laugh. ‘Ah, my friends,’ he went on, ‘you have only one King to rule you now, and I am he.’


* * *

A little later the King went to his mother’s apartments. She lay very still in her bed. The King was now gorgeously dressed, his face freshly painted, his hair exquisitely curled; he was smiling.

‘How are you this morning, my dear mother?’ he asked.

She smiled painfully. She hated to admit how ill she felt; always despising illness in others, she had no wish to complain of her own; she never gave sympathy and she expected none.

‘I am improving, thank you,’ she said. ‘I expect to be about again very soon. I am tired of lying abed. And how is Your Majesty?’

‘Ah, very well, Madame. Very well, indeed. There is a reason.’

‘A reason?’ She raised herself a little and tried not to wince from the pain in her limbs.

‘Yes, Madame. I am truly the King of France this day, for there is no longer a King of Paris.’

She had grown pale. ‘My son, what do you mean?’

‘He died this morning?’

‘Died! Died . . . of what?’

‘Of loyal thrusts, Madame. The friends of the King removed his enemy.’

She lost control. She was weak from her pain and unaccustomed inaction. She said shrilly: ‘You mean you have killed Guise?’

‘You do not seem pleased, Madame. I had forgotten he was a favourite of yours.’

She cried out: ‘Oh, my son, where will this end? What have you done? Do you not know what you have done?’

‘I know that I am the true King of France now, and that is all I care.’

‘Make sure,’ she said grimly, ‘that you are not soon the King of nothing at all.’

His eyes glinted. ‘I understand, Madame. You grieve for your very dear friend!’

‘I have no friends. I have only my devotion to you.’

‘Yet that devotion sets you weeping for my enemies?’

‘Enemy he was, my son; but there are some enemies who must be allowed to live. You have done murder.’

The King laughed aloud. ‘You, Madame, to accuse me of murder! How often during your lifetime have you done murder?’

She sat up in bed; her eyes were tired and quite expressionless. Not foolish murder,’ she said; ‘never foolish murder. You have killed a man whom Paris loved. I pray that Paris will forgive you.’

The King was bordering on hysteria. ‘You dare to talk thus to me! If I have learned to murder, from whom did I learn? Who is the most notorious murderess in France?’

‘You do not learn your lessons well, my son,’ she answered wearily. ‘But what is done is done. God grant that no ill will come of it.’ She was weeping from very weakness, but she quickly controlled her tears. ‘You should not be here. You must take Orleans at once. You must not give them a chance to arm against you. Oh, my son, what will Paris do? You dare not show yourself in Paris. I beg of you, inform the Legate: She lay back on her pillows. ‘Holy Mother of God!’ she murmured. ‘Where will this end? I cannot say. I only know that what I have worked for all my life lies in ruins about me. Where are my children? Only two left to me! My daughter, a runaway, a wanton wife! My son, the King of France, but for, how long? Oh, God, how long?’