Queen Margot; Or, Marguerite de Valois - With Nine Illustrations

By Alexandre Dumas

This vintage book contains a classic historical romance by the author of "The Three Musketeers". This gripping and action-packed romance will greatly appeal to anyone who has read and enjoyed Alexandre Dumas's other works, and is one not to be missed by the discerning collector of antiquarian literature. The chapters of this book include: "The Latin of M. De Guise", "Queen Margot's Bed-Chamber", "The Poet King", "The Evening of the 24th August", "The Massacres", "The Assassins", "The Hawthorn", "Confidences", "How it Comes About That Certain Keys Open Doors for Which they Were Not Intended", etcetera. Alexandre Dumas (1802 - 1870) was a famous French writer whose books have been translated into almost 100 languages, and he remains one of the most widely read French authors of all time. Other famous works by this author include: "The Count of Monte Cristo" and "Twenty Years After". We are republishing this vintage work now in an affordable, modern edition, complete with a specially commissioned new biography of the author.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Read Books Ltd.
• Release date: Apr 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781473393042

Alexandre Dumas

Alexandre Dumas (1802-1870), one of the most universally read French authors, is best known for his extravagantly adventurous historical novels. As a young man, Dumas emerged as a successful playwright and had considerable involvement in the Parisian theater scene. It was his swashbuckling historical novels that brought worldwide fame to Dumas. Among his most loved works are The Three Musketeers (1844), and The Count of Monte Cristo (1846). He wrote more than 250 books, both Fiction and Non-Fiction, during his lifetime.

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pictures.

QUEEN MARGOT;

OR, MARGUERITE DE VALOIS.

CHAPTER I.

THE LATIN OF M. DE GUISE.

MONDAY, the eighteenth day of August, 1572, was kept as a great holiday at the Louvre.

The windows of the ancient royal residence, generally so gloomy, were brilliantly illuminated; the adjacent streets and open places, usually so deserted after the clock of St. Germain l’Auxerrois struck nine, were, despite the hour of midnight, crowded.

The whole of this seething, menacing, and noisy crowd resembled, in the darkness, a sombre and broken sea, of which every swell helped to make a huge wave; this sea spreading over the whole quay, overflowed through the Rue des Fossés-Saint-Germain, and through the Rue de l’Astruce, hurling itself on the one hand against the walls of the Louvre, and on the other against the Hôtel de Bourbon opposite, like the ebb and flow of waters.

There was, despite the royal fête, and perhaps because of the royal fête, something menacing in the attitude of this crowd; they had no idea that this solemnity, at which they were now present as spectators, was but the prelude to another event, which was adjourned for a week, and to which this same assemblage would be specially invited and allowed to exhibit the vengeful feelings of their hearts.

The court was celebrating the marriage—the wedding of Madame Marguerite de Valois, daughter of Henri II. and sister of King Charles IX., with Henri of Bourbon, King of Navarre. That very morning the Cardinal de Bourbon had united the young couple, with all the ceremonial which was wont to be observed at the marriages of the daughters of France, on a platform erected in front of Notre-Dame.

The marriage had surprised everybody, and given much thoughtful pre-occupation to those who could see a little ahead of other people; they could not understand the unexpected union between two parties so hateful to each other as were then the Catholics and Protestants; and it was asked how could the Prince of Condé forgive the Duc of Anjou, brother of the king, the assassination of his father at Jarnac, by Montesquiou; it was asked how the young Duc de Guise could forgive Admiral Coligny for the death of his father, murdered at Orleans by Poltrot de Méré. More than that, Jeanne de Navarre, the brave wife of the feeble-minded Antoine de Bourbon, who had brought his son Henry to the royal betrothal, had been scarcely dead two months, and most sinister rumours were afloat as to this sudden death.

It was said in low and whispered tones everywhere, and in some instances quite loudly, that she had discovered a terrible secret, and that Catherine de Médicis, fearing its revelation, had poisoned her with sweet-smelling gloves, prepared for her by René, a Florentine very skilled in such matters. This rumour was all the more accredited, because after the death of the great queen, at the peremptory demand of her son, two doctors, one of whom was the famous Ambrose Paré, were authorised to open the body, but not to examine the brain. As it was well known it was through the sense of smell that Jeanne d’Albret had been poisoned, the brain, where alone any trace of the crime could have been detected, was excluded from the autopsy. We use the word crime, as there could be no doubt a crime had been committed.

This was not all: King Charles had shown in reference to this marriage a persistence almost amounting to obstinacy, only to be explained by the circumstance of its restoring peace to his kingdom, while it brought to Paris all the leading Huguenots of France. As the betrothed belonged, one to the Catholic religion, the other to the reformed faith, it had been necessary to apply to Pope Gregory XIII. for a dispensation, he then occupying the seat of St. Peter. The dispensation was unexpectedly delayed, which very much vexed the ex-Queen, so much so that she expressed her feelings to the King. The answer was as follows:—Be net uneasy, my good aunt; I think more of you than of the Pope. Moreover I love my sister more than I fear the Pope. I am not a Huguenot, neither am I a fool. If the Pope is foolish enough to hesitate, I will take my sister Margot by the hand and lead her to be married to your son, even in one of your own conventicles.

These words were soon known both in the palace and the city, and while they highly delighted the Huguenots, had made the Catholics very thoughtful; they asked themselves in low accents if the King were not betraying them, or was only playing a part which some fine day would have an unexpected ending.

It was in reference to Admiral Coligny above all—he who had so persistently opposed the King—that the conduct of Charles IX. appeared inexplicable. After putting a price on his head of one hundred and fifty thousand écus d’or, the King swore only by him, called him his father, and openly stated that in future he should confide the management of the war wholly to him. The matter became so serious, that Catherine de Médicis herself, who hitherto regulated the actions, the will, and even the desires of the young Prince, appeared really uneasy, and not causelessly, for Charles IX., in a moment of affectionate effusion, had said to the Admiral, in reference to the Flanders war:—

There is one thing we must be careful of, my father, and that is that the queen-mother, who is always interfering where she is not wanted, should know nothing about this enterprise: we must therefore keep it a secret, so that she may suspect nothing, for, meddler as she is, she would spoil all.

However wise and experienced Admiral Coligny was on ordinary occasions, he could not wholly keep secret so great a mark of confidence, and though he himself had come to Paris with great misgivings, though before his departure from Châtillon a peasant girl had thrown herself at his feet, exclaiming—Oh, Monsieur! our good master, do not go to Paris, for if you do so, you will perish, you and yours. These doubts had gradually been lulled in the mind of himself and Teligny, his son-in-law, to whom the King also showed himself most friendly, calling him brother, as he called the admiral his father, addressing him with the affectionate familiarity of an old friend.

The Huguenots, except one or two obstinately suspicious members of the party, were perfectly satisfied; the death of the Queen of Navarre was allowed to have been caused by an attack of pleurisy, and the vast chambers of the Louvre were filled by all those worthy Protestants to whom the marriage of their young chief Henri indicated a wholly unexpected return of good fortune. Admiral Coligny, la Rochefoucault, the younger Prince de Condé, Teligny, all the chiefs of the party, heartily rejoiced to see all powerful at the Louvre, and so welcome in Paris, those whom three months before King Charles and Queen Catherine wanted to hang on gallows loftier than those of the commonest assassins. The Maréchal de Montmorency was the only one who was looked for in vain among his brothers, for no promise had availed to seduce him; nothing appeared able to deceive him, and he remained retired in his castle of Isle-Adam, giving, as reason for his seclusion, the grief caused by the death of his father the Constable, Anne de Montmorency, shot by Robert Stuart at the battle of Saint-Denis. As this event had happened about three years before, and sensitiveness was not a virtue very much practised in those days, this prolonged mourning was looked upon by every body according to his own private feelings.

Everything seemed to prove the Maréchal de Montmorency wrong; the King, the Queen, the Dukes of Anjou and of Alençon doing the honours of the fête right royally.

The Duke d’Anjou received from the Huguenots themselves well-merited compliments as to the battles of Jarnac and Moncontour, which he had won before reaching the age of eighteen, in this more precocious than either Cæsar or Alexander, to whom he was of course freely compared, to the disadvantage of the conquerors of Issus and Pharsalia. The Duke of Alençon watched all this by-play with his bland, false look. Queen Catherine was radiant with joy, and with the utmost graciousness complimented Prince Henri of Condé on his recent marriage with Marie de Clèves; even MM. de Guise themselves smiled upon the formidable enemies of their house, and the Duke de Mayenne discoursed with M. de Tavannes and the Admiral upon the coming war which more than ever it was determined to wage against Philip II.

Amidst these groups, hurrying here, there, and everywhere, was a young man, his head bent slightly on one side, his ears open to every sound, a young man of nineteen, with a keen eye, black hair cut very short, thick eye-brows, a nose hooked like that of an eagle, with a mocking smile, incipient beard and moustache. This young man, who had hitherto only distinguished himself at the skirmish of Arnay-le-duc, where he had bravely risked his person, and who was complimented wherever he went, was the well-beloved pupil of Coligny, the hero of the hour. Three months before, during his mother’s life, he was the Prince de Béarn, he was now known as King of Navarre, until he should be called Henry IV.

Every now and then a gloomy, almost imperceptible cloud, passed over his brow; doubtless he was thinking of that mother dead only so short a time, poisoned as he firmly believed. But the cloud was evanescent and disappeared like a summer shadow, for those who spoke to him, those who congratulated him, those who came in personal contact with him, were the very persons who had assassinated the brave Jeanne d’Albret.

A few paces apart from the King of Navarre, almost as pensive, almost as uneasy as the other affected to be joyous and light-hearted, was the young Duke de Guise, talking with Teligny. More fortunate than the Béarnais, at two and twenty his renown nearly equalled that of his father, the great François de Guise. He was a most accomplished nobleman, tall of stature, with a proud and haughty aspect, and gifted with that natural majesty which caused people to remark that beside him other princes looked commonplace. Young as he was, the Catholics looked upon him as the chief of their party, just as the Huguenots saw theirs in young Henry of Navarre, whose portrait we have just drawn. He had formerly borne the title of Prince de Joinville, and had for the first time fought at the siege of Orleans, under his father, who died in his arms, while indicating the Admiral as his assassin. Then, like Hannibal, the young duke took a solemn oath, which was to avenge the death of his father on the Admiral and on his family, to follow up those of his religion without truce or mercy, having vowed to God to be his exterminating angel upon earth, as long as one Huguenot remained to be destroyed. It was, therefore, not without intense surprise that one saw this prince, generally so faithful to his word, holding out his hands to those whom he had sworn to regard as his mortal foes, and speaking to the son-in-law of the man whose death he had sworn to his dying father to compass.

But, as we have already said, this was an evening of surprises.

In fact, with that knowledge of the future which fortunately man does not possess, that faculty of reading hearts, which unhappily only is possessed by God, the privileged observer, to whom it had been given to be present at this festival, would have enjoyed one of the most curious spectacles ever furnished by the annals of the great drama of life.

But this keen observer, who was not to be found in the galleries of the Louvre, continued from without to look on with his fiercely flaring eyes, and to growl with its most menacing voice; but this observer was the people, who, with their marvellous instinct sharpened by hatred, followed from afar off the shadows of their implacable enemies, and could understand what was going on as clearly as any outsiders ever did, who watched a ball from without. Music intoxicates and rules the dancer, while the looker-on laughs as he sees figures moving about without reason, for he, the looker-on, hears not the music.

The music which intoxicated the Huguenots was the echo of their own pride.

The fierce gleams which flashed from the eyes of the Parisians in the middle of the night, were but the lights of their hatred illuminating the future.

And all smiled brightly within, and a murmur more soft and more flattering than ever, was at that moment permeating the Louvre. The young fiancée, after changing her official costume, her long cloak and still longer veil, had returned to the ball-room, accompanied by the beautiful Duchess de Nevers, her best friend, and led forward by her brother King Charles IX., who presented her to his principal guests.

This fiancée was the daughter of Henry II., the pearl of the crown of France, that Marguerite de Valois, who in his loving tenderness the King always called my sister Margot.

Certainly never was reception, however flattering it might be, more deserved than that which was then made to the new queen of Navarre. Marguerite at that period was scarcely twenty years of age, and already was the subject of poetical praises, the writers comparing her some to Aurora, others to Cytheria. She was indeed the unrivalled beauty of the court where Catherine de Médicis had collected together, as her attendant sirens, all the beautiful women she could find. She had black hair, a dazzling complexion, and voluptuous eyes, veiled by long lashes, a delicate and vermilion mouth, a charming neck, a rich and supple form, and, nearly concealed in a satin slipper, a child’s foot.

The French who owned her were proud to see bloom on their soil such a magnificent flower; and foreigners who passed through France, returned home dazzled with her beauty if they had only seen her, amazed at her learning if spoken with her. Marguerite was indeed not only the most beautiful, but the most accomplished woman of her time, and a saying of a learned Italian was quoted, who, having spoken to her for an hour in Italian, Spanish, Greek, and Latin, had left her, saying with enthusiasm, To see the court without seeing Marguerite de Valois is not to have seen France or the court.

Speeches were not wanting on their arrival, addressed both to Charles IX. and the Queen of Navarre. The Huguenots were always great spouters. Many allusions to the past, many demands for the future, were cunningly added—to the address of the king—in these harangues, but to all these allusions he made but one answer, with his thin pale lips and his cunning smile. In giving my sister Margot to Henry of Navarre, I give her to all the Protestants in the kingdom.

Words which reassured some and caused others to smile, for the sentence had two meanings: the one paternal, and in which all could conscientiously believe; the other injurious for the wife, for the husband, and for the speaker, for it reminded all of the scandalous rumours with which the chronicles of the court had already found means to soil the nuptial robe of Marguerite de Valois.

Nevertheless M. de Guise spoke affably (as we have said before) with Teligny; but he did not devote so much attention to the conversation as to prevent his looking around occasionally at the group of ladies, in the centre of which shone the Queen of Navarre. Every time the look of the princess met that of the young duke, a cloud seemed to darken that charming brow, around which diamond stars formed a trembling aureole, and some uncertain project seemed to be indicated by her impatient and uncertain attitude.

The Princess Claude, elder sister of Marguerite, who had for some years been married to the Duke of Lorraine, had remarked this uneasiness, and was approaching her to demand the cause of it, when every one making way for the queen-mother, who was advancing leaning on the arm of the young Prince de Condé, the princess found herself separated from her sister. There was then a general movement in the room, of which the Duc de Guise availed himself to get nearer his sister-in-law Madame de Nevers, and consequently nearer to Marguerite. Madame de Lorraine, who had never taken her eyes off the young queen, then saw, in place of the heavy cloud on the brow, a burning flush upon her cheeks. The duke meanwhile kept on advancing, and when but two yards from Marguerite, she, who seemed to feel rather than see him, turned round, making a violent effort to assume a calm and careless look. The duke then saluted her respectfully, and while bowing low, said in a half whisper.

"Ipse attuli, which meant, I have brought it myself."

Marguerite bowed to the young duke in return, and then, as she raised her head, answered.

"Noctu pro more; which meant to-night as usual."

These softly spoken words were so absorbed in the enormous collar, as by the mouth of a speaking trumpet, that no one heard them but the person to whom they were addressed; but brief as had been the dialogue, it was doubtless all these young people had to say to one another, for after this exchange of two words to the other’s three, they separated, Marguerite, her brow more thoughtful than ever, while the duke was more radiant than before they met. This little scene had taken place without the man who was most interested in the matter appearing to pay the slightest attention to it, for on his side the King of Navarre had no thought but for one person, who had collected around her a court almost as numerous as that of Marguerite de Valois, and that person was the beautiful Madame de Sauve.

Charlotte de Beanne-Semblançay, grand-daughter of the unfortunate Semblançay, and wife of Simon de Fizes, baron de Sauve, was one of the ladies in waiting to Catherine de Médicis, and one of the most terrible of that queen’s auxiliaries who poured into the chalice of her foes the philtre of love, when she dared not present them with Florentine poison. Small in form, face, and in turns sparkling with vivacity or languishing with sadness, always ready for love or intrigue, the two mighty affairs which for fifty years had almost exclusively been the court business of three successive kings. A woman in the full acceptation of the word, and charming as ever woman was, from her blue eye, alternately flashing and languishing, to her arched and pretty feet shown by her velvet slippers, Madame de Sauve, for many months past, had dominated all the faculties of the King of Navarre, just entering on the threshold of both his amorous and political career. So great was her influence, that Marguerite de Navarre, with all her royal and magnificent beauty, had not even awakened admiration in the heart of her husband; and what seemed strange, arousing the surprise of all, even of those who understood that soul so full of gloom and mystery, was that Catherine de Médicis, while steadfastly keeping in view the union of her daughter with the King of Navarre, had not thought proper to disfavour the almost transparent amour between the prince and Madame de Sauve. But despite this powerful support and the easy manners of the times, the beautiful Charlotte had hitherto been unyielding; and from this resistance, novel, incredible, and without precedent, more than from the wit and beauty of his beautiful enslaver, there had arisen in the heart of the Béarnais a passion, which, being ungratified, had overcome in the young king’s soul all timidity, pride, and even that half philosophical, half idle carelessness, which was the basis of his character.

Madame de Sauve had only just entered the ball-room: whether from vexation or grief, she had at first decided not to grace her rival’s triumph, and under the excuse of illness, had allowed her husband, who had been for five years secretary of state, to go alone to the Louvre. But perceiving the Baron de Sauve without his wife, Catherine de Médicis had inquired into the causes of the absence of her well-beloved Charlotte, and learning that it was only a slight indisposition, had written her a few words summoning her to her side—which command was at once obeyed, Henri, though saddened at first by her absence, had reathed more freely when he saw M. de Sauve enter alone; but at the very moment when he was about to join the amiable being he was expected, if not to love, to look on as a wife, he suddenly saw Madame de Sauve at the end of the gallery. He at once remained fixed to the spot he occupied, his eyes fixed upon the Circe to whom he was chained as by magic links, and instead of advancing as he had intended towards his wife, with a hesitating manner which partook more of astonishment than fear, he hastened to the side of Madame de Sauve.

The courtiers, noticing that the King of Navarre, whose inflammable heart was well known to all was hastening to join the beautiful Charlotte, had no inclination to oppose their meeting; they moved complacently on one side, so that at that very moment Marguerite de Valois and M. de Guise were able to exchange those few words in Latin which we have already recorded. As soon as Henri was beside Madame de Sauve he commenced a much less mysterious conversation in excellent French, but with a strong Gascon accent.

So my dear, he cried, just as I was told you were ill, and I had lost all hope of seeing you, you have reappeared.

Does your Majesty, answered Madame de Sauve, wish me to believe yourself much affected by this abandonment of hope?

"Sang-diou! I am sure of it, responded the Béarnais. Do you not know that you are my sun by day and my star by night. I thought myself in the most profound obscurity, when you suddenly appeared and all was light."

I have then done you a very evil turn, Monseigneur.

"What do you mean, ma mie," asked Henri.

When one possesses the most beautiful wife in France, one should only desire the light to vanish, for in obscurity happiness awaits you.

Happiness, wicked one, as you know, is held in the hands of one person, and that person mocks and laughs at poor Henri!

I should have thought, on the other hand, responded the Baroness, that the person alluded to was the laughing-stock of the King of Navarre.

Henri was frightened at this hostile attitude, and yet it struck him that it betrayed something like spite, and that spite was only the mask of love.

Truly my dear Charlotte, he said, "you are very unjust. I cannot understand how so pretty a mouth can be so cruel. Do you think for one moment that it is I who am being married. No! ventre-saint-gris! I say it is not I!"

It is I perhaps, continued the Baroness sharply, if ever the voice of the woman who loves us can seem sharp, and who reproaches us with not loving her.

Baronesss with bright eyes, how is it you have no keener vision? I tell you again, it is not Henri of Navarre who espouses Marguerite de Valois.

And who is it then?

"Sang-diou! it is the reformed religion that marries the Pope!"

No! no! Monseigneur, I am not to be taken in by your jokes. Your Majesty loves Madame Marguerite, and I do not blame you; heaven knows she is beautiful enough to be loved.

Henri thought seriously for one moment, and while reflecting, a half cunning smile played round the corners of his lips.

Baroness, he said, "you are trying to fix a quarrel on me without any justification. What have you done to prevent me from marrying Madame Marguerite? Simply nothing; on the contrary, you have driven me to the verge of despair.

And well it is I have done so, Monseigneur.

How so?

Because to-day you wed another.

I only marry because you do not love me.

If I had loved you, I should have died within the next hour.

In an hour—what do you mean—and from what would you have died?

From jealousy—for in less than that time the queen of Navarre will send away her women, and your majesty his gentlemen.

"Is it truly that which troubles you, ma mie?"

I do not say so—only if I had loved you, it would have troubled me greatly.

Well, cried Henri, delighted beyond expression to hear this avowal, the first he had ever heard from her lips, and if the King of Navarre were not to send away his gentlemen to-night?

Sire, said Madame de Sauve, looking at the king with unfeigned astonishment, you are saying a most impossible and incredible thing.

To make you believe it—what would you have me do?

You would have to prove your words, and that you cannot do.

I can, I can baroness.—By St. Henry, I promise that I will give you the proof, cried the king, gazing at the young woman with eyes ablaze with love.

Oh, your majesty, murmured the beautiful Charlotte, lowering both voice and eyes. I do not understand;—no, it is impossible you will flee from the happiness that awaits you.

There are four Henris in this room, my well-beloved, resumed the king, Henri of France, Henri of Condé, Henri of Guise, but there is only one Henri of Navarre.

What then?

If Henri of Navarre is with you all night?

All night!

You would then be certain he is not with any one else.

If you were to do that, sire, cried Madame de Sauve.

I will do it, on my honour as a gentleman.

Madame de Sauve raised her great humid eyes, big with voluptuous promise, and smiled on the king, whose heart was wild with intoxicating joy.

Come, resumed the king, under these circumstances what would you say?

In that case I should allow that I am really loved by your majesty.

"Ventre-saint-gris! you will then have to allow it, for it shall be, baroness."

But how is it to be managed? stammered Madame de Sauve.

"Par Dieu! madame, it cannot be that you have no servant, no girl whom you can trust?"

I have Dariole, who is so devoted to me that she would allow herself to be cut in pieces rather than betray me—truly a perfect treasure.

"Sang-diou, baroness, tell this girl that when I am king of France, as the astrologers prophesy I shall be, I will reward her amply."

Charlotte smiled: already the gasconading reputation of the king as to promises was well known.

Well—what is Dariole to do?

Little for herself—everything for me.

Well?

Your room is just over mine.

That is true.

Let her wait behind the door. I will knock thrice gently—she will admit me—and you will have the proof I have promised you.

Madame de Sauve remained silent for a few seconds; then, as if she had glanced around to see that she was not overheard, she fixed her eyes for one instant on the group of which the queen-mother was the centre; brief as was that instant, it sufficed for Catherine and her lady in waiting to exchange glances.

If I were to consent, said Madame de Sauve, with some such accent as that adopted by the sirens to seduce Ulysses, just to prove your majesty’s falsehood.

Try me, my dear, try me.

Faith, I am half inclined to do so.

Yield then, for woman is never so strong as after a defeat.

Sire! I shall expect you to keep your promise to Dariole, when you become King of France.

Henri uttered a raptured exclamation.

It was at the very moment when he gave utterance to his cry of joy, that the Queen of Navarre said to the Duc de Guise, "Noctu pro more—to-night as usual."

And Henri walked from beside Madame de Sauve as happy as was the Duke de Guise leaving the presence of Marguerite de Valois.

An hour after this double scene, King Charles and the queen-mother retired to their respective apartments; immediately after the brilliant salons began to thin, and in the galleries the bottom of the marble columns could for the first time be seen. The Admiral and the Prince do Condé were escorted to their quarters by four hundred Huguenot gentlemen, amidst the sullen murmurs of the populace. Then Henri de Guise, with the Lorraine and Catholic gentry, went out also, amidst the enthusiastic plaudits of the crowd.

As for Marguerite de Valois, Henri of Navarre, and Madame de Sauve, we already know they lived in the Louvre.

CHAPTER II.

QUEEN MARGOT’S BED-CHAMBER.

THE Duke de Guise conducted his sister-in-law, the Duchess de Nevers, to her hotel situated in the Rue du Chaume, close to the Rue de Brac, and after handing her over to her women, went into his own apartment to change his dress, put on a cloak, and arm himself with one of those keen steel daggers known as a foi de gentilhomme, and which served to replace the sword; but just as he took it from the table where he had left it, he saw a small billet thrust between the blade and the scabbard.

Opening it, he read as follows: I hope that M. de Guise will not return to the Louvre to night; should he however return, let him at least take the precaution to wear a good coat of mail, and hang a trusty sword by his side.

Ah, ah! cried the duke, turning to his valet de chambre, this is a rather strange warning, Maître Robin. But be pleased to tell me what persons have been here during my absence.

One person only, Monseigneur.

And who was that?

M. du Gast.

Ah! ah! I thought I recognised the handwriting. You are sure that Du Gast has been here—you saw him yourself.

"Much more than that—I spoke to him, Monseigneur.’

Then I will follow his advice. My coat of mail and my sword.

The valet de chambre, accustomed to these sudden changes of costume, fetched both. The duke put on his coat of mail, which was made of links so supple that the steel woof was no thicker than velvet; then over this he drew light trousers and a grey and silver doublet, with high boots reaching to the middle of the thighs, clapped on his head a cap of black velvet without feathers or diamonds, wrapped himself in a dark coloured cloak, stuck a dagger in his girdle, and bidding his page (who was his sole escort) carry his sword, returned towards the Louvre.

As he stood on the threshold of the hôtel, the watch on the summit of the tower of St. Germain l’Auxerrois announced the hour of one.

Late as it was and insecure as were the streets at that time, nothing happened to the adventurous prince on his journey, and he stood before the colossal mass of the old Louvre safe and sound.

The lights were all out, and the building was wholly given up to darkness and obscurity.

In front of the royal castle was a profound moat, overlooking which were nearly all the bed-chambers of the princes living in the palace. Marguerite’s chamber was on the first floor.

This first floor, easily accessible if there had been no fosse, was, thanks to this defence, thirty feet from the ground, far out of reach of robbers and lovers, which fact, however, did not prevent M. de Guise from bravely adventuring into the moat.

As he did so, there was heard the sound of a window opening on the ground floor. This window was iron grated, but a hand was thrust through and removed one of the bars, which had been previously loosened, and let fall from this opening a silken cord.

Is that you, Gillonne? asked the duke in a low tone.

Yes, Monseigneur, replied a female voice in an even still lower tone.

And Marguerite?

She awaits you.

It is well.

And the duke, turning, made a sign to his page, who, opening his cloak, unrolled a small rope ladder. The duke fastened one end of the ladder to the silken cord. Gillonne then drew up the ladder and secured it solidly; the prince then, having tightened his sword to his belt, commenced the ascent, reaching the top in safety. As soon as he was inside, the iron bar was replaced, and the page having seen his master safely inside the Louvre, whither under similar circumstances he had accompanied him many times before, lay down to sleep, wrapped in his cloak, upon the grass of the moat, beneath the shadow of the wall.

It was a gloomy night, and some large drops of tepid water fell from clouds charged with sulphurous electricity.

The Duke de Guise followed his leader, who was no other than the daughter of Jacques de Matignon, Maréchal de France, the most faithful confederate of Marguerite, who had no secrets from her. It was said that amongst other mysterier against betraying which her incorruptible fidelity was proof, was her knowledge of some so terrible, that her knowledge of these forced her to keep the others.

No lights had been left in any of the lower rooms, nor in any of the passages; occasionally, however, a livid flash illumined the sombre apartments with a bluish reflexion which as rapidly disappeared.

The Duke followed his guide, holding her hand all the while, until he reached a spiral staircase cut in the thickness of a wall, and which opened by a secret and invisible door into the ante-chamber of Marguerite’s bedroom.

The ante-chamber was as dark as the rest. Reaching this point, Gillonne stopped.

Have you brought what the Queen requires? she asked in a low tone.

Yes, said the Duke de Guise, but I shall place it in no other hands than those of her Majesty.

Come then, and lose not a moment, said from out the obscurity a voice which startled the Duke, for it was the voice of Marguerite.

Then the hangings of a doorway, violet, with spangles of golden fleur-de-lis, was raised, and the Duke saw in the gloom the Queen herself, who was so impatient, she had come to meet him.

I am here, Madame, said the Duke, and he glided rapidly to the other side of the arras, which fell securely behind him.

Then Marguerite became guide to the Prine through that suite of apartments, which, however, he knew so well, while Gillonne, remaining by the door, contrived, by putting her hand to her lips, to reassure her royal mistress. As if understanding the jealous susceptibilities of the Duke, Marguerite led him directly to her bedroom. There she stopped.

Well, she asked, are you satisfied?

Satisfied of what? he asked.

Of the proof I give you, continued Marguerite, with a slight tinge of vexation in her voice, that I belong to a man who, on the evening of marriage, on his wedding night, cares so little for me that he has not even come to thank me for the honour I have done him, not in selecting him, but in accepting him as a husband.

Madame, said the duke, sadly, fear not, he will come, especially if you wish it.

And you speak to me like that, Henri! cried Marguerite, you, who above all, know that you misjudge me. If I had any wishes of that kind, should I have asked you to come to the Louvre?

You asked me to come to the Louvre, Marguerite, because you wish to destroy all vestige of the past, and that past exists not only in my heart, but in this silver casket, which I restore to you.

Henri, let me tell you one thing, resumed Marguerite, looking fixedly at the duke; you no longer speak or act like a prince, but like a schoolboy. I deny that I love you! I wish to extinguish a flame that may, perhaps, die in the end, but of which the reflection will endure for ever. The love of persons of my rank illumines and sometimes effaces all other contemporary events. No! my duke! You can, if you wish it, keep the letters of your Marguerite and the casket she gave you. Of all the letters which it contains, she requires but one, and that because the letter is as dangerous to yourself as to her.

Take them all, said the Duke, and choose that which you desire to destroy.

Marguerite eagerly examined the casket, and with a trembling hand turned over one after another a dozen letters, glancing only at their addresses, as if that sufficed to remind her of the contents. Having gone through the whole, she turned to the duke and, with a haggard face, said: Monsieur! the one I seek is not here. Have you lost it? for to suspect you of giving——

Which particular letter do you seek, madame?

The one in which I begged you to get married without delay!

To be able to excuse your own infidelity!

No! she said, shrugging her shoulders, but to save your life. That in which I told you that the King, knowing our love and the efforts I had made to break off your marriage with the Infanta of Portugal, had sent for his brother, the Bastard of Angoulême, and said, showing two swords: ‘Kill me the Duc de Guise to-night, or I will kill you with the other to-morrow.’ Where is that letter?

Here, said the Duke de Guise, producing it from his doublet.

Marguerite tore it from his hands, opened it greedily, saw that it was, indeed, the one she wanted, gave a cry of joy, and ran to the wax taper. The flame caught the paper, and in an instant it was consumed; then, as if fearing the ashes might betray her, she trampled them under foot.

The Duke de Guise, who had watched her keenly, while acting with such feverish haste—Well Marguerite, he said, are you satisfied?

Yes! for now that you have married the Princess of Porcian, my brother will forgive your love for me; while he never would have forgiven me the revelation of a secret which, in the great weakness of my heart, I had betrayed to you.

True, said the Duke, then you loved me?

And love you still, my Henri, as much, more than ever.

You say this?

Yes—for never more did I require a sincere and devoted friend. Queen, I have no throne; wife, I have no husband.

The Prince shook his head sadly.

But when I tell you, when I repeat, Henri, that my husband not only does not love me, but hates me, despises me; moreover, your presence in this room, where he ought to be, sufficiently proves his loathing and contempt.

It is not very late, Madame; the king probably required some little time to dismiss his gentlemen. If he has not come, he will be here soon.

I tell you, cried Marguerite, becoming slightly exasperated, I tell you that he will not come at all!

Madame! exclaimed Gillonne, pushing open the door, and lifting up the arras, the King of Navarre has just left his room.

I knew he would come, cried the Duke de Guise.

Henri, said Marguerite, in an incisive voice, clutching the hand of the duke, you shall see whether or not I am a woman of my word, and whether, when I have promised, I cannot be depended on. Henri—enter this closet.

Madame—allow me to leave while there is yet time; for remember at the first loving caress that he bestows on you, I shall come out of the closet—when woe betide him.

You are mad: enter the closet and leave all to me, she cried, pushing him into the cabinet.

Just in time. Scarcely was the door closed upon the Prince, when the King of Navarre, escorted by two pages, who carried eight yellow waxen torches in two candelabras, appeared on the threshold of her bed-chamber, smiling.

Marguerite sought to conceal her confusion by making a profound courtesy.

I see you are not in bed, Madame, said the Béarnais, with an open and joyous smile. Did you perchance expect me?

No, Monsieur, replied Marguerite, for only yesterday you told me ours was only a political alliance, and that you would never wish to influence my private feelings.

I am pleased to hear this, but that is no reason why we should not have a quiet talk. Gillonne—shut the door and leave us.

Marguerite, who had been seated, rose and lifted her hand, as if to command the pages to remain.

Shall I call your women? asked the King. I will do so if you wish it, though I must confess that in regard to the things I have to say to you, I would prefer we should be alone.

The King as he spoke advanced towards the closet.

No! cried Marguerite, darting in front of him. No—it is quite unnecessary. I am quite ready to listen to you.

The Béarnais now knew exactly what he wanted to know; he gave one sharp and earnest glance towards the cabinet, as if he could have wished, despite the arras, to penetrate its veiled mysteries; then looking to his beautiful spouse, who was pale with terror:

In that case, Madame, he said in a perfectly calm tone, let us talk.

As your Majesty pleases, said the young woman, falling back, rather than seating herself upon the couch indicated by her husband.

Madame, continued the Béarnais, seating himself alongside of her, whatever people may say, ours is a genuine marriage. I belong to you and you belong to me.

But—— cried the terrified Queen.

We should in consequence, continued the King of Navarre, without appearing to notice Marguerite’s uneasiness, act together as good allies, as we have to-day sworn alliance before God. Do you agree with me?

Without doubt, monsieur.

I am fully aware, madame, of your profound penetration. I know how the soil of the court is filled by dangerous pitfalls; now I am young, and though I have never done any harm to any one, I have many enemies. Madame, I wish to know in which camp am I to look for her who bears my name, and who has sworn fealty to me at the altar.

Monsieur—could you possibly think——?

I think nothing, madame. I hope—and wish to know if my hope be well founded. Our marriage is certainly either a trap or a pretext.

Marguerite quivered all over. Perhaps the same thought had presented itself to her mind.

Now then—which side do you take? continued Henri of Navarre. The King hates me, the Duke of Anjou hates me, the Duke of Alençon hates me; Catherine de Médicis hated my mother too much not to hate her son.

Monsieur, what are you saying?

The truth, madame, continued the King; and I should wish, in order that people should not think me a dupe as to the assassination of M. de Mouy, and the poisoning of my mother, that some one were present to hear me.

Oh, monsieur, cried Marguerite, with her most charming and smiling manner, you know that we are here alone.

And that is the very reason why I speak out; that is why I dare tell you plainly that I am neither deceived by the caresses of the house of France, or of the house of Lorraine.

Sire! sire! cried Marguerite.

Well, what is the matter, my dear? asked Henri, smiling in his turn.

Simply that such words are dangerous.

"Never when one is téte-a-tête with one’s wife, continued the king. As I was saying——"

Marguerite was evidently on the rack; she would gladly have stopped every word that fell from the lips of the Béarnais; but Henri continued with all his apparent good nature.

As I was saying, I was menaced on all sides, menaced by the king, menaced by the Duke of Alençon, menaced by the Duke of Anjou, menaced by the queen-mother, menaced by the Duc de Guise, by the Duc de Mayenne, menaced by the Cardinal de Lorraine, in fact menaced by everybody. One feels all this instinctively, as you are well aware madame. Well! against all these menaces, which will soon be open attacks, I can defend myself only with your help; for you—you are loved by all those who detest me.

I! cried Marguerite.

Yes, responded Henri of Navarre, this time with sincere good nature, you are loved by King Charles, you are loved, he then said with deep emphasis, by the Duke of Alençon; you are loved by Queen Catherine—and above all you are loved by the Duc de Guise.

Monsieur! stammered Marguerite.

And why is it surprising that all the world loves you? Those I have mentioned are all your brothers and your relations. To love one’s relations and one’s brothers, is only carrying out the dictates of religion.

But, continued Marguerite, utterly overwhelmed, to what end all this?

I simply return to what I was saying.—That is if you become, I will not say my friend, but my ally,—I can brave all,—while if you become my enemy, I am lost.

I your enemy, Monsieur? never! cried Marguerite.

Never my friend?

Perhaps.

My ally?

Always.

And Marguerite, turning round, held out her hand to the king.

Henry took it in his, kissed it gallantly, keeping it within his own, more to examine it, than from tenderness, and continued.

I believe you, madame, said he, and accept you for an ally. We were married without knowing one another, without our loving one another; they married us without consulting the interested parties. We therefore owe one another nothing as husband and wife. You see, madame, that I forestall your wishes, and that I confirm to-night what I said yesterday. But we will freely, without being forced, as two loyal hearts, who owe one another mutual protection, ally ourselves. You thoroughly understand me?

Yes, Monsieur, trying to draw away her hand.

Well, continued the Béarnais, his eyes fixed all the while on the door of the closet; as the first proof of a frank alliance is perfect confidence, I will reveal to you, in all its most secret details, the plan I have determined to adopt in order successfully to combat all these enmities.

Monsieur, stammered Marguerite, looking, as if, despite herself, towards the closet, while the Béarnais, finding his plan successful, laughed in his sleeve.

This is then what I shall do, he continued, without appearing to remark the anxiety of the young woman. I shall——

Monsieur, cried Marguerite, rising eagerly and clutching the King by the arm, allow me some fresh air—the emotion, the heat, is too great for me, I am stifling.

In truth Marguerite appeared pale and trembling, as if about to faint.

Henri moved straight to a window situated at some distance, and opened it, This window opened on the river.

Marguerite followed him.

Silence! silence! sire! for your own sake, she faltered.

But Madame, said the Béarnais, with a cunning smile, did you not assure me we were alone?

Yes, Monsieur, but have you not heard that by means of a long tube, in the wall or in the roof, one may be overheard.

Very well, Madame, said the Béarnais warmly, and yet in a low tone. You do not love me, it is true; but you are an honest woman.

What do you mean, Monsieur?

I say that if you were capable of betraying me, you would have allowed me to go on, as I was betraying only myself. You stopped me. I know now that some one is concealed in this room; that you are an unfaithful spouse, but a faithful ally, and just now, added the Béarnais, smiling, I stand more in need of fidelity in politics than in love.

Sire! stammered the confused Marguerite.

Well! well! we’ll talk about that later on, said Henri, when we know one another better.

Then speaking in a louder tone, he added:

Well, madame, do you find yourself any better, now that you can breathe more freely?

Yes, sire, yes, murmured Marguerite.

Then, answered the Béarnais, "I will not detain you any longer. It was my duty to pay my respects to you and to make some advances towards good fellowship; accept them in the same feeling with which they are offered—with all my heart. Rest yourself and—good night.

Marguerite looked at her husband with eyes sparkling with gratitude, and of her own accord offered her hand.

It is then settled, she said.

A frank and loyal political alliance? asked Henry.

Frank and loyal, answered the queen.

Then the Béarnais moved towards the door, drawing Marguerite after him as if under a spell. Then when the tapestry of the door had fallen between them and the bedroom, Thanks, Marguerite! said Henri, in a low tone, thanks! You are indeed a true daughter of France. I leave you tranquil in my mind. I know that I have not your love; but I have your friendship. I depend on you, as on your side you may depend upon me. Adieu, madame!

And Henri kissed the hand of his wife, pressing it gently. Then with a nimble step he returned towards his own apartments, saying to himself, as he passed along the corridor, "Who the devil has she got with her? Is it the king, is it the Duke of Anjou, is it the Duke d’Alençon, is it the Duke de Guise? Is it a brother, or is it a lover, or is it both in one? I feel almost sorry to have made a rendezvous with the baroness; but as I have given my word, and Dariole waits—no matter; still she won’t gain much, I fancy, by my having passed through the bedchamber of my wife before going to hers, for, ventre-saint-gris! this Margot, as my brother-in-law Charles IX. calls her, is a most adorable creature."

And with a step, in which there was some slight hesitation, Henry of Navarre ascended the staircase which led to the apartments of Madame de Sauve.

Marguerite followed him with her eyes until he had disappeared; then she went back to her chamber. She found the duke near the door of the closet; the very sight of him seemed to inspire her with remorse.

The duke himself was grave, and his frowning eyebrows indicated most bitter thoughts.

Marguerite is neuter now, he said to himself. In eight days she will be hostile.

Did you listen? asked Marguerite.

What else had I to do in that closet?

And you think I behaved differently to what the Queen of Navarre ought to have acted?

No; but in a very different way to what the mistress of the Duke de Guise should have acted.

Monsieur! answered the queen, I may not love my husband, but no one has a right to expect from me that I should betray him. Would you betray the secrets of the Princess de Porcian, your wife?

Very well, madame! said the duke, shaking his head. I see how it is. You no longer love me as you used to do, when you used to tell me all the conspiracies got up by the king against me and mine.

The king was powerful and you were weak. Henri is now weak and you are strong. I do not in any way swerve from my rôle.

You only desert one camp for another.

I earned that right, monsieur, when I saved your life.

Very good, madame; and as it is usual when lovers separate, they give back mutually all presents—I will save your life, if the occasion offers, and then—we shall be quits.

Upon which the duke bowed and went out of the room, without Marguerite seeking to restrain him even by a gesture.

In the ante-chamber he found Gillonne, who led him to the window of the ground floor, and in the moat he found his page, with whom he returned to the Hôtel de Guise.

During this time Marguerite in a dreamy kind of way went and looked out of window.

What a wedding night, she murmured; the husband shuns me, and my lover leaves me.

Then she closed the window and summoned Gillonne to help her into bed.

CHAPTER III.

THE POET KING.

THE next and following days were devoted to fêtes, ballets, and tournaments.

The same state of happy unity continued to exist between the two parties. The kindness evinced, the favour shown by the dominant faction, was enough to turn the head of the most obstinate Huguenot. Father Cotton had been known to dine and drink with the baron de Courtaumer, while the Duke de Guise floated down the Seine in a boat with a band of music in company with the Prince de Condé.

King Charles appeared to have thrown off his usual melancholy, and was never happy except when in the society of his brother-in-law Henri. Last but not least, the queen-mother was so radiant, so occupied with embroidery, jewels, and feathers, that she could not sleep.

The Huguenots, somewhat softened by this new Capua, began to don doublets of silk, to adopt devices, and to shout before certain balconies as if they had been Catholics. On all sides there was a reaction in favour of the reformed religion, so much so that one might have thought the whole court intended to turn Protestant.

The admiral himself, despite all his experience, allowed himself to be hoodwinked quite as much as the others, and he had in consequence so lost his head, that one evening he had forgotten for two hours to chew his toothpick, his usual occupation from two o’clock, the hour when his dinner finished, until eight o’clock at night, when he sat down to supper.

The night when the admiral was guilty of this incredible dereliction from his usual habits, the king had asked Henry of Navarre and the Duc de Guise to sup with him. The meal over, the king had gone into his own room with them, and there had explained the ingenious mechanism of a wolf trap which he had himself invented, when stopping suddenly—

Is not the admiral coming to-night? he asked. Who has seen him to-day, and who can tell me how he is?

I can, said the King of Navarre, and can allay any anxiety your majesty may have with regard to his health. I saw him at six o’clock this morning, and again at seven o’clock this evening.

Ah! ah! said the King, whose eyes, for a moment thoughtful, were now fixed with intense curiosity upon his brother-in-law; you rise early, Henriot, for a young married man.

Yes, sire, answered the King of Béarn. I wanted to know from the admiral, who knows everything, if some gentlemen I still expect have started to join me.

More gentlemen still! You had eight hundred on the day of your marriage, and every day more arrive. Do you intend an invasion? said the king laughing, while the Duke de Guise frowned.

Sire, replied the Béarnais, there is talk of war with Flanders, and I am calling around me all those of my country and neighbourhood whom I believe may be useful to your majesty.

The duke, remembering the project of which the Béarnais had spoken to Marguerite on his wedding night, listened more attentively.

Excellent well! answered the king, with his false smile. The more you bring the more we shall be pleased; bring them on as fast as you like. But who are these gentlemen? the bravest of the brave, I presume.

I will not venture to compare my gentlemen with those of your majesty, those of M. the Duke d’Anjou, and even those of M. de Guise, but I know them, and know that they will do their duty.

And you expect many—what may their names be?

Their names escape me, sire, with the exception of one amongst them, who is recommended to me by Teligny, as a most accomplished gentleman, and who is called De la Mole.

De la Mole! Is he not a Lerac de la Mole? asked the king, who was well up in genealogy, a Provençal?

Precisely, sire; as you see, I seek my recruits as far off as Provence.

And I, said the Duc de Guise, with a mocking smile, I go farther than his majesty the King of Navarre, for I sought even in Piedmont all the sincere Catholics I could find.

Catholics or Huguenots, interrupted the king, what matters it, so they are valiant men.

The king in order to say these words, which placed Catholics and Huguenots on the same level, had assumed an air of such utter indifference, that even the Duc de Guise was taken by surprise.

Your majesty is thinking of our Flemish friends, said the admiral, to whom the king had granted the privilege of entering his closet unannounced, and who had heard the king’s last words.

Ah! here comes my father the admiral, cried Charles IX., opening his arms. We speak of war, of valiant gentlemen, and he comes; steel always turns to the loadstone. My brother-in-law of Navarre and my cousin of Guise are expecting recruits for your army. That was the question we were discussing.

The reinforcements are coming in, said the admiral.

Have you any fresh news, Monsieur? asked the Béarnais.

Yes, my son, and particularly of M. de la Mole; yesterday he was at Orleans, to-morrow or next day ho will be in Paris.

The deuce! Monsieur the admiral is then a necromancer, to know what is happening thirty or forty leagues off. For my own part, I should like to know with as much certainty as he does what once happened before Orleans!

Coligny did not wince at this terrible insult on the part of the duke, who evidently alluded to the death of François de Guise, his father, killed before Orleans by Poltro de Méré—the admiral being suspected of having instigated the crime.

Monsieur, he answered with calm dignity, I am a necromancer whenever I wish to know anything that concerns my affairs or those of the king. My courier arrived from Orleans an hour ago, and, thanks to riding post, made thirty-two leagues in the day. M. de la Mole, who rides his own horse, can only do ten leagues a day, and will arrive on the twenty-fourth. There you have the explanation of my magic.

Bravo! my father! well answered, said Charles IX. Let these young fellows see that it is quite as much wisdom as age which has caused your beard and your hair to turn grey: but let them go talk of love and tournaments, while we remain to talk of war. Good advisers make good kings, my father. Farewell, gentlemen, I wish to speak with the admiral.

The two young men went out, the king first, the Duke de Guise after him. Once, however, outside the door, they bowed coldly, and went each his own way.

Coligny looked after them with a certain amount of uneasiness, for he never saw those two together, but he expected they would clash. Charles IX., understanding his thoughts, came to him and leaned upon his arm.

"Be easy, my father, I am here to keep order—to enforce

Reviews for Queen Margot; Or, Marguerite de Valois - With Nine Illustrations

[rainpebble_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Queen Margot by Alexandre Dumas; (4 1/2*)This book is filled with intrigue, conspiracies, treachery, violence and even a bit of romance. I found it to be exhilarating, gripping, suspenseful and quite a page turner. It is an amazing piece of literature but then I find everything by Dumas to be more than wonderful. It is based on history, two years of the history of France from 1572 to 1574. Events seem to come to life under the hand of this author.At the forefront of the story itself is Queen Margot of France and her new husband King Henry of Navarre. She is the sister of the King of France, Charles IX. We begin with their wedding at a time when there is a "truce" between the Catholic French and the Protestant Navarre. The truce is false and within days of the wedding thousands of Protestants have been brutally killed in the streets of Paris which sets off the two years of deceit and treachery that Dumas details so thrillingly. Because it has been an arranged marriage there is no love between the Catholic Queen and her Protestant King but the two of them form an alliance to protect one another. My favorite (though she was quite despicible) character was the Queen Mother, Catherine de Medicis, who wants King Henry deadThis is a novel rich in the telling.

[stuart10er_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Really great novel - even if I already knew the story from the opera and the movie. Wonderful characters - La Mole and Coccanas were brilliant. Great story of in-fighting in the French royal house. Poisonings, betrayals, and intrigue. A little like Wuthering Heights in that everyone has the same name so it is hard to keep everyone straight. Too many Henrys.

[jmoncton_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

For all those people who find the classics wordy or tedious, then this is the perfect book. Although long, this book is fast paced and filled with betrayal, love affairs and secret passages - I just loved it. The story is based on the marriage between Marguerite de Valois, sister of King Charles of France and Henri de Navarre, the leader of the Huguenots. The marriage is arranged by Marguerite's mother, Catherine of Medici, an evil scheming woman whose weapon of choice is poison, and stops at nothing in her ambitious goals for her children. 8 days after Marguerite and Henri's marrige, the famous St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre occurred when over 30,000 Protestants were murdered by French Catholics. This story was a combination of history lesson and pure adventure. Very readable and very enjoyable.

[john257hopper · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

There are some moments of genuine horror and pathos during this story, during the Massacre of St Bartholomew's Eve itself, when thousands of Huguenots were killed at the behest of Catherine de Medici by Catholic officers, soldiers and civilians; at the climax when the romantic heroes are tortured and executed; and at one point when Catherine de Medici tricks and kills a servant. Most of the rest of the time it is standard swashbuckling Dumas, with a strong air of theatricality and even farcicality.

[eltomaso · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

An excellent Book, you must read it!

[bookmarque · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

You think you know scheming, backstabbing, double dealing and treachery? You don’t know anything compared to the French aristocracy. Yes, I know this is fiction, true historical fiction since it it set almost 200 years before it was written, but darn if it doesn’t ring true to some extent. No one gets and keeps power without a little skulduggery on the side. And in the French court, murder helps, too.Because this is based on real people; Queen Catherine de Medici and her many sons, plus wives, girlfriends and hangers-on, I did some fact-checking to see how close Dumas got it. There is some embroidery and speculation (did Catherine poison Henry of Navarre’s mother Jeanne?) but the bare bones of the succession, religious turmoil and court drama is factual. And boy is it fun. Once I got the hang of the French names and titles it was a breeze. I nearly drew myself a quick family tree because damn, everyone is related to everyone else and it’s crazy. Eventually though I got it. As you might suspect, at the heart of the plot is the succession to the throne of France and all the jousting and jockeying that goes into getting it. The sheer amount of lies and manipulation is staggering. Dumas keeps Francis alive even though he was king and died before Charles, who is king in the novel, ascends to the throne. His sister Margot describes Francis as “cunning and cold. He has never made friends, because he neither loves nor hates. He just plots for himself, and he will treat his friends as enemies, or take his enemies for friends, as he thinks it may be advantageous to him.” That pretty much goes for all of them and Charles does a good job of getting his brothers out of the way by giving them lesser crowns. His mother Catherine is also a master manipulator and isn’t happy now Charles is ruling independently. She employs a purfumier which is really just a nice way to say poisoner. As soon as the poisons start flying though, you know there will be an unintended victim and near misses. We also get a massacre, secret romances, murder, imprisonment, friendship, changing alliances, secret passageways, eavesdropping, clandestine meetings and religious conversions. Great stuff.