the young prince, shuddered more
than she had shuddered at seeing the King or even the queen mother.
Nevertheless no one could have told by his appearance that anything
unusual was taking place either in the city or at the Louvre. He was
dressed with his usual elegance. His clothes and linen breathed of those
perfumes which Charles IX. despised, but of which the Duc d'Anjou and he
made continual use.

A practised eye like Marguerite's, however, could detect the fact that
in spite of his rather unusual pallor and in spite of a slight trembling
in his hands--delicate hands, as carefully treated as a lady's--he felt
a deep sense of joy in the bottom of his heart. His entrance was in no
wise different from usual. He went to his sister to kiss her, but
Marguerite, instead of offering him her cheek, as she would have done
had it been King Charles or the Duc d'Anjou, made a courtesy and allowed
him to kiss her forehead.

The Duc d'Alencon sighed and touched his bloodless lips to her brow.

Then taking a seat he began to tell his sister the sanguinary news of
the night, the admiral's lingering and terrible death, Teligny's
instantaneous death caused by a bullet. He took his time and emphasized
all the bloody details of that night, with that love of blood
characteristic of himself and his two brothers; Marguerite allowed him
to tell his story.

"You did not come to tell me this only, brother?" she then asked.

The Duc d'Alencon smiled.

"You have something else to say to me?"

"No," replied the duke; "I am waiting."

"Waiting! for what?"

"Have you not told me, dearest Marguerite," said the duke, drawing his
armchair close up to his sister's, "that your marriage with the King of
Navarre was contracted against your wishes?"

"Yes, no doubt. I did not know the Prince of Bearn when he was proposed
to me as a husband."

"And after you came to know him, did you not tell me that you felt no
love for him?"

"I told you so; it is true."

"Was it not your opinion that this marriage would make you unhappy?"

"My dear Francois," said Marguerite, "when a marriage is not the height
of happiness it is almost always the depth of wretchedness."

"Well, then, my dear Marguerite, as I said to you,--I am waiting."

"But what are you waiting for?"

"For you to display your joy!"

"What have I to be joyful for?"

"The unexpected chance which offers itself for you to resume your
liberty."

"My liberty?" replied Marguerite,