Navarre goes to the wrong rooms; those who cannot allow a kinglet like
him to insult a woman of such beauty, of such high rank, and so worthy,
by scorning your person and neglecting his chances of posterity; those
who see that at the first favorable wind, this wild and insolent madcap
will turn against our family and expel you from his house--I say have
not they the right to secure your interests by entirely dividing them
from his, so that your future may be better suited to yourself and your
rank?"

"And yet, madame," replied Marguerite, "in spite of these observations
so replete with maternal love, and filling me with joy and pride, I am
bold enough to affirm to your majesty that the King of Navarre is my
husband."

Catharine started with rage, and drawing closer to Marguerite she said:

"He, your husband? Is it sufficient to make you husband and wife that
the Church has pronounced its blessing upon you? And is the marriage
consecration only in the words of the priest? He, your husband? Ah, my
daughter! if you were Madame de Sauve you might give me this reply. But
wholly contrary of what we expected of him since you granted Henry of
Navarre the honor of calling you his wife, he has given all your rights
to another woman, and at this very instant even," said Catharine,
raising her voice,--"this key opens the door of Madame de Sauve's
apartment--come with me and you will see"--

"Oh, not so loud, madame, not so loud, I beseech you!" said Marguerite,
"for not only are you mistaken, but"--

"Well?"

"Well, you will awaken my husband!"

As she said these words Marguerite arose with a perfectly voluptuous
grace, her white dress fluttering loosely around her, while the large
open sleeves displayed her bare and faultlessly modelled arm and truly
royal hand, and taking a rose-colored taper she held it near the bed,
and drawing back the curtain, and smiling significantly at her mother,
pointed to the haughty profile, the black locks, and the parted lips of
the King of Navarre, who, as he lay upon the disordered bed, seemed
buried in profound repose.

Pale, with haggard eyes, her body thrown back as if an abyss had opened
at her feet, Catharine uttered not a cry, but a hoarse bellow.

"You see, madame," said Marguerite, "you were misinformed."

Catharine looked first at Marguerite, then at Henry. In her active mind
she combined Marguerite's smile with the picture of that pale and dewy
brow, those eyes circled by dar