,
saying that he was the same one she herself had been ordered to admit
one evening, and the King realized that it was Maurevel. Then
remembering the order his mother had wrung from him that morning, he
understood everything.

"Oh, ho!" murmured Charles, "the same day on which he has saved my life.
The time is badly chosen."

He started to go to his mother, but one thought deterred him.

"By Heaven! If I mention this to her it will result in a never-ending
discussion. Better for us to act by ourselves.

"Nurse," said he, "lock every door, and say to Queen Elizabeth[12] that
I am suffering somewhat from the fall I have had, and that I shall sleep
alone to-night."

The nurse obeyed, and as it was not yet time for the execution of his
plan, Charles sat himself down to compose poetry. It was this occupation
which made the time pass most quickly for the King. Nine o'clock struck
before he thought it was more than seven. He counted the strokes of the
clock one by one, and at the last he rose.

"The devil!" said he, "it is just time." Taking his hat and cloak, he
left his room by a secret door he had had made in the wall, the
existence of which even Catharine herself was ignorant.

Charles went directly to Henry's apartments. On leaving the Duc
d'Alencon, the latter had gone to his room to change his clothes and had
left again at once.

"He probably has decided to take supper with Margot," said the King. "He
was very pleasant with her to-day, at least so it seemed to me."

He went to the queen's apartments. Marguerite had brought back with her
the Duchesse de Nevers, Coconnas, and La Mole, and was having a supper
of preserves and pastry with them.

Charles knocked at the hall door, which was opened by Gillonne. But at
sight of the King she was so frightened that she scarcely had sufficient
presence of mind to courtesy, and instead of running to inform her
mistress of the august visit she was to have, she let Charles enter
without other warning than the cry that had escaped her. The King
crossed the antechamber, and guided by the bursts of laughter advanced
towards the dining-room.

"Poor Henriot!" said he, "he is enjoying himself without a thought of
evil."

"It is I," said he, raising the portiere and showing a smiling face.

Marguerite gave a terrible cry. Smiling as he was, his face appeared to
her like the face of Medusa. Seated opposite the door, she had
recognized him at once. The two men turned their ba