lse besides in his own
family."

"The King!--you think so, mother?"

"Have you not noticed how he loves Henriot, his Henriot?"

"Yes, mother, yes."

"And how he is repaid, for this same Henriot, forgetting that his
brother-in-law would have shot him at the massacre of Saint Bartholomew,
grovels to the earth like a dog which licks the hand that has beaten
him."

"Yes, yes," murmured Francois, "I have already noticed that Henry is
very humble with my brother Charles."

"Clever in trying to please him in everything."

"So much so that because of being always rallied by the King as to his
ignorance of hawking he has begun to study it; and yesterday, yes, it
was only yesterday, he asked me if I had not some books on that sport."

"Well," said Catharine, whose eyes sparkled as if an idea had suddenly
come to her, "what did you answer him?"

"That I would look in my library."

"Good," said Catharine, "he must have this book."

"But I looked, madame, and found nothing."

"I will find one--and you shall give it to him as though it came from
you."

"And what will come of this?"

"Have you confidence in me, D'Alencon?"

"Yes, mother."

"Will you obey me blindly so far as Henry is concerned? For whatever you
may have said you do not love him."

D'Alencon smiled.

"And I detest him," continued Catharine.

"Yes, I will obey you."

"Well, the day after to-morrow come here for the book; I will give it to
you, you shall take it to Henry, and"--

"And?"

"Leave the rest to Providence or to chance."

Francois knew his mother well enough to realize that she was not in the
habit of leaving to Providence or to chance the care of friendships or
hatreds. But he said nothing, and bowing like a man who accepts the
commission with which he is charged, he returned to his own apartments.

"What does she mean?" thought the young man as he mounted the stairs. "I
cannot see. But what I do understand in all this is that she acts like
our common enemy. Well, let her go ahead."

Meantime Marguerite, through La Mole, had received a letter from De Mouy
to the King of Navarre. As in politics the two illustrious allies had no
secrets, she opened the letter and read it.

The letter must have interested her, for, taking advantage of the
darkness which was beginning to overshadow the walls of the Louvre,
Marguerite at once hurried along the secret corridor, ascended the
winding stairway, and, having looked carefully about on