al ban."

"Heaven aid me!" cried the miserable Charles. "On all sides darkness and
despair, in this world and the next."

"Heaven shall aid you, my son," pursued his wily mother, "if you but
trust the guidance of your kingdom to such hands as shall maintain it in
the true religion. The paper that resigns your country to the hands of a
regent, lies, I see, before you. Can you hesitate? Can you a moment
doubt? Whose name should fill that space, where but just now you would
have written the traitorous name of Henry of Navarre?"

"God guide my unhappy France!" sighed the king, turning his face away
and closing his eyes. "In His hands I leave it."

Catherine smiled with a look of scorn, and then picking up the pen,
which had fallen by the bedside, calmly fetched some ink from the table,
and attempted to place the pen in her son's hand.

Before her purpose could be fulfilled, a noise was heard in the outer
room. The voice of a woman clamoured loudly for admittance. Charles
heard that voice, opened his eyes, and attempted to raise his head.

"Ah, it is she!" he cried, with choking voice. "At last!--at last! Let
her come in."

Catherine de Medicis rose, for the purpose, probably, of opposing the
order of her son; but before she could reach the door, an old woman,
simply attired, and of a strange appearance and expression, had entered
the room.

"What means this intrusion, and at such a moment?" exclaimed the
Queen-mother.

"Perrotte!" stammered Charles. "Ah! thou art come at last to console and
to forgive me."

Catherine clenched her teeth tightly together with rage; but she no
longer attempted to oppose the entrance of the old woman.

The old Huguenot nurse advanced with solemn step into the room, and with
a stern and troubled brow; but, on a sudden, a host of recollections
seemed to crowd upon her mind at the sight of that emaciated form, and,
hurrying to the side of the king, she flung herself down upon the couch
and sobbed bitterly.

"Perrotte--my darling old Perrotte!" sobbed forth the dying king. "Art
thou come then at last to thy poor nursling? Thou wast a mother to me,
and yet thou couldst desert thy poor boy; but he deserved his lot.
Perrotte! Perrotte! Thou knowest not what I have suffered since thou
hast left me."

"My son," said Catherine, advancing, "is this a moment to bestow your
tenderness upon a miserable woman like this? Greet her if you will, but
bid her leave us."

"She was a mother to me-