King of Navarre's room during his
absence, being afraid to give it into his hands. He then re-enters his
apartment, hears Henry, as he thinks, return to his, and passes half an
hour in the agonies of suspense and terror. To escape from himself and his
reflections, he goes to visit his brother Charles. We have only space for
a very short extract, showing the frightful and unexpected result of
Catharine's atrocious scheme.

Charles was seated at a table in a large carved arm-chair: his back was
turned to the door by which Francis had entered, and he appeared absorbed
in some very interesting occupation. The duke approached on tiptoe;
Charles was reading.

"_Pardieu!_" exclaimed the king on a sudden, "this is an admirable book. I
have heard speak of it, but I knew not that a copy existed in France."

D'Alencon made another step in advance.

"Curse the leaves!" cried the king, putting his thumb to his lips, and
pressing it on the page he had just read, in order to detach it from the
one he was about to read; "one would think they had been stuck together on
purpose, in order to conceal from men's eyes the wonders they contain."

D'Alencon made a bound forwards. The book Charles was reading was the one
he had left in Henry's room. A cry of horror escaped him.

"Ha! is it you, D'Alencon?" said Charles; "come here and look; at the most
admirable treatise on falconry that was ever produced by the pen of man."

D'Alencon's first impulse was to snatch the book from his brother's hands;
but an infernal thought paralysed the movement--a frightful smile passed
over his pallid lips; he drew his hand across his eyes as if something
dazzled him. Then gradually recovering himself--

"Sire," said he to the king, "how can this book have come into your
Majesty's hands?"

"In the most simple manner possible. I went up just now to Henriot's room,
to see if he was ready to go a-hawking. He was not there, but in his stead
I found this treasure, which I brought down with me to read at my ease."

And the king put his thumb to his lips and turned another page.

"Sire," stammered D'Alencon, who felt a horrible anguish come over him,
"Sire, I came to tell you----"

"Let me finish this chapter, Francis," interrupted Charles. "You shall
tell me whatever you like afterwards. I have read fifty pages already, or
devoured them, I should rather say."

"He has tasted the poison twenty-five times!" thought Francis. "My brother
is a dead man."