'You may leave us, Marguerite,' said Catherine.

As. Margot went out her eyes met those of her husband. His seemed to signal: 'Effective but unnecessary. Can you doubt that I would choose the Mass?' But there was also a twinkle in those eyes, a smile of approval about his lips which seemed to add: 'This means that we are friends, does it not? It means that we are to work together?'

When Margot had left, the King turned to Conde. 'Give up your faith!' he cried. 'Accept the Mass. I give you an hour's grace, and then if you will not accept the Mass, it shall be death. I will kill you myself. I will kill . . . kill . . .'

The Queen Mother signed to the guards to take Navarre and Conde away; then she gave herself up to the task of soothing the King.

Charles was weary. He lay on his couch, and the tears rolled down his cheeks. 'Blood . . . blood . . . blood,' he murmured. 'Rivers of blood. The Seine is red with blood, the cobbles are red with it. It stains the walls of Paris like the leaves of creeping plants in autumn. Blood! Everywhere blood!'

His Queen came to him; her face was distorted with grief. The awkward gait which proclaimed her pregnancy made the King's tears flow more copiously. Their child would be born into a cruel world. Who knew what would happen to it?

She knelt before him, 'Oh, Sire, that terrible night! This terrible day! Do not let it go on. I beg of you. I cannot bear to hear the cries of the people. I cannot bear it.'

'I cannot bear it either,' he moaned.

'They say you yourself are going to kill the Prince of Conde.'

'It is all killing,' he said. 'It is all blood. It is the only thing which will make us safe.'

'Oh, my lord, do not have murder on your soul.'

The King burst into loud laughter while his tears continued to flow. 'All last night's murders will be on my soul,' he said. 'What is one more?'

'It was not your fault. It was others. Do not kill Conde. I beg of you, do not kill him.'

He stroked her hair and thought: poor little Queen. Poor little stranger in a strange land.

'It is a sad life we live,' he said, 'we Princes and Princesses. They married you, poor child, to a King of France who is a madman.'

She kissed his hand. 'You are so kind to me . . . so good to me. You are not a murderer. You could not do it. Oh, Charles, give me the life of Conde. It is not often that I ask for a gift, is it? Give me Conde's life now, dearest husband.'

'I will not kill him, then,' he said. 'Let him live. Conde is yours, my poor sad little Queen.'

Then she lay down beside him and, like two unhappy children, they wept silently together, wept for the terrible things which were happening in the streets below them, and for the terrible fate which had made them a King and a Queen in this cruel age.

The nightmare days went on. At noon, on St Bartholomew's Day, le Charron the prevot, came to the palace and begged Catherine to stop the massacre. Both Catherine and the King attempted to do this, but without success. That which had been started with the ringing of the bell of Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois could not be stopped, and all through that day and the next night the carnage continued.

The King's madness returned and he called for fresh bloodshed. He was the instigator of those expeditions to witness the vilest executions. He made a pilgrimage, with priests and nobles, to that gibbet where they had now hung Coligny's body after they had taken it out of the Seine; it had been thrown there following the roasting.

On the 25th a hawthorn in the Cemetery of Innocents unexpectedly blossomed. This, cried the excited Catholics, was a sign of Heaven's approval. Any who said that hawthorn had been known to blossom in all other seasons, ran the risk of being named 'Heretic', which meant instant death, for it was so comforting to stifle any pangs of conscience by calling attention to Heaven's approval. Solemn pilgrimages were made to this cemetery, led by the dignitaries of the Church. The chanting voices of the priests, singing praises to God and the Virgin, mingled with the screams for mercy, with the groans of the dying.

Charles had aged considerably since the Eve of St Bartholomew; he now looked more than ever like an old man; his moods were various and sadness came to him suddenly, to be dispersed in wild hilarity when he shouted for more excitement. He would be proud of the carnage at one hour; he would be deeply ashamed the next. In a moment of melancholy, he declared his innocence of responsibility for the massacre and announced that it had been brought about because of a feud between the House of Guise and Lorraine and that of ChatiHon, a feud which had been simmering for years and which he had been unable to prevent boiling over.

Guise, who would not allow this, publicly declared that he had but obeyed the orders of the King and the Queen Mother. The Duke and his adherents brought such pressure to bear on the King that he was forced to declare before an assembly of his ministers that he, and he only, was responsible for what had taken place. He was nervous and exhausted; in turn humble and truculent, belligerent and repentant. He stooped more than usual and his breathlessness had increased. He seemed perpetually to be tottering on the brink of complete insanity.

Catherine on the other hand looked, so many remarked, ten years younger. Energetic, eager to take her place at all ceremonies, she was in the forefront of the religious processions that paraded the streets and entered the churches to sing Te Deums of praise, and the Cemetery of the Holy Innocents to rejoice at Heaven's sign of approval. She herself rode out to see Coligny's remains; she made a point of being present at executions whenever possible.

The King talked continually of the massacre. He longed, he said, to put back the clock, to live again through that fateful day of August the 23rd. 'If I had that chance,' he would sigh, 'how differently I should act!'

Yet he was persuaded that the murder of Huguenots in Paris was not enough; so throughout the whole of France Catholics were ordered to commit murders and atrocities similar to those which had taken place in the capital. Readily the Catholics of Rouen, Blois, Tours and many other towns in the tortured land obeyed the commands that came from Paris.

There were some who protested, for there were Catholics in the provinces as humane as le Charron, the prevot of Paris; chief among these were the Governors of Auvergne, Provence and Dauphine together with the Duc de Joyeuse of Languedoc, who refused to obey such command which came by word of mouth and would not kill until they received written orders from the King. In Burgundy, Picardy, Montpellier and in Lyons the governors declared that they had learned to take life for justice of war, but that cold-blooded murder was something with which they did not care to burden their souls.

This seemed like rebellion, and Catherine and her council were uncertain how to act until they decided on sending priests down to the rebellious provinces to explain to the citizens that St Michael, in a vision, had ordered the massacre.

This was accepted as the certain will of Heaven, and so the bloody orgy continued, and for weeks after the Eve of St Bartholomew thousands were slaughtered all over France.

When Philip of Spain heard the news he laughed aloud-as many said-for the first time in his life. Charles, he said, had now truly earned the title of the 'Most Christian King'; he sent congratulations to Catherine for having brought up her son in her own image.

The Cardinal of Lorraine, who was in Rome at that time, gave the messenger who brought him news of the massacre a great reward. Rome was especially illumined to celebrate the death of so many of its enemies; Te Deums were sung, and the cannons of Castel St Angelo were fired in honour of the massacre. The Pope and his Cardinals went in special procession to the Church of St Mark, there to call God's attention to the good and religious work of the faithful; and Gregory himself proceeded in state on foot from St Mark's to St Louis'.

But if there was rejoicing in the Catholic world, there was deep consternation in England and Holland. William the Silent, who had been hoping for the help of France, through Coligny, was overcome with grief. He said that the King of France had been most evilly advised and that his realm would be plunged into fresh trouble ere long. The slaughtering of unsuspecting innocents, he went on, was no way in which to settle the differences of religion.

'This,' said Burleigh to the Queen of England, 'is the greatest crime since the Crucifixion.'

A few weeks after the massacre, the King was in his apartments, which were full of members of the court, and they were trying to regain something of that gaiety which had once been theirs. It was not easy. There was no forgetting. Names were casually mentioned, and it would then be remembered with a shock that that person was no more. Such a short while ago he had been alive, full of gaiety; now he was dead, and there, among them, was his murderer. The massacre haunted them like some evil spectre which they had called up from the underworld and which would not now be banished.

As they sat or stood about, talking loudly, giving vent to laughter which was, more often than not, unnatural, a great croaking was heard outside the windows of the Louvre, and the croaking was accompanied by a flapping of wings.

There was a sudden silence in the apartment followed by a susurration. 'It was as though,' someone remarked afterwards, the angel of death hovered over the Louvre.'

Catherine, deeply disturbed, for she was as superstitious as any present, hurried to the window and, looking out, saw a flock of ravens flying just above the palace. She cried out and everyone ran to the windows to watch the birds. They flew round, cawing; they perched on the building; they flew against the windows; and they remained in the vicinity of the palace for a long time.

Although some assumed that the birds had been attracted by the carnage, all were unnerved that night.

Many believed that the birds were the spirits of those whom they had murdered come to haunt them and to remind them that their days also were numbered, that horrible death such as they had meted out to others might well await them.

Catherine called Rene and the Ruggieri brothers to her and demanded spells to protect her from impending evil.

The King called wildly to the birds: 'Come . . . whoever you be. Come and kill us . . . Do to us what we did to them.'

Madeleine and Marie Touchet did their best to soothe him.

Alencon, who had been sulking because he had been told nothing of the proposed massacre and had not been allowed to have a part in it, was relieved and able maliciously to watch the effect of the birds on those about him. Margot and Navarre watched with a good conscience. Anjou went shuddering to his mother and would not leave her. Henry of Guise was unperturbed. If the birds were the spirits of dead Huguenots, he was sure that the spirit of his father would protect him. He had but kept the vow to avenge him which he had made on his father's death.

But the King suffered most of all; and in the night he awakened from his sleep and ran screaming through the palace.

'What is all the noise in the streets?' he demanded. 'Why do the bells ring? Why do the people shout and scream? Listen. Listen. I can hear them. They are coming to kill us . . . as we killed them.'

Then he fell on to the floor, his limbs jerking in his terror; he bit his clothes and threatened to bite any who came near him.

'Stop them!' he cried. 'Stop the bells. Stop the people. Let us have done with bloodshed.'

Madeleine was brought to him. 'Chariot,' she whispered, 'all is well. All is quiet. Chariot . . . Chariot . . . you must not distress yourself.'

'But, Madelon, they will come for me . . . They will do to me what was done to them.'

'They cannot touch you. They are dead and you are the King.'

'They could return from their graves, Madelon. They have come as black birds to torment me. They are in the streets now, Madelon. Listen. Listen. They shout. They scream. They are ringing all the bells . . . .'

She led him to the window and showed him a quiet and sleeping Paris.

'I heard them,' he insisted. 'I heard them.'

'It was only in your dreams, my love.'

'Oh, Madelon, I am responsible. I said so at the meeting. I . . . I did it all.'

'You did not,' she said. 'It was not you. They did it. They forced you to it.'

'I do not know, Madelon. I can remember it . . . parts of it. I can remember the bells . . . the shouting and the blood. But I cannot remember how it came about. How did it come about? My headpiece knows nothing of it.'

'You knew nothing of it, my darling. You did not do it. It was they who did it.'

'They . . .' he stammered. 'She . . . my evil genius, Madelon. It was my evil genius . .

Then he began to sob and declare once more that he could hear noises in the streets.

He kept Madelon with him, there at the window, looking out over the sleeping city.

THE MEMORY OF THOSE TERRIBLE DAYS AND NIGHTS continued to hang over paris. Many of those who had taken part in the massacre were so troubled by conscience that they took their own lives; others went mad and ran screaming through the streets; some thought they were pursued by ghosts. So many were guilty. They could find some consolation in speaking together with venom and hatred of the woman whom they considered to have conceived the idea, to have inflamed them-the Italian woman. She was behind all the misery of France. Everyone knew that. The King was mad and he was controlled by that woman. He suffered more deeply than any; but there was no sign that Catherine suffered the slightest pangs of remorse.

Nor did she. She was not going to break a lifelong habit. She had learned not to look back, and she would not look back now. The massacre had been a necessity when it was committed, and it was no use regretting it after it was done. She was growing fatter; she looked in better health than she had for some time. An ambassador wrote to his goverment that she had the appearance of a woman who had successfully come through a bad illness. The illness had been her fear of Philip of Spain, and the cure was the massacre which had begun on St Bartholomew's Eve.

She had rarely felt so safe as she did during the winter of 1572 and the spring of the next year. Navarre and young Conde had become Catholics-Navarre cynically, Conde shamefully. The stock of these two Princes stood very low throughout the country, although most Huguenots who remained alive were resolute, more determined than ever. They seemed to embrace hardship and flourish under persecution. It was always so with fanatics. They had lost Coligny, Teligny and Rochefoucauld. Montgomery had been warned and had been able to fly from Saint-Germain before he could be caught. Navarre had succumbed almost immediately and accepted the Mass. But the Huguenots would not have hoped for much from Navarre. It was the defection of Conde which had been the bitterest blow to them. They were on the defensive now in that stronghold, La Rochelle, and were bent on making trouble; they had, however, suffered a severe blow and were temporarily helpless. As for Catherine, she was now recognized as the woman who planned the whole massacre.

Cynically she disguised herself and mingled with the people of Paris that she might hear what was said about her. She knew that it was their guilty consciences which made them so critical of her. They enumeratedher crimes, often accusing her of murders in which she had had no hand.

'Who is this murderess, this poisoner, this Italian who rules France?' one merchant demanded of her as she stood by his stall, her shawl over her head, her soiled petticoat trailing below her shabby gown. 'She is not royal. She is the daughter of merchants. Ah, I knew what evils would come to France when she married the son of King Francis.'

'It is not fitting, Monsieur,' she agreed, 'to take a foreign upstart and make her Queen of France. For this Italian woman rules France, Monsieur. Make no mistake about that.'

'She rules France indeed. Our poor mad Charles would not be so bad without her to guide him . . . so they say. But he is no King. It is she who rules. She poisoned the Cardinal of Chatillon and the Sieur d'Andelot; she poisoned the Queen of Navarre. She is responsible for the death of Monsieur de Coligny,' went on the merchant. 'She is responsible for this bloody business. They say that she killed her son, Francis the Second . . . that he died before he should have done. And Monsieur d'Alencon was ill with fever, and they say that was her work. Do you remember the Duke of Bouillon, who was poisoned at Sedan? His doctor was hanged for that crime, but we know whose was the real guilt. Monsieur de Longueville, the Prince of Poitien, Monsieur Lignerolles . . . There is no end to the list, Madame; and then add to it all those who died at her command at the St Bartholo-mew. It is a long list of murders, Madame, for one woman to answer for.'

'Even for an Italian woman,' she admitted.

'Ah, Madame, you have spoken truly. I hope that one day there will be slipped into her wine that morceau Italianize. That is what I wish, Madame. It is the wish of all Paris.'

She came away smiling. Better to win their hatred than their indifference. She wanted to laugh aloud. The Queen Mother ruled France. She was glad they realized that.

They were singing a song about her in the streets of Paris now. It was insolently sung even under the windows of the Louvre itself.

'Pour bien scavoir la consonance De Catherine et Jhesabel, L'une, ruyne d'Israel, L'autre, ruyne de la France: 'Jhesabel maintenoit l'idolle Contraire a la saincte parolle, L'autre maintient la papaulte Par trahison et cruaulte: 'Par rune furent massacrez Les prophetes a Dieu sacrez, Et l'autre a faict mourir cent mille De ceux qui suyvent l'Evangille.

'L'une pour se ayder du bien, Fist mourir un homme de bien, L'autre n'est pas assouvie S'elle n'a les biens et la vie: 'En fin le jugement fut tel Que les chiens mengent Jhesabel Par une vengeance divine; Mais la charongne de Catherine Sera differente en ce point, Car les chiens ne la vouldront point.'

Well, words could not hurt her. She herself sang the song. 'It is pleasant to think,' she said to her women, 'that the people of Paris have no intention of throwing my flesh to the dogs.' She laughed loudly. 'Ah, my friends, these people are really fond of me. They like to think of me. Have you noticed that that wicked old lecher, the Cardinal of Lorraine, is now regarding me with some affection? He never did before. But now, he is not so young, and he is terrified of death, for that man was always a coward. He still wears a suit of mail under his clerical robes. But he looks at me with love because he says to himself: "I cannot live many more years. Soon I must face God." The Cardinal, my friends, is a very devout man, and when he thinks of the life he has led he trembles. And then he looks at me and says to himself: "Ah, compared with the Queen Mother, I am as innocent as a babe." And for this reason he grows fond of me. So it is with the people of Paris. Did I ride through the streets brandishing a sword on those August days and nights? No, I did not. But they did. Therefore it is comforting for them to recount my wickedness. They can then say: "Compared with Queen Jhesabel, we are innocent indeed." '

One day Charlotte de Sauves brought a book to Catherine.

'I think Your Majesty should see it,' she said, 'and that those who are guilty should be taken and punished.'

Catherine took the book, which was called The Life of St Catherine, and turned over the leaves. When she discovered that the title was an ironical one and the St Catherine was herself, she began to chuckle. There were hideous caricatures of her, only just recognizable in which she appeared quite gross. In these books were enumerated all the crimes of which the people of France accused her; everything evil that had happened in France since she, a little girl of fifteen, had ridden into the land to marry the King's son, were, according to the authors of this book, due to her.

Charlotte stood by, waiting for an outburst of wrath, but instead there came a loud guffaw.

Catherine called her women about her and read aloud to them.

'This is the story of your mistress, my friends. Now listen.' And she read until she was so overcome by mirth that she had to put the book away from her.

'It is well,' she said, 'that the French should know that they have a strong woman to rule them. Why, had I been given notice that such a book was about to be written, I could have told the authors many things of which they know nothing; I could have reminded them of much which they have forgotten. I could have helped them to make a bigger, finer book.'

Some of the women turned away that she might not see the looks of horror on their faces. They were depraved enough, since they were her creatures, but sometimes she revolted them. They realized that she, this Italian woman, this strange mistress of theirs, was different from others. She cared only for keeping power. She did not think beyond this life. This was why she could kill, and laugh at her killing, even be proud of it; she had no conscience to worry her.

Some of them remembered two boys they had seen among those pilgrims who had gone to look at the remains of Coligny, which had been hung on a gibbet at Montfaucon. One of those boys-he was only about fifteen years old-had broken down suddenly and flung himself on the ground while bitter sobs shook his body. The younger of the boys had stood very still, bewildered and frightened, too numbed by grief to weep as his brother did. When one knew that the fifteen-year-old boy was Francois de Coligny, and the younger one was his brother Andelot, that was an unforgettable tableau. One remembered too that Jacqueline de Coligny, in spite of her condition, had been carried off from Chatillon and put in a prison at Nice. Such matters haunted the memory. Moreover, these women were beset by superstitious fear. They remembered the miracle of Merlin, about which the Huguenots talked continually. Coligny's pastor had escaped on that night of terror. He had lain on the roofs after Teligny had been shot, and at length, weary beyond endurance, had clambered down from the roof to find himself beside a barn. Here he hid, and each day a hen came and-by the Grace of God, said the Huguenots-laid an egg beside him. This nourished him and kept him alive until the massacre was over.

Such stories were alarming, for it seemed that God was sometimes on the side of the Huguenots, even though the Virgin had made a hawthorn flower in the Cemetery of the Innocents.

Catherine laughed when she heard the story of Merlin and the eggs. It was she who recalled the flowering of the hawthorn.

'The good God preserve us from Heaven,' she cried, 'if when we get there we are going to find the Huguenots and Catholics still warring with one another.'

It was all very well to joke about such matters under the eye of the Queen Mother; but later came fears.

Catherine went on reading the book. She kept it with her, reading it at odd moments; and she was heard singing in her apartments: 'L'une ruyne d'Israel, L'autre, ruyne de la France.'

After the massacre, Guise and Margot were no longer lovers.

Margot, like so many others, could not forget the massacre. She believed, as did most people, that her mother had inspired it and that, more than any person in France, she was responsible for it; but she could not forget the part her lover had played in it.

She had actually seen him, riding through the streets urging people to kill, and, she told herself impetuously, she could never love him again. He had changed, as she had; he was no longer the charming boy, but a man whose ambition meant far more to him than love ever could. He had known that she, as the wife of a Huguenot, must have been in danger, but he had neglected her. All that she had once so ardently loved in him-his beauty, his charm, his virility, and even his ambition, for she had believed then that a man must be ambitious to prove his manhood-now increased her indifference towards him.

He came to her after the massacre was over.

She said: 'You keep your appointment, Monsieur, but are you not a little late?'

He did not know that she had decided to finish with him. 'But, Margot, you understand how I have been occupied.'

'Too occupied in shedding blood to think of love!' she said. 'It had to be.'

She studied him closely. He had grown older. She thought: he will age quickly. Then she smiled, thinking of Monsieur de 'Aran, the man who had burst so dramatically into her bedchamber; he was still weak, but, thanks to her, he would recover. He was very handsome, tender and grateful. One did not always want such self-satisfied, such arrogant and self-sufficient lovers as the man who stood before her now. There were some on whom too many gifts were showered; and such people knew little of gratitude for services rendered-and gratitude could be a delightful thing.

He came to her and put his arms about her. She did not repulse him yet; she laughed up at him.

'And now,' she said, 'there is time for love?'

'My darling,' he answered, 'it has been long, but love keeps; and can be all the more sweet for the waiting.'