Catherine bade farewell to her beloved son.

'My darling,' she said, 'you must go, but believe me when I tell you it shall not be for long. You should not have gone at all if I had had my will.'

Anjou had to be content with that. He guessed that the King's sudden decision not to accompany the party farther than Vitry-sur-Marne, and his immediate return to Paris with a few friends, meant that one of the latter had discovered his mother's plans. This brought home to him afresh the fact that his mother was not all-powerful. People had become more suspicious of her than ever.

He wept dramatically and declared himself to be the most unhappy man in the world.

'I must leave the Princess whom I love; I must leave my mother, who is my good friend; I must leave my home and my family. Oh, what a sad fate it is to be a King!'

He had desired above all things to be a King, but a King of France, not of Poland. However, he could not but enjoy the role of exile; he played it delicately and with tears which were not allowed to spoil his complexion or redden the lids of his long dark eyes.

But when he had left the French border and was travelling through Flanders-which he was forced to do in order to reach Poland-he began to realize that a really uncomfortable stage of his journey had begun. He entered a small town with his entourage and, expecting to be admired as he had been during the first stages of his journey, he prepared himself to smile graciously on the assembled townsfolk who must, his gentlemen assured him, be as enchanted by the sight of him as those of his Polish subjects who had already seen him had undoubtedly been.

To his horror, he found that numbers of those people in the streets were not foreigners; they were French-men and women who had recently fled from France to escape the Catholic persecution in which he himself had played so prominent a part.

They shouted after him as he rode by: 'Ah, there he goes, the fop! The dandy! But not too foppish, not too much the dandy to stain his hands with the blood of martyrs. Where were you, Monsieur, on the night of August the 23rd . . . the 24th the 25th? . . . Answer. Answer.'

He look at those people and shuddered. They threw mud and dung at him, and he was horrified to see and smell it on his beautiful clothes. There was nothing he and his followers could do but dig their spurs into their horses' flanks and ride away to the ironical laughter of the French refugees.

It was a most uncomfortable journey. Anjou dreaded entering the towns; he hated the discomfort of such travel. He longed for his charming mistress; he longed for the luxurious comfort of Paris.

'And whither are we bound?' he complained. 'Only for some foreign land. How can such as. I exist among savages! My mother promised that I should not be away from home for long, but how can she prevent it? My brother ignores her now. How discourteously he left us to continue our journey! She no longer has any power over him. He is jealous of me . . . so he banishes me. It may be . . . for ever!'

But there were worse shocks awaiting the unhappy Anjou. The Elector Palatine received him courteously; he could do nothing else, since he was not now at war with France; but Anjou, remembering his reception by the French refugees and some of the natives of this Protestant land, had one wish, and that was to reach Poland as soon as possible.

'You honour us indeed,' said the Elector; but he did not act as though this were an honour he greatly appreciated. He and his fellow countrymen in their simple dress managed to make Anjou feel ill at ease and ridiculous as he never did at home; and while these people entertained him with all the honour due to him, they made him realize that they did not forget the St Bartholomew for one moment and blamed him as one of those responsible for the massacre.

The Elector himself, when the banquet in Anjou's honour was over, conducted the Duke to his chamber. It was dimly lighted and it was only when Anjou was alone-but for a few attendants-that he noticed the murals. Taking a candle to study them more closely, he uttered a scream of horror, and almost dropped his candle. He was looking at a picture of a Paris square, and in that square were bodies piled one on top of the other. There was a headless corpse in the forefront of the picture; and looking on, smiles on their faces-which must have been the most diabolical ever depicted-were men and women, all of whom wore hats with white crosses on them.

Anjou shuddered and turned away, but his eyes were immediately held by another picture. Here was Paris again, showing horrors more terrible than the first. From this he went to a picture of Lyons and then to another, on the same subject, of Rouen.

All four walls of the apartment were painted with pictures of the massacre of the St Bartholomew and, so lifelike were they, so realistic, that Anjou could not avoid the feeling that he stood in those streets depicted there, and that the horrors were still going on.

He turned to his young men, but they were as shocked as he was and could offer no comfort.

'What do they intend to do to us?' whispered one of them.

'They are attempting to unnerve us!' cried Anjou. 'To let us know that they remember. As long as that is all, no harm can come to us.'

He threw himself on to his bed, but he was in no mood for sleep. He ordered that all candles should be snuffed out; but when the apartment was in darkness the pictures seemed more vivid than before, since imagination, aided by memory, could conjure up scenes more readily than the excellent artist whom the Elector had employed for the discomfiture of the guest he hated.

'Light the candles!' cried Anjou. 'I cannot endure the darkness. How many hours till morning?'

There were many hours to be lived through before he could leave this accursed place, he knew.

He could not keep his eyes from the pictures.

'I feel that I am there . . . in Paris . . . looking on . . . seeing it all. Oh, my friends, it was even more terrible than that. But how real the blood looks in the pictures! . . . Oh, what blood we shed in Paris! It will never be forgotten.'

His friends assured him that he had not been to blame. 'Others were responsible. There was nothing you could have done to prevent it.'

But if Anjou lacked courage, he did not lack imagination, and those pictures recalled too many memories for his peace of mind. There was no sleep for him that night. He lay tossing and turning on his bed, calling to his friends not to sleep, but to talk to him, amuse him. He had them snuff out the candles; then he had them relighted. He could not make up his mind whether he would rather see the pictures or imagine them springing to life in the darkness.

A few hours before dawn, he got up. 'I cannot rest,' he said, 'and I do not think I ever shall until I have written down what happened on that night. The world should know. So, I will write a confession. I will not excuse myself, for I am as guilty as most, of that horrible crime. I will write now . . . this instant. I cannot bear to wait.'

When writing material had been brought to him, he took one of the lighted candles and opened the door of a closet.

'I shall write in here,' he said, 'and by the time I have finished, perhaps it will be morning. Then we will leave this place and ride on to Cracow with all speed.'

He stared, and fell backwards. It seemed to him that a man stood in the closet, a tall man of noble countenance, who looked down on him with stern and haughty eyes.

'Coligny!' screamed Anjou, and he fell on his knees, dropping the candle, which was extinguished. 'Oh . . . Coligny . . .' he gasped, 'come back from the dead . . . to haunt me . . .'

His friends rushed to him, bearing lights. They grew pale when they saw what Anjou had seen. Some covered their eyes with a hand to shut out the vision. But one man, bolder than the rest, lifted his candle high and looked full into the face of what the others had believed to be the Admiral's ghost.

'Mon Dieu!' he cried. 'It is the Admiral to the very life. But . . . it is only a picture.'

Anjou went back to the main apartment, and spent the rest of the night in writing what he called his confession.

The next day he left the town in haste; he had no wish to-stay in a land where such cruel tricks were played upon him.

But he had learned something. The massacre of St. Bartholomew would never be forgotten while men lived on Earth, and those who had taken part in it would be held in horror and dismay by countless millions of their fellow men.

Anjou was in a high fever by the time he reached Cracow.

Margot was restless. Her love affair with Monsieur Leran, who had been so charmingly grateful since she had saved his life on the night of the massacre, was palling; and Margot was discovering that, although she could remain faithful to Monsieur de Guise for years, she could not be so for long to any other. At times she still hankered after the handsome Duke, and she would have taken him back but for his attachment to Charlotte de Sauves. She knew Charlotte too well; Charlotte never released a man until she was tired of him, and Margot had an idea that Charlotte was going to love Guise as constantly as she herself had. Surprisingly, it seemed that Charlotte could be in love, for she had changed, growing more softly beautiful; and Margot, sensing this had a good deal to do with Henry of Guise, was jealous, but her pride remained stronger than her jealousy.

She knew that in refusing to allow herself to be divorced from Navarre and married to Guise she had wounded her former lover deeply. He would never, she knew, forgive the slight; he would remember it against her as he had remembered his father's death against Coligny. He no longer looked her way; he no longer sent those appealing and tender glances towards her. If he noticed her at all, it was to let her know how deeply absorbed he was in his new love affair, how delightful he found Charlotte de Sauves.

Dissatisfied, jealous and bored, Margot looked about her for fresh excitement. Perhaps she needed a new lover. But who was there? There was none who specially pleased her; if she selected one for his charming manners, for his handsome face, she would, before she realized what she was doing, find herself comparing him with Henry of Guise, and there would begin once more that battle between desire and pride.

She supposed it was not too late to ask for that divorce and to marry him. He would undoubtedly consent; it was ambition first with Monsieur de Guise; but should she marry him to satisfy his ambitions? And what if he continued his liaison with Charlotte de Sauves after their marriage!

No, she had sworn to have finished with Henry of Guise, and finished she had. She must find another lover, or some excitement. But now . . . what excitement was there? Masques, ballets . . . all commonplace to her; she could no longer be excited by a new gown, by a new wig or an exaggerated hairstyle. As for lovers, she must first be in love; and how could she fall in love at will?

It was while she was in this state of restlessness that one of her women, Madame de Moissons, who had always been anxious to serve her since Margot had saved her husband's life at the time of the massacre, came to her and asked if she might have a word with her in private.

Madame de Moissons, who had suffered great mental torture when the life of her husband had been at stake, was a woman who lived in continual terror of further risings; it was this fear Which had now caused her to seek the help of Margot.

'I would speak with Your Majesty alone,' she said, 'if you would grant me that honour.'

Margot, guessing from the woman's demeanour that she was deeply perturbed, immediately granted the request.

When they were alone, Madame de Moissons burst out: 'I do not know if I do right in telling you what I have discovered, but I think Your Majesty may know how to act. It concerns the King of Navarre and the Duke of Alencon. They plan to escape, join a Huguenot force and take the offensive against the Catholic army.'

'They cannot be so foolish.'

'Indeed yes, Madame. That is what they plan. Madame, can you plead with them, stop them? They will plunge France into civil war once more. There will be more bloodshed and when it starts who knows where it will end?'

'They are like irresponsible children,' said Margot. 'And when is this plot to be put into effect?'

'As soon as is possible, Madame. But the King of Navarre finds it difficult to tear himself away from Madame de Sauves, to whom, as you know, he is deeply attracted.'

Margot was seized with a jealous fury, but she managed to say calmly to Madame de Moissons: 'Leave this to me. I will see that this plot is foiled.'

'Madame, I would not care to bring trouble on the King of Navarre, who has always been so good to my husband.'

'He will be safe enough,' said Margot; and she dismissed the woman.

When she was alone she threw herself on to her bed and thumped the cushions angrily. She, Marguerite, the Princess of France and the Queen of Navarre had, she considered, been most vilely used. Her lover had deserted her for Madame de Sauves; and her stupid husband made dangerous plots and then hesitated to put them into action for love of the same woman. Henry of Guise had sworn to love her for ever and it seemed as though he had forgotten her; she and her husband were to have been allies, if not lovers, and he, with Alencon, had made this plot without her knowledge. She did not know who angered her most-Guise, Navarre or Charlotte de Sauves.

She acted impulsively as she always acted; and, rising from her bed, she went to the King.

He was with their mother and she asked if she might speak with them alone.

'I have discovered a plot,' she said.

They were alert. Neither of them trusted her, but they could see that she was not only excited but angry.

'Tell us, my dear,' said Catherine, and the sound of her mother's voice sobered Margot. What was she doing? She was betraying her husband and her brother. She took fright. She had no wish to harm either of them; she discovered in that moment that she was quite fond of them both.

She temporized. 'If I tell you what I have discovered, will you promise me that no harm shall come to the two people who are most deeply involved?'

'Yes, yes,' said Catherine.

'Charles,' said Margot, 'I want your word. I have discovered something which it is my duty to tell you, but I cannot do so until you promise me, on your sacred honour as King of France, that you will not harm those two involved'

'I give my word,' said the King.

Catherine smiled sardonically. So her word was not good enough! It seemed that all her children were banding together against her.

'My husband and Alencon plan to escape from Paris, to join their friends and form an army which they intend to use against yours.'

The King began to sweat, his fingers to twitch, 'You have proof of this?' asked Catherine.

'No. I have only heard of it. If you search their apartments, doubtless you will find evidence.'

'We will have their apartments searched at once,' said Catherine. 'You have done well, daughter.'

'And your promise not to harm them is not forgotten?'

'My dear Marguerite, do you think I would hurt my own son and him who has become my son through his marriage with you . . . mischievous as they may be! Now, there is no time to be lost.'

Catherine was as energetic as ever. She made Navarre and Alencon her prisoners as a result of what she discovered; but they were not confined to dungeons, and continued to live, under guard, at the palace.

Henry of Guise faced the Queen Mother.

'Their friendship,' he said, 'began at the siege of La Rochelle. I cannot understand it. They are an ill-assorted pair. Something must be done to separate them. They are full of mischief, both of them. This plot of theirs proves that. Madame, something must be done immediately.'

Catherine studied him. She feared him, as much as she feared anyone in France, and yet that cool courage of his, that handsome presence, inspired admiration even in her. A surprisingly disloyal thought came to her then. She wished that this Henry had been her Henry. She would have loved him then with a great devotion and together they would have shared all the power in France. But he was not her son and because this was the case she resented that arrogance of his, that insolent manner of telling her what should be done, as though he were the master and she a favoured servant.

In accordance with her usual habit, she hid her resentment and wore an expression of humility. 'You are right, Monsieur de Guise,' she said. 'You may rest assured that after this scare I will do something to spoil their unnatural friendship.'

'Madame,' said Guise, 'I do not trust the King of Navarre. I do not think he is such a fool as he would have us believe. He poses as a frivolous man, thinking of nothing but women.'

'Ah,' said Catherine, 'a man can think of women and politics at the same time, can he not?'

Guise ignored the barb and went on: 'His manner, I feel sure, is a pose. He should be kept under strict surveillance. And as for the Duke of Alencon . . .' Guise shrugged his shoulders.

'You may speak out,' said Catherine. 'Though he is my son, I know him as a man who is full of mischief and who must be watched.'

'But for our good fortune in discovering this plot, these two might have made good their escape. There are still enough Huguenots in the country to cause us trouble, Madame.'

'It is indeed fortunate that we discovered the plot in time. We owe it to Madame de Sauves, did you know?'

The Duke raised his eyebrows, and Catherine, who knew him so well, realized that his heart had begun to beat a little faster at the mention of his mistress in this connexion.

'The King of Navarre, as you know,' went on Catherine, 'is more interested in women than in politics. He found it difficult to tear himself away from the lady-otherwise he would have escaped before we realized what he was about. His hesitation betrayed him, Monsieur.'

'We must be grateful for that, Madame.'

'Very grateful indeed to that fair lady, who is, I am told, irresistible to so many.'

'Madame, the first thing we must do is to drive a wedge between Navarre and Alencon.'

'Leave that to me, Monsieur.'

'How will you accomplish it?'

'As yet I am unsure, but I am giving the matter my deepest consideration. You will see how I intend to separate those two, and you will see it in a very short time. Now, if you will forgive me, I must ask you to leave me, as I have much to do which I dare neglect no longer.'

As soon as he had left her, alone as she was, she began to laugh.

'Ah, Monsieur de Guise,' she chuckled, 'you will soon see how I plan to separate those two.'

She went to the door, called her dwarf and sent him in search of Madame de Sauves.

'And see,' she added, 'that when she arrives, she is left alone with me.'

Charlotte came immediately.

'You may sit, my dear,' said Catherine. 'Now tell me: how progresses your affair with the King of Navarre?'

'Just as Your Majesty commanded it should.'

'You must be a witch, Charlotte, to keep such a man dancing attendance on you without receiving any satisfaction.'

'I have behaved in accordance with Your Majesty's instructions,' said Charlotte.