Then someone whispered: 'They say he has been cruelly tortured. It was the Boot. Both have been tortured . . . La Mole and Coconnas. They cannot walk to their execution.'

'Poor gentlemen. Poor handsome gentlemen.'

'How long shall we allow that woman to rule this land?' But the tumbrils had stopped, and the two men were being carried to the scaffold.

The packed crowd watched; many among it wept openly. It seemed so cruel that these men should die for making a waxen image of one who was all but dead himself. Tortured as they had been, they still bore signs of handsome elegance.

The executioner signed to the men who carried La Mole to set him down on the scaffold.

'Your time has come, Monsieur,' he murmured.

'I am ready,' said La Mole. 'Adieu, my darling,' he whispered.

The executioner placed him where he wished him to be.

'Have you anything more to say, Monsieur?'

'Nothing, but that I ask you to commend me to the Queen of Navarre. Tell her, I beg of you, that her name was the last that passed my lips. Oh, Marguerite, my queen . . . my love . . .'

He laid his head on the block and waited for the deft blow of the executioner's sword.

A deep sigh broke from the watching crowd.

It was the turn of Coconnas. First the brief and terrible silence, then the muttered words, the flash of the sword, and the head of Coconnas lay with that of his friend on the blood-stained straw.

Catherine was triumphant. There was now no doubt that the King was dying. He was no longer strong enough even to be carried about in a litter. He could not leave his bedchamber.

It was May month and the apartment was full of sunshine. Close to the King's bed, the little Queen sat, pretending she had a cold that she might now and then furtively wipe away the tears which she could not suppress. Madeleine's face was distorted with grief. Marie Touchet watched, pale and full of sorrow. These women who had guarded him knew that the end could not be far away.

Margot also watched, but Catherine guessed that her thoughts were not on the King. She was still, as Catherine put it to herself, 'temporarily heartbroken' over the La Mole affair. What a complex creature Margot was! The document she had recently drawn up in defence of her husband had astonished Catherine. She realized that her daughter was one of the cleverest people at the court. She had the brain of a lawyer, and Monsieur Pare said that had she wished she could have been the best of all his pupils. Her mind was lively, shrewd and cunning; she had the Medici mind; yet she had inherited many traits from her grandfather, Francis the First, and her sensuality was so dominant that it overshadowed other more noble characteristics She spent many hours at her writing desk; she was a dreamer and her imagination was so vivid that she must continually concoct adventures, when they did not occur in fact; and herself, whether in fact or fiction, must always play the heroine. She wrote her memoirs regularly, and these, Catherine knew, were highly coloured versions of what actually happened at the court, with Margot always portrayed as the central figure of romance and intrigue.

Watching her daughter now, she thought of how, after the execution of those young men, Margot had given orders that their heads were to be brought to her; and now she and that frivolous Henriette de Nevers had had the heads embalmed with sweet spices and fitted into extravagantly jewelled caskets, so that they could spend a good deal of time lavishing caresses on them, recalling past pleasures, curling the hair on those dead heads and weeping with bitter enjoyment. No, Margot was certainly not to be unduly feared while her sentimental nature was allowed to override her intelligence.

There was little to fear from Charles now. His son was dead, and his other child, being a girl, was no obstacle to Henry's coming to the throne. Charles could not last many more hours. Alencon and Navarre were in semi-captivity; Montgomery and Cosse were to be removed at the first opportunity. Why should she delay? She slipped out of the death chamber to her own and sent for six of her most trusted men.

When they stood before her, she said to them: 'Ride as fast as you can to Poland. The King is dead . . . or so near to death that one may call him so. Long live King Henry the Third!'

She smiled contentedly after they had gone. The great moment for which she had waited so long had arrived. Her darling Henry was about to be King.

But in the royal bedchamber the King was clinging to his life.

He cried weakly in the arms of Madeleine. 'Oh, God,' he murmured, 'what blood! What murders! Oh, God . . . forgive me. Oh, God, have mercy on my soul. I know not where I am. Marie, Madeleine . . . do not leave me. Do not leave me for an instant. Tell me where I am.'

'In my arms, my dearest,' said Madeleine. 'Safe in my arms: Marie stood on the other side of the bed, and Charles took her hand.

'What will become of this country?' he said; his voice rose to a shriek and died away pitiably. 'And what will become of me? It was in my hands that God placed the fate of this great country. There is nothing you can say to alter that.'

'There, my darling, my Charlot,' soothed Madeleine. 'May the murders and the bloodshed be upon the heads of those, who compelled you to them. . . on your evil counsellors, Sire.'

Madeleine, looking up, met the cold eyes of Catherine fixed upon her; Catherine's cold mouth smiled slightly. Charles was aware of his mother's presence and held out his hand as though to ward her off.

'Madame,' he said, 'I must trust you to look after my wife and daughter.'

'Rest assured, my son, that they will be well cared for.' 'And Marie . . . and her son . .

'You have provided for them, Charles. I promise you that no harm shall come to them.'

Catherine smiled on Marie, poor meek Marie. She had caused little trouble except in those last weeks when she, with Madeleine, had stubbornly refused to leave the King's side. But that was forgotten now, for the King was dying and that was what Catherine was waiting for. It mattered very little whether he had died a few weeks ago or now; his death was all that mattered. Let Marie live in peace, then; she was not of sufficient importance to be considered. Charles had created her son Duke of Angouleme, so Marie-the provincial judge's daughter-had nothing of which to complain.

'I will look after your Queen and her little daughter. I will see that Marie and her son are cared for. Have no fear. These matters shall be attended to.'

He looked at her suspiciously and then asked that Navarre should be sent for.

Navarre was brought by guards, who waited for him outside the King's bedchamber.

'You plotted against me,' said the King. 'That was unkind. Yet I trust you . . . as I cannot trust my brothers. It is because of something plain about you . . . something that smacks of honesty. I am glad you came to say goodbye to me. I sent for you for a reason, but I cannot think what it was. There are enemies all about you. I know. You should be warned. There is one here whom you must not trust. I was warned, but I think the warning came too late for me. Mayhap it will not be too late for you. Do not trust . . .' He turned his eyes on his mother, and stared at her as though unable to take them away. 'Do not trust . . he began again. His lips were trembling, and Marie had to bend over him to wipe the foam from his mouth.

'You tire yourself, my son,' said Catherine.

'No, I will say it. I will. It is the truth, and because it is the truth I must say it. Brother . . . Navarre . . . look after my Queen and my daughter. Look after Marie and her child. To you I leave the care of Madeleine. For you are the only one I dare trust. Promise me. Promise me.'

Navarre, whose tears came easily, wept without restraint. He kissed the King's hand. 'Sire, I swear. I will defend them with my life.'

'I thank thee, brother. It is strange that you should be the one I trust . . . you, who have plotted against the crown. But trust you I do. Pray to God for me. Farewell, brother. Farewell.' He looked at his mother and said: 'I rejoice that I have no son to leave behind me who would have to wear the crown of France after me.'

He lay back in his bed after that speech; he was overcome by exhaustion.

He has spoken his last, thought Catherine. And now . . . that for which I have longed over so many dangerous and bitter years . . . that for which I have worked, schemed and killed . . . has now come to pass. My mad King Charles is dead, and my adored darling must now prepare to mount the throne.

THE KING OF POLAND WAS EXHAUSTED. He lay back on his cushions while two of his favourite young men fanned him . . . du Guast, the best loved of them all, and that amusing fellow Villequier. Others sat close to his bed; one picking out the best of the sweetmeats; another admiring the set of his jacket in the Venetian mirror which the King had brought with him from France. The King smiled at them all. He was not really dissatisfied with his little kingdom. It was gratifying to be loved as his subjects loved him. He had only to appear in the streets to be surrounded by admirers who deemed it a privilege to look at him, for they had never seen anyone so magnificent as this painted, perfumed King. Sometimes he wore women's clothes, and in these he looked more fantastic, more like a person apart from other men-which was what, his Polish subjects felt, a King should look like.

He had deteriorated a great deal since he had left France. He had lost even the slight energy he had possessed in his teens; he had become more selfish, more dependent on luxury. Now he feigned exhaustion because there were state duties which should be attended to. He loathed the meetings of his ministers; their councils bored him. He continually assured them that they could hold their gatherings without him. They must understand, he pointed out, that he was of gentle breeding and came from the fair and civilized land of France, from the most intellectual court in the world. He was no barbarian. He must have music to soothe him, not council meetings to plague him; he must listen to the reading of poetry which delighted him, not the harangues of politicians which tired him.

Count Tenczynski, his chief minister, was bowing before him, overcome with delight by the sweet perfumes and the sensuous decor of the King's apartments, admiring, as all his fellow countrymen did, this air of luxury and civilization which French Henry had brought into their land.

'And so, my dear Tenczynski,' said the King, 'I am weary. You must conduct your politics without me.' He turned towards the gentleman who was eating sweetmeats. 'One for me, dear fellow,' he said. 'You greedy creature, would you eat them all yourself?'

'I but tested them, dearest Majesty, to find which was worthy of your palate.'

The sweet was popped into the royal mouth by the gentleman, whose hand was patted affectionately by his master.

Tenczynski murmured: 'We would not tire your Majesty. If it is Your Majesty's wish that we should proceed without you .

Henry waved his beautiful white hand. 'That is my wish, my dear Tenczynski. Go to your council and when it is over come back and we will tell you of the wonderful ball we are giving tomorrow night.'

Tenczynski lifted his shoulders and laughed. 'A ball . . . tomorrow night?' he said.

'A ball, my dear Tenczynski, such as you have never before seen. Now leave me, and when you return for my coucher I shall tell you all about it and what I shall wear.'

'Your Majesty deserves the grateful appreciation of your subjects,' said Tenczynski, bowing low.

When he had gone, Henry yawned. He decided to tease his young men by talking of the Princess of Conde.

'To think I have not set eyes on her fair face for six long months!'

The young men were sullen; but they knew that he was teasing. They were not really distubred; nor was Henry really longing for the Princess. This was just a game they played between them.

'Don't sulk,' said Henry. 'And another sweetmeat. I am going to write to the Princess tonight.'

'You tire yourself with writing to the Princess,' said du Guast.

'You are mistaken, my friend. I am stimulated by writing to the Princess.'

Villequier pleaded: 'Leave it until tomorrow, dearest Sire, and talk about your toilette for the ball.'

The King was tempted irresistibly. 'I shall be in green silk, and I shall be dressed as a woman. My gown will be cut low and I shall wear emeralds and pearls. And now . . . my writing materials, please. You may discuss together what you are going to wear, because I shall be rather cross if you do not surpass yourselves.'

They could see that he was determined to write to the Princess, so they brought the materials for which he asked. He sent for his jewelled stiletto and, when it was brought, he pricked his finger while the young men looked on in sorrow. Then he began to write to the Princess of Conde in his own blood, an affectation which delighted him.

'When you read this letter, my darling, you must remember that it is written in royal Valois blood, the blood of him who now sits on the throne of Poland. Ah, I would it were that of France! And why? Because of that greater honour? No, my love. Because, were I King of France, you would be beside me.'

While he was writing du Guast entered the chamber; he was excited, but Henry did not look up. He thought the favourite's jealousy had prompted him to interrupt the letter-writing on some small pretext.

'Sire,' said du Guast, 'there is a messenger without. He brings great news.'

'A messenger!' Henry laid aside his love letter. 'What news?'

'Great news, Sire. From France.'

'Bring him in Bring him in.'

When the man was brought in, he went to the King and knelt before him with a great show of reverence. Then, having kissed the delicate hand, he cried aloud: 'Long live King Henry the Third of France.'

Henry lifted his hand and smiled. 'So,' he said, 'my brother is dead at last . . . and you come from my mother. Welcome! You have other news for me?

'None, Sire, except that the Queen Mother urges your return to France without delay.'

The King patted the messenger's shoulder. 'My attendants will give you the refreshments you deserve for bringing such news. Take him away. Give him food and drink. See that he is well looked after.'

When they were alone, Henry lay back, his arms behind his head, smiling at his young men.

'At last!' cried the impetuous Villequier. 'That for which we have long hoped and prayed has come to pass.

'I must return to France at once,' said the King.

'This very night!' cried Villequier.

'Sire,' said the more sober du Guast, 'that will not be necessary. The Poles know that they cannot detain you now. Summon the ministers and tell them what has happened. Make your plans to leave. You will be ready in a day or so. But to go tonight would appear as if you were escaping.'

Henry frowned on du Guast. He had already pictured himself and his companions slipping away, riding hard into France. He smiled on Villequier, for that gentleman's suggestion pleased him.

'They will try to detain me,' he said. 'You know how they love me. I have told them that there is to be a great ball tomorrow night, and they will not let me go until that is over.'

'Give them their ball,' advised du Guast. 'Let it be a farewell ceremony. Explain to them that, although you remain the King of Poland, it is necessary that you go immediately to France to show yourself to the people and to arrange matters of state for which you, as their King, are responsible.'

'But, my dear, you know I must live in France from now on. A King of France cannot live in Poland.'

'They will not know this, Sire. It can be broken to them later on.

'He is wrong,' said Villequier, who was impatient to feel the soil of France under his feet. 'We must leave for France at once . . . tonight. Does not the Queen Mother say so?'

'I believe you are right, dear Villequier,' said Henry. 'Yes. That is what I shall do. Now, my dears, let us make our plans. Have horses saddled ready for us. After the attendants have left for the night, I will rise, hastily dress, and we will not lose a moment. We will gallop off to our beloved France.'

Du Guast said wearily: 'Such dramatic action is not necessary, sire.'

Henry was peevish. He had grown completely self-indulgent during his reign in Poland. He enjoyed acting strangely and in a completely unexpected manner. He did not care how foolish he was he enjoyed astonishing himself as well as those about him. Du Guast, recognizing the mood, knew that it was useless to remonstrate.

'I long for the civilization of France!' cried Henry. 'The only things I shall regret leaving behind me are the crown jewels of Poland.'

'But they belong now to Your Majesty,' said Villequier.

'Whether you are in France or in Poland, you are still the King of Poland. Take the crown jewels with you, Sire.'

Henry languidly kissed Villequier on either cheek. 'You have made me very happy, dear friend,' he said. 'I could not have borne to part with those jewels.'

They dispersed to make their arrangements, and when the time came for the coucher they were ready for flight.

Tenczynski presided over the ceremony while the Polish nobles stood about smiling with pleasure, as they always did in the presence of the King. Henry lay back in his bed and talked desultorily, for a while.

He yawned. 'I declare I am tired tonight. I have been so busy all day with the preparations for tomorrow's ball.'

'Then,' said Tenczynski, 'we will leave Your Majesty to your slumbers.'

Henry closed his eyes, and the curtains about his bed were drawn. All left the bedchamber and there was quiet throughout the palace.

Half an hour later, as they had arranged, his young men, already dressed and booted, came quietly in. They, all assisted in the dressing of the King, and, taking the Polish crown jewels with them, they left the palace, made their way to where the saddled horses were waiting, and rode secretly out of Cracow.

It was exciting to imagine themselves pursued. They rode on with great speed but without much sense of direction, and when they had ridden for some hours, they found themselves on the banks of the Vistula and had no idea how they had reached it, nor which way they should go.

They looked at each other in consternation. It was not part of the King's exciting plan that they. should be lost. let us ride into the forest,' said du Guast. 'We may find a guide.'

This they did, riding hard until they came to a woodcutter's hut, where Villequier, pointing his dagger at the man's throat, insisted that he leave his family and guide the party to the frontier. The trembling man had no alternative but to agree, but it was two days and nights before the party reached the frontier. There Tenczynski was waiting for them with three hundred Tartars.

Du Guast could not repress a smile of triumph, for he had at least proved his point that this piece of dramatic play-acting would be useless.

Tenczynski dropped on his knees before the King. 'I have followed you, Sire,' he said, 'to beg you to return to Cracow. Your subjects are plunged into sorrow because you have left them. Return, Sire, and you will find a great welcome waiting for you. Your subjects will be as obedient and loving as they have ever been.'

'My dear Count,' said Henry, 'you must know that I have been recalled to my native land. The French crown is my birthright. Do not think, because I must hasten to France, that I shall not return to Poland . . . the land which I have grown to love. Just let me settle my affairs in France and I will be back.'