'No, my son. All these years since the death of your father, I have fought the enemies of our family. I . . . single-handed, a weak woman. Your brother was King until he died, poor boy; then you were King, and for twelve years I have kept the throne for you in difficulties and against odds such as you cannot yet understand. When my history is written it will be said: "There was a woman who lived for her sons alone. There is the most devoted mother the world has ever known, for in spite of plots and treachery, in spite of the suspicion of her own children, she won their rights for them, and she held their rights; she sacrificed her life for them." That is true, is it not, my son? Have you not been King since the death of your brother Francis? And that in spite of all the wicked men who have sought to dethrone you!'

'Yes, Mother, it is true.'

'Well then, will you not listen to your mother now?'

'Yes, Mother, yes. But I cannot believe that Coligny would be treacherous towards me. He is such a good man. He is so brave.'

'He is a good man according to his lights as a Huguenot. He is undoubtedly brave. But he is not your man, my son. To his enemies we know he is ruthless, and you, perforce, are his enemy.'

'No! I am his friend. He loves me as a son. He would not lie to me when it might well be that he is about to face his God.'

'He would think he did right to lie for the sake of his faith. That is his way, my son. It is the way of them all. Oh, be guided by your mother. Do not let them drag you from your family. Do not let them take you to the torture chambers, stretch your poor limbs, mutilate your dear body. I would not let Bouchavannes tell you of all the things they threaten to do to you.'

'You know then! You . . . you must tell me.'

'It is better not to know, my son. If you are determined to sacrifice yourself and your family for the Admiral, then for the love of God do not ask me to tell you of the tortures they are preparing for you. Have you ever seen a man roasted to death over a slow fire? No. You could not face it. Have you ever seen flesh torn with red-hot pincers and molten lead poured into the wounds? Nay! You could never bear to see such things.'

'They have said . . . they will do . . . these things to me!'

She nodded.

'I do not believe it. Men like Coligny . . . Teligny . . . my dearest Rochefoucauld!'

'My darling, the mob takes matters out of the hands of such men. When the mob rises the leaders must give them a free hand with the prisoners. Do you remember Amboise and the executions there? I made you look on, did I not, because I wished you to know of such things. You and your brothers and sisters looked on and saw men's limbs cut off . . . saw them die a hundred deaths . . . quick and slow.'

'Do not speak of it!' cried the King.

He had flung himself down. He was biting his fists and she saw the saliva foaming at his lips. She did not want him to lose complete control, for then he demanded blood. She must keep him in a state of terror as he was at such times when he hovered between sanity and madness.

'Charles, control yourself. It is not too late. You have many friends. I have called some of them together. They are waiting to see you now.'

He stared at her with wide bewildered eyes.

'Your friends, my dear son,' she said, 'Those who would stand between you and the horrible fate these traitors are preparing for you. Pull yourself together, my dearest. We must fight this and we will emerge triumphant. Do you think your mother would let them hurt her boy? Already she has laid her plans against your enemies, and your friends are ready to help her. These traitors make plans; but the real friends of the King also make plans. Come, my darling. Get up.' She stroked his cheek with her fingers. 'There, that is better, is it not? Your mother, who has always protected you, has protected you now, and when I take you to the council who are now waiting for you, you will see gathered together the great men of France, all ready, with their swords at their sides, to fight the traitors who would harm their King. You will be heartened, dear son, by what you see. Will you come to the meeting now?'

'Yes, Mother.'

'And will you believe what I and my friends have discovered as a result of working unfalteringly for you?'

'Yes, Mother.'

'Come, my darling. We will rid you of that spell which your enemies have laid upon you.' He was faltering and she went on. 'It is difficult, I know. The Admiral has some magic to help him. He stooped at that moment when the shot was fired. His devils were at his elbow, you see. They are with him now. But we will fight them with magic of our own, my son; and you know this: there is some magic in a mother's love for her son, in the loyalty of good friends. That is good magic, and evil spirits are afraid of good.'

She was leading him to the door. He was now hypnotized by her as he had been so many times during his childhood. He did not trust her; she terrified him; but he had to follow her; he had to obey.

In the council chamber the first person he noticed was Henry of Guise.

Guise bowed low. 'I have returned, Sire,' he said, 'hearing that Your Majesty had need of my sword.'

His brothers and his uncles were there. They each had a few words to say on their loyalty to the King. They had risked his displeasure, they assured him, solely that they might be at hand if needed.

The King saw that the members of the council were all Catholics. They talked of the plot against the King and the royal family which, so they said, had been discovered by their spy. They talked of the need for immediate action; they but asked the consent of the King.

Charles looked round at the group of men and wanted to fling himself on to the floor and give way to the paroxysm that he felt was so close. He wanted to lose consciousness of reality, in his mad, fantastic world. He did not know how long he would be able to restrain himself. He felt the mad pumping of his heart; it was difficult to breathe. And as he stood there, he thought of the stern yet kindly face of the Admiral, of the last words he had spoken to him: 'Beware of your evil genius . . .'

And there, close to him, stood this evil genius . . . his own mother, her eyes large, the largest things in the room . . . so large that he could not escape from them; and as he looked at them he seemed to see there all the horrors of which she had talked to him; it seemed to him that he was not in this room, but in the torture chambers; they had taken off his clothes; they were putting him on the rack; and the torturer was bending over him. The torturer had the stern and noble face of Gaspard de Coligny.

He heard his own voice; it sounded faint, but that was only because of the pounding of the blood in his head which made such a noise; he knew that he was shouting.

'By the death of God, since you have decided to kill the Admiral, then I consent. My God . . . but then you must kill every Huguenot in France, so that none is left to reproach me with that bloody deed after it is done!'

He was aware of his mother's triumphant smile. He turned from her. He was trembling violently and the foamy saliva spattered his velvet jacket.

He stared at Catherine. His evil genius! 'This is your wish!' he said. 'To kill . . . kill . . . kill!' He ran to the door of the chamber. He shouted: 'Kill . . . kill then . . . kill them all. That is it. Death . . . blood . . . blood on the cobbles . . . blood in the river . . . Kill them all, for that is what you wish.'

He ran sobbing to his apartments while the councillors looked from one to another in dismay. They had rarely seen even the King in such a sorry state.

Catherine turned on them sharply. 'Gentlemen,' she said, 'you have heard the command of the King. There is little time to be lost. Let us make our plans.'

And so discussion went on in the council chamber.

'Monsieur de Guise, it is only right that to you should be left the destruction of the Admiral, his suite and all his noblemen in the quarters about Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois.'

'Madame, you may safely leave my father's murderer and his followers to me and mine.'

'Monsieur de Montpensier, you should make yourself responsible for the suite of Conde.'

'Madame,' said Montpensier, 'what of the young Prince himself?'

Guise said: 'Did not the King say, "Kill every Huguenot"? Why should you wish to exclude the Prince of Conde, Monsieur? Every Huguenot was the King's command; and by that is included Conde, Navarre, Rochefoucauld and all Huguenots.'

Catherine was silent. Here was an old problem. She looked at them, these Princes of the House of Guise and Lorraine. They were full of arrogance and ambition. Henry of Guise was already in command of Paris; what if all the Bourbon Princes were destroyed? Why, then there would be no one between the House of Valois and the House of Guise and Lorraine. The men of Valois were not strong; they did not enjoy the rude physical health of the Guises. She had only to compare Henry of Guise with the mad King, or even with her own Henry, beautiful though he was. Even her beloved Henry could not compare with Henry of Guise for virility and strength of body. The Guises were irrepressible; they were natural leaders. Even now this Henry of Guise was ready to take over the management of the massacre as though he had been its instigator. Remove the Bourbons, and the House of Guise and Lorraine would know no restraint whatsoever.

She decided then that Navarre and Conde must not die.

The Duke of Nevers, whose sister had married the young Prince of Conde, had no wish to see his brother-in-law killed. Catherine glanced at him and with a look encouraged him to plead for young Conde, which he did with eloquence.

Catherine said: 'Let us give Conde and Navarre the chance of changing their religion.'

'That,' said Guise, 'they will never do.'

'In that case,' she promised him, 'they must go the way of the others. But I insist that they shall be given the chance to change. Now to more practical matters. What shall the signal be? Let the bell of the Palais de Justice give the signal. You must all be ready when it is given. l suggest it shall be when the first sign of dawn is in the sky. How many men can we rely on in Paris?'

An ex-prevot answered her. 'Twenty thousand at this time, Madame. Later we could call in thousands more.'

'Twenty thousand,' repeated Catherine. 'They would all be ready to follow the Duke of Guise?'

The Duke reassured her that this would be so.

He gave instructions to the prey& who was then in office. 'Monsieur le Charron, it will be necessary to close all city gates so that none may leave or enter. There must be no movement of boats on the Seine.'

Catherine, visualizing revolt, insisted that all the artillery should be moved from the Hotel de Ville.

'Later, Monsieur le Charron,' she said, 'you will learn where it is to be placed.'

Le Charron was aghast. He had come to the council expecting to discuss the dispatch of a dangerous enemy, and now he found himself confronted with a plan for wholesale murder. Catherine saw his hesitancy and it terrified her. She had caught her son's fears. This was, she knew, the most dangerous period she had yet lived through. One false move and the tables could be turned; it might be herself, her sons, the royal House of Valois, who were massacred in place of the Huguenots.

She said sharply: 'There will be no orders given until the morning; and, Monsieur le Charron, all traitors to our Catholic cause need expect no mercy.'

'Madame,' said the terrified le Charron, 'I am at your command.'

'That is well for you, Monsieur,' she said coldly, but she was shaken.

They went on with their plans. Each Catholic should wear about his arm a white scarf, and there should be a white cross in his hat. Everything must be planned to the minutest detail. There must be no false moves.

Finally the council broke up and the nerve-racking period of waiting began.

It seemed to Catherine that the night would never come. She did not believe she had ever before experienced such fear. Up and down her apartment she paced, her black garments flowing about her, her lips dry, her heart pounding, her limbs trembling, while she sought in vain that calm which she had maintained in the course of so many dangerous years.

All those in the secret were awaiting the signal, but first there was a night to be lived through, a night of suspense and fear. Guise and his family with their followers were in their hotel waiting for the hours to pass. Instructions had been given to trusted friends. But who could still be trusted? She had seen the revulsion in the face of le Charron, the prevot. Could le Charron be trusted?

Never had time passed so slowly for the Queen Mother. This was the most critical, the most important night of her life. It must be successful. It must put an end to her fears. It must convince Philip of Spain that she was his friend, and in such a way that he would never doubt her again. He would know she was keeping a promise which she had made long ago at Bayonne. But would the dawn never come?

What could go wrong? The prevot could be trusted. He was a man with a family; he could be trusted not to put them in danger. A Catholic never betrayed Catholics to Huguenots. She rejoiced that, for the time being, she and the Guises were allies. She could rely on them. There was no greater hater of Huguenots than Henry of Guise, and there was nothing he wished for more than the death of the Admiral. All those who, she had feared, might not be trusted, knew nothing of the venture. Alencon was in the dark. He had flirted with the Huguenot faith-oh, just out of perversity, for that youngest son of hers was as mischievous as Margot. Margot herself had been told nothing of what was to take place, because she was married to a Huguenot and seemed to be on better terms with him since her marriage than she had been before; and Margot had previously shown that she was not to be trusted. There was nothing to fear . . . nothing . . . nothing. But the minutes would not pass.

If only Henry were King in place of Charles! Henry was as eager for this as Guise, and she could trust Henry. But Charles? 'Kill every Huguenot!' he had cried; but that was while the madness was on him. What when it faded? She was terrified of what he might do. She sent for the Comte de Retz.

Retz went to the King. Charles was pacing up and down his apartment, his bloodshot eyes staring wildly about him.

Retz asked the King to dismiss all his attendants that he might speak with him alone.

'How long it seems,' said Charles when this had been done. 'Too long to wait. I am afraid, Comte, that they will start before we do. What then? What then?'

'Sire, we are controlling everything. We need fear nothing.' But he thought: except the King.

'Sometimes I think I should go to the Admiral, Comte.'

'Nay, Sire. You should do no such thing,' cried Retz in horror. 'It would ruin all our plans.'

'But if there is a plot against us, Comte, it would be against the Guises. It is they whom they accuse of trying to kill the Admiral.'

'That is not so, Sire. They accuse also your mother and the Duke of Anjou. And rightly, because, Sire, your mother and your brother knew that it was necessary to kill the Admiral to protect you. That is not all. It is believed that you also were involved in the plot. That is why they make their plans to . remove you. Nothing you could say to the Admiral would convince him and his friends that you had no hand in the attempt to assassinate him. There is no way out of this other than the way we plan.'

'When blood flows,' said the King, 'I am always so sorry afterwards. And then . . . people will say that King Charles the Ninth of France shed the blood of Huguenots who came in innocence to his sister's wedding. They will say it for ever . . . . they will remember it always . . . And they will blame me . . . the King!'

Retz was alarmed. He knew the King's moods as well as his mother did. A return to complete sanity would be disastrous at this point.

'Sire,' he said, 'I beg of you to recall what they have planned to do to you. As for recriminations, why, all will know that it is the result of a feud between the Houses of Guise and Chatillon. Henry of Guise never forgave the murder of his father. You are outside this, Sire. It is no fault of yours. Henry of Guise is the man behind it. The blame will be placed on him; to you it will mean safety.'

'To me it will mean safety,' said the King; and he began to sob.

While the long night progressed the King took fright suddenly. He went in great haste to the apartments of Marie Touchet. His appearance alarmed her.

'What ails you, Charles?'

'Nothing, Marie. I shall lock you in tonight. You will be unable to get out. No matter who comes to the door . . . remember you are not to answer.'

'What has happened? Why do you look so strange?'

'It is nothing . . . nothing, Marie. But you must stay here. Promise me you will stay here.' He laughed madly and cried: 'You will have no choice. I shall lock you in. You will have to stay.' He laughed gleefully. 'You are my prisoner, Marie.'

'Charles, what is wrong? Tell me.'

'Nothing is wrong. All is well. After tonight it will be well indeed.' His face crumpled. 'Oh, Marie, I forgot. There is Madeleine.'

'What of Madeleine?'

'I cannot tell. I shall lock you in now. You are my love, my prisoner. Tomorrow you will know.'

When Marie was alone she began to cry. She was very frightened. She was to have the King's child, and this fact half delighted, half ter- rified her.

'Madelon,' cried the King. 'Where are you, Madelon? Come here to me at once.

Madeleine was in her own small chamber close to the King's apartments; she was singing a Huguenot hymn.

'Do not sing that. Donot!I forbid it. You must not sing it, Madeleine.'

'But, Sire, it is just one of the hymns which you have heard me sing many times. I used to sing you to sleep with it. You will remember it. It was a favourite of yours.'

'Not tonight, Madeleine. Dearest Madelon, be silent. Come with me. You must come with me.'

'Chariot, what ails you? Is it the strangeness again?'

He stood still and his face puckered. 'Yes, Madelon, it is the strangeness. Here . . . in my head.' His eyes had grown wild. There was excitement in them now as though he looked forward to something with most joyful anticipation 'Come, Madelon. Come at once. Marie needs you. You must stay with her tonight.'

'Is she ill?'

'She needs you. She needs you. I command you to go to her. Go at once. You must stay with her all through the night, Madelon. And you must not leave her apartment. You will not be able to. Madelon, you must not sing that hymn . . . or any of your hymns. . . not tonight. Swear you will not tonight, Madelon.'

'Chariot, Charlot, what ails you? Tell Madelon . . . you know how that used to help.'

'It would not help now, Madelon. Nor do I need help.' He took her roughly by the arm and pushed her towards Marie's apartment.

Marie was at the door when he unlocked it. He pushed Madeleine in, and stood there watching them. He put his fingers to his lips-a gesture he had learned from his mother.

'Not a sound from you. Only I have a key to this room. Rest assured it shall not leave my possession. No singing. No sound . . . or it will be death . . . death . . .'

He locked the door and the two women looked at each other with puzzled apprehension.