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Marguerite de Valois
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"By steel or poison?" asked Charles, without once turning his eyes from the impassible face of his mother.
"No, by a surer and much more terrible means," said Catharine.
"Explain yourself."
"My son," asked the Florentine, "do you believe in charms and magic?"
Charles repressed a smile of scorn and incredulity.
"Fully," said he.
"Well," said Catharine, quickly, "from magic comes all your suffering. An enemy of your Majesty who would not have dared to attack you openly has conspired in secret. He has directed against your Majesty a conspiracy much more terrible in that he has no accomplices, and the mysterious threads of which cannot be traced."
"Faith, no!" said Charles, aghast at such cunning.
"Think well, my son," said Catharine, "and recall to mind certain plans for flight which would have assured impunity to the murderer."
"To the murderer!" cried Charles. "To the murderer, you say? Has there been an attempt to kill me, mother?"
Catharine's changing eye rolled hypocritically under its wrinkled lid.
"Yes, my son; you doubt it, perhaps, but I know it for a certainty."
"I never doubt what you tell me, mother," replied the King, bitterly. "How was the attempt made? I am anxious to know."
"By magic."
"Explain yourself, madame," said Charles, recalled by his loathing to his rôle of observer.
"If the conspirator I mean, and one whom at heart your Majesty already suspects, had succeeded in his plans, no one would have fathomed the cause of your Majesty's sufferings. Fortunately, however, sire, your brother watched over you."
"Which brother?"
"D'Alençon."
"Ah! yes, that is true; I always forget that I have a brother," murmured Charles, laughing bitterly; "so you say, madame" —
"That fortunately he revealed the conspiracy. But while he, inexperienced child that he is, sought only the traces of an ordinary plot, the proofs of a young man's escapade, I sought for proofs of a much more important deed; for I understand the reach of the guilty one's mind."
"Ah! mother, one would say you were speaking of the King of Navarre," said Charles, anxious to see how far this Florentine dissimulation would go.
Catharine hypocritically dropped her eyes.
"I have had him arrested and taken to Vincennes for his escapade," continued the King; "is he more guilty than I suspected, then?"
"Do you feel the fever that consumes you?" asked Catharine.
"Yes, certainly, madame," said Charles, frowning.
"Do you feel the fire that burns you internally?"
"Yes, madame," replied Charles, his brow darkening more and more.
"And the sharp pains in your head, which shoot from your eyes to your brain like so many arrows?"
"Yes, madame. I feel all that. You describe my trouble perfectly!"
"Well! the explanation is very simple," said the Florentine. "See."
And she drew from under her cloak an object which she gave to the King.
It was a figure of yellow wax, about six inches high, clothed in a robe covered with golden stars also of wax, like the figure; and over this a royal mantle of the same material.
"Well," asked Charles, "what is this little statue?"
"See what it has on its head," said Catharine.
"A crown," replied Charles.
"And in the heart?"
"A needle."
"Well, sire, do you recognize yourself?"
"Myself?"
"Yes, you, with your crown and mantle?"
"Who made this figure?" asked Charles, whom this farce was beginning to weary; "the King of Navarre, no doubt?"
"No, sire."
"No? then I do not understand you."
"I say no," replied Catharine, "because you asked the question literally. I should have said yes had you put it differently."
Charles made no answer. He was striving to penetrate all the thoughts of that shadowy mind, which constantly closed before him just as he thought himself ready to read it.
"Sire," continued Catharine, "this statue was found by the Attorney-General Laguesle, in the apartment of the man who on the day you last went hawking led a horse for the King of Navarre."
"Monsieur de la Mole?"
"Yes, and, if you please, look again at the needle in the heart, and see what letter is written on the label attached to it."
"I see an 'M,'" said Charles.
"That means mort, death; it is the magic formula, sire. The maker thus wrote his vow on the very wound he gave. Had he wished to make a pretence at killing, as did the Duc de Bretagne for King Charles VI., he would have driven the needle into the head and put an 'F' instead of an 'M.'"
"No, by a surer and much more terrible means," said Catharine.
"Explain yourself."
"My son," asked the Florentine, "do you believe in charms and magic?"
Charles repressed a smile of scorn and incredulity.
"Fully," said he.
"Well," said Catharine, quickly, "from magic comes all your suffering. An enemy of your Majesty who would not have dared to attack you openly has conspired in secret. He has directed against your Majesty a conspiracy much more terrible in that he has no accomplices, and the mysterious threads of which cannot be traced."
"Faith, no!" said Charles, aghast at such cunning.
"Think well, my son," said Catharine, "and recall to mind certain plans for flight which would have assured impunity to the murderer."
"To the murderer!" cried Charles. "To the murderer, you say? Has there been an attempt to kill me, mother?"
Catharine's changing eye rolled hypocritically under its wrinkled lid.
"Yes, my son; you doubt it, perhaps, but I know it for a certainty."
"I never doubt what you tell me, mother," replied the King, bitterly. "How was the attempt made? I am anxious to know."
"By magic."
"Explain yourself, madame," said Charles, recalled by his loathing to his rôle of observer.
"If the conspirator I mean, and one whom at heart your Majesty already suspects, had succeeded in his plans, no one would have fathomed the cause of your Majesty's sufferings. Fortunately, however, sire, your brother watched over you."
"Which brother?"
"D'Alençon."
"Ah! yes, that is true; I always forget that I have a brother," murmured Charles, laughing bitterly; "so you say, madame" —
"That fortunately he revealed the conspiracy. But while he, inexperienced child that he is, sought only the traces of an ordinary plot, the proofs of a young man's escapade, I sought for proofs of a much more important deed; for I understand the reach of the guilty one's mind."
"Ah! mother, one would say you were speaking of the King of Navarre," said Charles, anxious to see how far this Florentine dissimulation would go.
Catharine hypocritically dropped her eyes.
"I have had him arrested and taken to Vincennes for his escapade," continued the King; "is he more guilty than I suspected, then?"
"Do you feel the fever that consumes you?" asked Catharine.
"Yes, certainly, madame," said Charles, frowning.
"Do you feel the fire that burns you internally?"
"Yes, madame," replied Charles, his brow darkening more and more.
"And the sharp pains in your head, which shoot from your eyes to your brain like so many arrows?"
"Yes, madame. I feel all that. You describe my trouble perfectly!"
"Well! the explanation is very simple," said the Florentine. "See."
And she drew from under her cloak an object which she gave to the King.
It was a figure of yellow wax, about six inches high, clothed in a robe covered with golden stars also of wax, like the figure; and over this a royal mantle of the same material.
"Well," asked Charles, "what is this little statue?"
"See what it has on its head," said Catharine.
"A crown," replied Charles.
"And in the heart?"
"A needle."
"Well, sire, do you recognize yourself?"
"Myself?"
"Yes, you, with your crown and mantle?"
"Who made this figure?" asked Charles, whom this farce was beginning to weary; "the King of Navarre, no doubt?"
"No, sire."
"No? then I do not understand you."
"I say no," replied Catharine, "because you asked the question literally. I should have said yes had you put it differently."
Charles made no answer. He was striving to penetrate all the thoughts of that shadowy mind, which constantly closed before him just as he thought himself ready to read it.
"Sire," continued Catharine, "this statue was found by the Attorney-General Laguesle, in the apartment of the man who on the day you last went hawking led a horse for the King of Navarre."
"Monsieur de la Mole?"
"Yes, and, if you please, look again at the needle in the heart, and see what letter is written on the label attached to it."
"I see an 'M,'" said Charles.
"That means mort, death; it is the magic formula, sire. The maker thus wrote his vow on the very wound he gave. Had he wished to make a pretence at killing, as did the Duc de Bretagne for King Charles VI., he would have driven the needle into the head and put an 'F' instead of an 'M.'"
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Последний отзыв
В борьбе за власть есть первые; есть вторые; и есть 6ыдло (из канала BS "Без Слёз").
- Вторые всегда стремятся стать первыми. Но ресурсы власти – у п...
Далее