At this moment, the litter of Catherine de Medici was seen approaching. D’Epernon had hastened to tell her of the unexpected arrival of her daughter, the Queen of Navarre.

“No, it cannot be she is safe at Usson, entertaining all the Jackass-erie of Auvergne!” cried the Queen-Mother, hastily wrapping herself in a bundle of dark cloaks, with the ermine sleeves and sable collars, which the thinness of her blood caused her to wear even in the heat of the dog-days. Scoffers declared she was getting ready for the hereafter by accustoming herself gradually to the climate. But those who knew better were aware that the vital heat was at long and last slowly oozing from that once tireless body, though the brain above remained clear and subtle to the end.

D’Epernon helped the Queen-Mother into the litter of ebony and gold in which she journeyed. She called for her maids-of-honour, but was informed that they were all busied with welcoming the new arrivals.

Then the face of Catherine took on a hard and bitter expression.

“This is not the first, nor the second time that Margot has outwitted me” she almost hissed the words, yet not so low but D’Epernon caught them. “Has ever a woman who has given all, done all for her family, been cursed with sons who will do nothing even to save themselves, and a daughter whose pleasure it is to thwart the mother who bore her? But patience, all is not yet lost! Wait a while. Little Margot of the Large Heart may not be so clever as she thinks!”

Yet so artful was the dissimulation of both women, that when at last they approached each other, Margot, the Queen of Navarre, threw herself into her mother’s arms, and hid her face (possibly, also, her emotion) on her shoulder, while Catherine wept real, visible, globular tears over her one daughter, whom she embraced after so many years.

Only D’Epernon knew that they were tears of rage and mortification.

It was when husband and wife were left alone on the broad balcony of the Mansion of the Palmer, by the southern river-front of Argenton the Creuse, sweetest and daintiest of streams in a land all given over to such, slipping dreamily by that Margot told the Bearnais why she had come.

“Do not thank me,” she said; “you have that Huguenot sister of yours to thank a good, brave girl, too good to be married as I was (and as you were, my poor Henry!) for politics’ sake, and a few more acres of land. Also, you owe it to the good counsels of yonder Scottish maid, called Claire Agnew, who ”

Henry rose from the low chair on which he had been carelessly resting his thigh.

“Why, I remember the girl” he threw up his hands in humorous despair. “Oh, you women, a man never knows when he will have you! I thought that you, Margot, my wife, would have been at Usson flying your hawks, and gathering snails for the Friday’s pot-au-feu; that Catherine, my admirable sister, had been safe at her prayers in the Castle of Pau, where I left her in good charge and keeping; and of my carefulness I had even provided that this Scots maiden, the daughter of my good friend Francis Agnew, should abide in douce tranquillity with her Professor of the Sorbonne, within ear-shot, not to say pistol-shot of a certain Anthony Arpajon, a sure henchman of mine, in the town of Blois. But here be all three of you gadding at my heels, Margaret from Auvergne, Catherine from Pau, and even the Scots maid from Blois, all blown inward like so many seagulls on the front of a westerly storm!”

“Harry,” cried Margot the Queen, “your beard is frosting, and there are white hairs on my coif at thirty-eight. Yes, there are; you need not look, for, of course, I have the wit to hide them. We have not agreed well, you and I. But I like you, great lumping swash-buckler of Bearn. Even as the husband I was not allowed to choose, I like you. If you had been any one else, I might even have loved you!”

“Thanks it is indeed quite possible!” said the King quietly.

“But since they wrote it in a catechism, learned it me by rote, made me swallow love and obedience willy-nilly before half-a-dozen cardinals and archbishops glorious, why then, of course, it was ‘nilly’ and not ‘willy.’ So things have gone crosswise with us. But there’s my hand on’t, Henry. In all save love, I will serve you true. Not even your beloved Rosny and dour D’Aubigne will help you better, or expect less for it than I, Margot, your Majesty’s humble prisoner!”

“So be it,” said the King, kissing her hand, and passing over all that was not expressed in this very sketchy view of the case; “I have found many to betray me who owed me more than you, Margot. But never you, my little Queen!”

“Thank you, Henry,” quoth La Reine Margot, smiling demurely, with something of the subtle Italian irony of her mother. “Perhaps, after all, I do not help you so much because I like you, as because I love to spite some other people who are plotting against you.”

“Are they seeking my life, Margot?” said the King. “Well, there is nothing new in that. I always keep a man or two on the look-out for assassins. I have quite a collection of knives some Guisard, and some Italian, but mostly of Toledo make. There are four gates to my camp, and the men of my guard kick the varlets south if the knife smells of our brother Philip, north to cousin Guise, if ‘Lorraine’ is marked on the blade and as for Italy ”

“Do not say any evil of Italy,” smiled Margot; “pray remember that I am half an Italian therefore I am fair, therefore I am cunning, therefore I am rich at least, in expedients.”

The Bearnais said nothing, for having so many war charges, he had more than once refused to pay Madame Margot’s debts!

“I have come,” she continued, after the King had sat some time silent on the tapestried couch beside her, looking out on the sleeping Creuse, “first of all, to see that you sign no treaty that I do not approve. Well do I know that a woman has only to smile upon you to make you say ‘Yes.’ It is your weakness. The Queen, my mother, knows it also, and she has brought hither many fair women in her train. But none so fair as I, your wife your wife Margot, whom camps, and wars, and kingdoms have made you sometime forget!”

“There is, indeed, no one so fair as you, little Margot!” said her husband. And, for the moment, he meant it.

Margot the Queen entered her tiring-room that night clapping her hands, and dancing little skipping “tarantellas” all to herself, after the Italian fashion.

“I have done this all by myself at eight-and-thirty,” she cried. “I thought I was no longer Parisian, after so many years of hiding my head in Auvergne. But Henry never moved from my side all the evening, and as for D’Epernon, he was as close as might be on the other. Come in, girls! I have much to tell you.”

She rose, and threw her arms about the neck of her sister-in-law, Catherine of Navarre. She had entered, flushed, walking so fast that her slight D’Albret limp was not noticeable.

“Oh, we three,” cried the Queen Margot “we three were as Juno, Minerva, and Venus. The men stood round, and gazed and listened, and listened and gazed, each like a stupid Paris with a golden apple in his hand, a prize of beauty which he wanted to give to all three at once. You, Katrin my sister, were the grey-eyed Minerva; you, Claire, must be Juno though, my faith, you are more of the mould of Dian; but as for me of course, that is obvious! And the defeated enemy the maids of honour! Ha! Did you see how the Queen, my mother, called them in to heel, like so many useless hounds of the chase, to receive their whipping? How they cowered and cringed! Truly, the game was carried off by another pack a buck a buck royal of ten tines is the Bearnais. We had a plot indeed but no treaty. Pricked like a wind-bladder it was. If I am a feeble house-wife, I am at least a true ambassador, and they shall not cheat my husband not while little Margot lives, last of the Valois and half Medici though she be! To bed, girls, and get your beauty-sleep. You will need it to-morrow!”