But what a mischievous family was hers! Alencon was determined on revenge, determined on power; he was now mustering an army and was in touch with the two Montmorencys, Thore and Meru; he was calling together the subjects of Navarre. He had written several letters to various people of the court-and unfortunately they had not fallen into Catherine's hands and the object of these letters was to discredit the King and his mother.

'It was very necessary for me to escape,' he wrote, 'not only for the sake of my liberty, but because news was brought to me that His Majesty was about to take some advice concerning me which was moulded on the counsels of Cesare Borgia.'

That was a direct stab at his mother, for her knowledge of those morceauxItalianizes was alleged to have been acquired from the Borgias.

Alencon also wrote that he had heard the news which was circulating about Montgomery and Cosse, who had been in prison ever since they had been arrested at the time of the affair of La Mole and Coconnas. There had been orders to strangle these two men in their dungeons, but their jailers had refused to carry out such sentences. Nor would they administer the morceaux, no matter whence came the instructions.

'I have narrowly escaped,' wrote Alencon. 'There are spies in my camp. Last evening when we were at dinner, wine was offered to me. It was very well mixed, sweet and delicious, but when I gave it to Thore and he tasted it, he commented on its extreme sweetness, and it struck me that there was too much sweetness in that wine. So I would drink no more, nor allow my friends to do so; and although shortly afterwards we were very sick, we were saved through the grace of God and the good remedies which were at hand. My friend, you see why it was necessary for me to leave my brother's court.'

The King raged against his brother; the restraint in which he ihiada appealed Margot and Navarre must be kept was increased. He appealed to his mother to end this intolerable situation.

She said that she would ask Alencon to see her, and as a sign of her good faith would take Margot with her. She would urge her younger son to come to peace with his brother, explaining to him what an evil thing it was when members of a family fell out.

'Go, Mother,' said the King. 'You alone are clever enough to deal with this.'

She kissed him fondly. 'You realize now, my son, how close your good is to my heart?'

'I do,' he answered.

Catherine felt all her energy return; and very soon, with Margot and their trains, she set out for Blois, where it was decided that the meeting should take place.

Alencon was truculent.

Catherine watched him with a certain sadness; she was a little ashamed of this son of hers. He was conceited in the extreme and he had few qualities which recommended him to her. Her mind turned to Henry of Guise, and she thought, fleetingly how different she would have felt if that young man had been her son.

Alencon had assumed the air of a conqueror and explained his demands to her as though she were a vassal of a defeated state.

She laughed outright at him.

'Do you realize, my son, that you are a rebel against the King, and that it is only because you are my son that I come to talk to you thus?'

'A rebel with an army behind him, Madame.'

'If you were not my son and the King's brother, you would not dare to talk thus. You would have lost your head ere this.'

'That was a good attempt which was made to poison me through my wine, Madame.'

'That was but fancy on your part-fancy bred by a guilty conscience.'

'Then Monsieur Thore, as well as myself and everyone present who tasted that wine, was very fanciful, Madame.'

She refused to show her impatience. 'Now, my son, I have come here to reason with you. Your sister is here and you will be glad to see her, I know. Will you not return to Paris and try to live in reasonable peace with your brother?'

'Madame,' he answered, 'I know you sent men to capture me and take me back a prisoner. That failed, so you come to cajole me back; but I see that I should be a prisoner when I reached pads.'

'You have behaved like a traitor to France. I know that you have written to Elizabeth of England and the Elector of Brandenburg for help.'

'There are many Frenchmen who would not call me a traitor to France.'

Her impatience got the better of her then. 'You . . . a Huguenot? Why so?' She laughed loudly and ironically. 'Simply because your brother is a Catholic. Had he supported the Huguenots, depend upon it you would have thrown in your lot with the Catholics. You cannot deceive your mother. You want your brother's throne and you do not mind whether Huguenots or Catholics help you to it. Well, what are these suggestions you have to make?'

'I wish to be given this town of Blois. Here I will take up my residence.'

'A hostile Blois!' cried Catherine. 'Another La Rochelle.'

'Madame, there are many men willing to serve me. The Marshals Montgomery and Coss& whom you have tried to murder-unsuccessfully, God be thanked! -must be released at once.'

'I will consider these matters,' said Catherine; and she retired to her apartments, wondering how she could best deal with this son whom she despised and who seemed to hate her, and yet, on account of his brother's unpopularity, was becoming a power in the land.

At length she decided that the marshals must be freed. It was impossible, after all the rumours, to murder them in prison. The King would have to placate them in some way.

While she was pondering her son's proposition concerning Blois, news came that Thore and Meru had started fighting in the south. Guise was fortunately at hand to deal with them. He did this with the utmost success at Dormans, and the battle ended with such defeat for the Huguenots that Alencon was in no position to argue.

The streets of Paris were full. Beggars and vagabonds had come in from miles round to share in the occasion. The poor looked less dejected. This was a great day, it was said, in the history of France.

The King stood at the window of his apartment in the Louvre. He was sullen and angry. It was true that peace had been restored at an, important moment with a victory for himself and the Catholics; but jealousy was in the King's heart and he kicked even his lap-dogs away when they approached. His mignons could do nothing to enchant him.

Out in the streets he could hear the shouting people. Thus they should shout for their King; but they never shouted like that for Henry the Third. There were no sly obscenities flung at the man who now rode among them.

He came through the Port St Antoine, a head taller than any of his men, riding with natural grace and dignity; and a great shout went up from the throats of merchants, from women who leaned from their windows to catch a glimpse of his handsome face, from the beggars, from the students, from the pickpockets.

'Vive le bon Duc!'

And so he came, fresh from Dormans; and when the people saw the wounds he had received in that battle they went wild with joy, for it seemed to them that here was a sign from Heaven. The cheek of Henry of Guise was slashed by a scar which many declared was exactly the same as that which had been so proudly carried through the last years of his life by Francis of Guise, Le Balafre.

The.peopIe cheered madly. 'Vive le Balafre! Behold! Here is a miracle. Le Balafre has returned.'

They kissed the hem of his cloak; they scrambled and fought that they might get near him to press their rosaries against him. Many wept, and tears ran down the Duke's own cheeks. The eye above the scar watered when he was emotional, as his father's had done, while the other eye seemed to smile at the people who pressed about him.

'It is the great Duke Francis come down from Heaven to save us!' cried the superstitious. 'This is a sign. This is an omen. 'The evil days are coming to an end. Le Balafre has looked down from Heaven and seen our sufferings. He is giving us his son to lead us away from our misery . . . away from the Valois vipers. Long live the scarred one! This is a sign from Heaven.'

In the Louvre the King listened in furious anger to the acclamations of the mob.

Meanwhile, the Duke rode on. He was asking himself if he had really heard someone in the crowd cry: 'To Rheims, Monseigneur! To Rheims with Le Balafre!'

There was consternation throughout the Louvre, for Henry of Navarre was missing and his gentlemen could give no account of him. He had not returned the previous night for his coucher. They had waited for some hours, they told the King and Catherine, but they had not been very seriously perturbed knowing their lord's amorous habits. The palace was searched, but discreetly, on Catherine's instructions. Navarre could not be found.

The King threatened to summon Margot from her bed, where she lay suffering from an illness which had rendered her very weak indeed. Catherine remonstrated. 'Do not show your concern. Do not let the people know that you attach such importance to this man.'

And after a time the King allowed himself to be soothed by his mother, and the secret search went on, but without success.

Henry, with his Queen and his mother, went as usual to Sainte-Chapelle to attend Mass, giving no sign of their anxiety. As they were leaving the church, Catherine was startled to feel a light touch on her arm, and turning, looked straight into the mocking eyes of Navarre himself.

'Madame,' he said, with a low bow, 'I present to you one Whom you have so missed, and for whose sake you have been distressing yourself.'

Catherine laughed with relief. 'Oh, we were not unduly concerned, my son,' she said. 'We were well aware that you could take care of yourself.'

The King frowned at his brother-in-law, but he was too relieved to feel angry. Catherine thought: off on some romantic adventure, I suppose. We were foolish to worry about Navarre. He is too lazy to be over-concerned with matters of state. He likes the life here at the court among the ladies even though he is restricted. It might be that his disappearance was just to tease. That would be typical of him. He is a joker, nothing more.

Two days later Navarre suggested to Guise that they make up a party and hunt the stag in the forest of Bondy, close to Paris. They could, pointed out Navarre, visit the fair of Saint-Germain that morning and enjoy themselves there before going off to the hunt.

No one was perturbed at this suggestion. Navarre would be surrounded by Guise's men in addition to the two members of the King's Guard whose duty it was to accompany him everywhere he went.

Catherine watched them set off-Navarre and Guise riding together.

'I would,' Navarre was saying to Guise, 'that you might ride incognito, for I declare this adoration which the people of Paris have for you, can be embarrassing.'

'The scars of battle amuse them,' said Guise.

'Le Balafre Fils!' cried Navarre. 'Vive le Balafre! The people have changed their cry. Once I heard nothing in Paris but that other one-Jezebel. And now it is always Le Balafre. These people must either abhor or adore. They never do things by halves, these ladies and gentlemen of Paris.'

'The hero of today is the enemy of tomorrow,' said Guise lightly. 'It does not do to attach too much importance to the cries of the mob.'

'Ah, but the Paris mob has always been faithful to you. I have heard it said that you are the King of Paris. That is a fine title. "The King of Paris!" It suits you, Monsieur.'

Guise was not displeased. He was human enough to enjoy flattery, and, moreover, he was beginning to wonder if this show of friendship meant that Navarre was considering throwing in his lot with him. Guise had not a very high opinion of Navarre's stability, but friendship was always welcome when a man was as full of projects as was the Duke of Guise.

They went through the fair arm in arm.

'See!' cried Navarre. 'The people even love me this morning! It is because they see that their hero is my friend, and any friend of Monsieur de Guise is a friend of theirs. I like my new popularity.'

He bowed; he smiled; he ogled the women; and he enjoyed himself thoroughly in his light-hearted way.

He had so successfully allayed Guise's suspicions that it was not until he had lured the Duke away from the fair that the latter realized that he had left his followers behind in the bustling crowd, while a dozen or so of Navarre's Bearnais surrounded him and the two guards.

'You will now come and hunt with me in the forest, Monsieur de Guise?' asked Navarre.

Guise hesitated.

'Oh come,' continued Navarre. 'Do not let us wait for those men of yours. The day will be done before we make a start if we do.' He turned to his followers and said with a laugh which contained a hint of mockery: 'Gentlemen, shall we take my dear friend, Monsieur de Guise, by force, if he will not come of his own accord?'

Guise looked down at the mocking face and wondered what lay behind Navarre's banter. He realized it would be folly to ride off into the forest with Navarre and his men, with only the two King's guards on whom he could rely in an emergency.

'I will assemble my men,' said Guise warily; 'and we will set off for the hunt as soon as possible.'

'In the meantime,' said Navarre, 'we will go on. Do not leave it too long before you join us.' He thereupon galloped off, fol- lowed by his men and the two guards, leaving the discomfited Duke looking after them.

Guise shrugged his shoulders. It was not his responsibility, but that of the King's guards, Monsieur de Martin and Lieutenant Spalungue, to look after Navarre.

Meanwhile Navarre himself was feeling delighted by the way he had managed to elude Guise and his men. He glanced at the two guards. Very charming gentlemen, he thought, but the Queen Mother would not be very happy if she knew I should built today without Monsieur de Guise and his attendants.

As the hunt began his thoughts were more on those two guards than the stag; as for his men, they watched him with alert eyes, waiting for the signal which would mean they were to throw off the guards and escape with their master.

One of the men came close to him as they pounded through the forest.

'We could rid ourselves of these two at once, sir.'

'Nay,' said Navarre. 'Do not harm them, for they are a charming pair and I have grown fond of them while I have been under their care. Let us forget the strength of our arms and allow our nimble wits to have full play.'

It was February, and Navarre knew that it would soon be dark; the sky was already overcast, and the bitterly cold night was almost upon them. They had started late and the time was fast slipping by. The guards did not seem to notice this; they took great pleasure in the hunt, and Navarre had lulled their suspicions by his exploit of a few days ago. It did not require, as Navarre had guessed, a great deal of cunning to allow them to go full speed ahead after the stag, to keep well behind and then gallop off in the opposite direction.

When Navarre and his followers reached the edge of the forest they did not stop to congratulate themselves on the first stage of their escape; they rode all night and by daybreak reached Poissy, where they crossed the Seine and continued towards the Loire.

Only when he felt himself to be too far from Paris for pursuit did Navarre pull up.

He burst into loud laughter in which his followers joined.

'Free at last!' he roared, 'My friends, it is well that we have left Paris behind us. My mother died there; the Admiral de Coligny died there; quite a number of our best servants died there too. I doubt that they had any desire to treat me any better. I will not return to Paris unless I am dragged there. There are two things which I have left behind me-the Mass and my wife.' He grimaced. 'I will try to do without the first. As for the second, I'll not have her back again.'

He laughed again for the joy of being free from Paris-free from the Mass and his wife.

'These which I have lost,' he said, 'I must do without. And, my friends, strictly between ourselves, I think I should receive your congratulations for these losses, rather than your condolences.'

Margot was kept in her own apartments; there were guards outside her door. She knew that the King wished to do her harm and that it was probably due to her mother that she was allowed to live. Although she suffered acute anxiety through her troublesome children, Catherine yet wished to preserve them; there were only three of them left and only through them could she retain her power. Margot was fully conscious of this. 'I owe my life to my usefulness to my mother,' she said to her friends. 'There is no need for you to fear that I shall be given the morceau Itatianize.'

Margot was more angry with her husband than with anyone else; he had not told her of his plan to escape. It was through her ingenuity that Alencon had got away; they had planned that together; so she was piqued that Navarre had gone off without a word. But then, she asked herself, what could one expect from such a boor?

She was spending her time between reading and writing. Every incident she could remember she wrote in her memoirs-a little highly coloured, a little flattering to Margot. But what a pleasure she found in her writing!

'I do not regret my illness,' she said. 'I do not regret my captivity, for I have found that in life which I shall never lose. While I can read and write I can regret nothing that sends me to these two occupations.'

There was one person now in whom she was interested beyond all others, and she ordered her spies to bring her all the news that was obtainable concerning this man. She thought of him-she assured herself and others-with cynicism; and it was only rarely that she admitted, even in her secret thoughts, that she would have delighted to share his intrigues.

In the streets they were singing a new song. It Went 'something like this: 'The virtue, greatness, wisdom from on high, Of yonder Duke, triumphant far and near, Do make bad men to shrink with coward fear, And God's own Catholic Church to fructify.

In armour clad, like maddened Mars he moves; The trembling Huguenot cowers at his glance; A prop for Holy Church is his good lance; His eye is ever mild to those he loves . . .'

The Duke was on the alert; he was carefully nourishing his immense popularity. Great schemes were in the mind of the hero of Paris. He was now at the head of the Catholic League, that great federation, which contained in its ranks many members of the nobility and of the Jesuit brotherhood, whose object was to protect the Catholic faith against all who assailed it. The King, it was said, was a fop and a fool; the Queen Mother could not be trusted to work for the Catholics; therefore there must be a League-a Catholic League to protect Catholics all over France. But the League did not concern itself only with maintaining the Catholic faith; of late years there had been much unjust taxation, and the League declared its desire to regain for the people those rights which had been lost. The League looked to the most powerful country in Europe for support, and its members had no doubt that the gloomy Philip would give it aid if the need arose.

Margot knew that the King had not yet learned to fear the League; he was too concerned with his banquets, his lap-dogs and his darlings. But what of Catherine? Could it be that she did not understand, as fully as Margot did, the man who had placed himself at the head of the League? He was a Guise and therefore ambitious; but did Catherine realize how far his ambitions would carry him?

Margot thought not. Clever as her mother was, she believed so firmly in the divine right of Kings-and Queens-that it would not immediately occur to her that any, so far from the direct line of succession, would aspire to the throne. Catherine would not let herself think that Henry might die; and after Henry, there was still Alencon. But Alencon had already allied himself to the Huguenots; and after Alencon there was that other Huguenot, Navarre. One of the objects of the League, which so far had not intruded on state affairs to any great degree, was, Margot was sure, to prevent any possibility of a Huguenot King s mounting the throne.

Continually Margot thought of Guise; but she scarcely mentioned him in her memoirs, for she had no intention of recording in writing her deep preoccupation with the man. When she did mention him it was casually. 'Monsieur de Mayenne has grown very fat; as for Monsieur de Guise he is the father of many children, for he has a very fertile wife. His face is scarred and there is much grey in his hair. He has aged quickly.'

She was glad when a letter was smuggled to her and she found it to be from her husband. She smiled cynically as she read it. He did not pretend that it was out of love for her that he wrote. Remembering that they were supposed to be allies and that she was a clever spy, it had occurred to him that she could be very useful if she kept him informed of the happenings at court.

He knows full well, thought Margot, that if any letters I wrote to him were discovered-and my brother's and my mother's spies are everywhere-the result would doubtless be my death. But what does he care? He would, it is true, have lost a useful spy. Regrettable! But not a matter over which to shed too many tears. No, Monsieur de Navarre! You look elsewhere for your spies.

But eventually she became a little tired of reading and writing her memoirs: and contemplating the strange behaviour of Monsieur de Guise; and she began to consider how she might smuggle letters to Navarre, which dangerous task would rescue her from boredom. It was not long before she was unable to resist an attempt to carry this out.

Catherine was in despair, for the King was once more in the hands of his favourites, and he had once more given orders that the official dispatches were not to pass through any hands but those of himself and his young men. This hurt Catherine more deeply than anything could have done, for it was fatal to her schemes that she should be kept in ignorance of what was going on. Charles had never flouted her quite so blatantly as Henry was now doing; and when she thought of all her plans for this son, how she had worked for him and removed his enemies, she could not help but weep.

Henry's young Queen Louise-a kindly creature as devoted to the King as his mother was-found Catherine in tears and, astonished by this strange spectacle, knelt to take her hands, to kiss them, while she tried to comfort her mother-in-law, 'There is nothing that I do which he does not seem to think is wrong,' said Catherine. 'Yet I have always worked for his good.'

'He knows that,' said Louise. 'It is just that, at this time, there are others to disagree with you . .

'He takes their advice and rejects mine!' cried Catherine.