CHARLES.
farther end of the room, and before the girl garments entered the apartment and stood looking at the pair. A muttered curse hissed from the lips of Charles, and Clemence cowered back in her seat trembling with fear.
“My son,” said the intruder, in a voice of singular sweetness, “an invalid should be more cautious, this night air is dangerous to you.”
“Any air that I breathe is dangerous to me, madam,” he replied, in a sharp, quick tone; “but this spot has proved less prejudicial than elsewhere.”
Catharine paid no attention to his words, and crossing the room, laid her hand caressingly upon his shoulder.
Charles shrunk from the touch of those slender fingers with a gesture of repulsion, but the woman appeared unconscious of the abhorrence in every look and movement, and turning toward the girl with her softest smile, said gently,
“Had I known that you were beguiling his majesty’s loneliness, I should have been at no loss to understand why he has grown so fond of solitude.”
Clemence trembled so violently that she could not speak.
“Madam,” she began, but her voice failed, and she shrunk toward the king as if seeking protection.
“Nay, sweet one,” continued Catharine, “I am uot chiding you; I cannot sufficiently thank you for your kindness to this wayward invalid.”
“I hear nothing from your lips but that horrible word!” exclaimed Charles. “Are you anxious to make me believe I must die?”
“Oh, my son!” sighed Catharine, ‘will you never understand your mother’s heart?”
“Believe me, madam, I do you entire justice,’ he replied, with a bitter laugh, “and fully appreciate your maternal anxiety.”
“You see, Clemence,” said the queen, with a pained smile, ‘how all my affection is rewarded; I shall look to you for justice.”
“Have you tidings from Poland?” asked Charles, abruptly, without giving the girl time to reply.
“Surely you know that I have not, my son; your own courier brought me the last letters.”
The king laughed pleasantly; a sure sign with the Medici that successful treachery had been practiced. Catharine comprehended that she had been foiled in some of her deep laid schemes, but evinced no emotion.
“You are merry, my son,” she said; “it is long since I have heard you laugh so gayly.”
“I heard with much regret that the private courier which you sent to my brother d’ Anjou— I crave his pardon, the king of Poland—yesterday morning, had met with an accident.”
“I grieve to hear it,” Catharine replied, composedly, though her Italian blood shot seething to her heart, for the letters had contained tidings for her favorite son, which would be useless unless he received them by a certain day.
“Fortunately,” continued Charles, in the same light tone, “the papers which he lost were found and confided to my keeping—permit me to restore them to your majesty.”
He took from his breast a sealed packet and placed it in Catharine’s hand. For an instant a change passed over even her well-tutored face, then it grew calm as before.
“‘I thank you for your care,” must remain your debtor.”
“‘Not long, I warrant me,” retorted the king, “those of your house are faithful in discharging such debts. But I would advise you to send off another courier at once, and bid him take better heed.”
He laughed again, but Catharine only bowed her head in token of assent. This was the third time of late that he had thwarted her plans, in spite of the secrecy in which they had been carried out.
“Shall I see you in my apartments tonight?’ she asked.
“Perhaps; but your circle is too gay for me.”
“Nay, your majesty knows that it is never complete without you.’
“I know, I know; but, mort de dieu, I should add more to the gayety were I there shrouded in a coffin.”
“Another of your distempered fancies, my son; I warn you to banish them before they produce ill effects upon your health.”
“Perhaps your favorite Rene could give me a cure?” he said, with a sneer.
“Heaven forbid that I should meddle with your illness,” Catharine answered, coldly; “you suspect the whole world already. But now good night; dear Clemence, I must thank you again.”
She bent down, pressed her lips to the girl’s forehead, and glided from the room noiseless as she entered.
When she had disappeared, Clemence threw herself into the king’s arms with a burst of weeping.
“We are lost!” she exclaimed. “never rest until we are separated.”
“Nay, mignonne, she dare not—she begins to fear me. Wipe off her kiss, I feel as if a viper had crawled over your forehead.”
He brushed the spot where her lips had rested,
