II

Outside, a soft-toned bell struck the midday hour. The little market-place beyond the courtyard lay bathed in wintry sunlight. Men and women were moving to and fro, stopping to chat with one another or exchanging a hasty greeting; men-at-arms jingled their spurs upon the uneven pavements; burghers in dark cloth surtouts flitted solemnly across the place. Marguerite watched with dreamy, unconscious eyes the pulsating life of the somnolent little city. With her, even life appeared at a standstill. With this hideous treachery on the part of her beloved François, with this unexpected shattering of all her hopes in sight of goal, she felt as if she herself no longer existed, as if some other entity had chased her soul away—her loving, ambitious, romantic soul—and taken possession of her body.

Gilles stood by, silent—looking down on her with infinite compassion. He, the poor, homeless, penniless soldier of fortune, found it in his heart to pity this young and adulated queen. He would have liked to help her if he could. But the situation was now a hopeless impasse. The curtain had rung up upon a brilliant drama of glory and of satisfied ambition; but the principal actor was not there to play his part, and the drama must fail for want of him.

'Shall I go now, your Majesty?' asked Gilles at last.

But she made no reply. She sat on in the high-backed chair, looking out upon the world beyond. There were happy people out there, contented people. People who had humble aspirations, but who saw them fulfilled. Better far to long for mere subsistence, to have few and simple desires and see them satisfied, than to let one's ambition soar to impossible heights which must for ever remain unattainable. And Gilles remained standing some distance away from the Queen, watching a whole world of varied emotions flitting rapidly over her mobile face. First came anger and despair, hot resentment and bitter contempt. The eyes looked steely and glittered with a fierce, inward wrath, whilst not one line of tenderness softened the curve of the closely set mouth. At this stage of her grim meditations it was obvious to the keen watcher that Marguerite de Navarre felt that she would never quite forgive the dearly loved brother this culminating act of treachery.

Then something of the hardness of the look went, and gave place to one of utter hopelessness which, to Gilles who knew her buoyant disposition, appeared quite heartrending. It were absolutely useless now, that look seemed to say, to try and redeem so much folly, such black and despicable cowardice. And there was the shameful humiliation too, to endure, the necessary abasement before those stiff-necked Flemish lords, those proud purists, rigid in their code of honour. There was the bitter acknowledgment to come that a prince of the House of France could so vilely break his word.

But presently, even as the tears of wrath and humiliation still glistened in Marguerite de Navarre's beautiful eyes, there crept gradually into her face a strange look of puzzlement. It came slowly, very slowly, just as if Fate, having struck her blow, was beginning to relent and to whisper words of hope. Frowns came and went between the pencilled brows, and inaudible whispers seemed to come through the slightly parted lips. Then, still quite gradually, a glow of excitement spread over the face, the eyes shone less sombre, a ray of light, like unto a faint smile, played round the corners of the lips.

Then Marguerite de Navarre turned her pretty head and fixed her eyes upon Gilles. And he who stood by, listening and watching, heard distinctly that her lips murmured the two little words: 'Why not?'

A quarter of an hour had gone by. Both the actors in this palpitating little interlude had lost count of time—Gilles gazing pityingly, almost remorsefully, on the Queen, and she, thinking, thinking, wrestling with Fate, unwilling even now to give in.

And all the while she was looking on Gilles with a puzzled frown, whilst her lips kept on murmuring, as if unconsciously: 'Why not?'