"My daughter!" muttered Catharine.
"Sire," said Marguerite to Henry, "your last words were an accusation against me, and you were both right and wrong,—right, for I am the means by which they attempted to destroy you; wrong, for I did not know that you were going to your destruction. I, sire, owe my own life to chance—to my mother's forgetfulness, perhaps; but as soon as I learned your danger I remembered my duty, and a wife's duty is to share her husband's fortunes. If you are exiled, sire, I will follow you into exile; if you are put into prison I will be your fellow-captive; if they kill you, I will also die."
And she offered her husband her hand, which he eagerly seized, if not with love, at least with gratitude.
"Oh, my poor Margot!" said Charles, "you had much better bid him become a Catholic!"
"Sire," replied Marguerite, with that lofty dignity which was so natural to her, "for your own sake do not ask any prince of your house to commit a cowardly act."
Catharine darted a significant glance at Charles.
"Brother," cried Marguerite, who equally well with Charles IX. understood Catharine's ominous pantomime, "my brother, remember! you made him my husband!"
Charles IX., at bay between Catharine's commanding eyes and Marguerite's supplicating look, as if between the two opposing principles of good and evil, stood for an instant undecided; at last Ormazd won the day.
"In truth," said he, whispering in Catharine's ear, "Margot is right, and Harry is my brother-in-law."
"Yes," replied Catharine in a similar whisper in her son's ear, "yes—but supposing he were not?"