"And not without some apprehension," added Marguerite.
"I confess it, madame! But still, surrounded as I am by deadly enemies, by friends still more dangerous, perhaps, than my open foes, I recollected that one evening I had seen a noble generosity shining in your eyes—’twas the night of our marriage; that one other evening I had seen the star of courage beaming in them—’twas yesterday, the day fixed for my death."
"Well, sire?" said Marguerite, smiling, while Henry seemed striving to read her heart.
"Well, madame," returned the king, "thinking of these things, I said to myself, as I read your letter bidding me come: 'Without friends, for he is a disarmed prisoner, the King of Navarre has but one means of dying nobly, of dying a death that will be recorded in history. It is to die betrayed by his wife; and I am come'"—
"Sire," replied Marguerite, "you will change your tone when you learn that all this is the work of a woman who loves you—and whom you love."
Henry started back at these words, and his keen gray eyes under their black lashes were fixed on the queen with curiosity.
"Oh, reassure yourself, sire," said the queen, smiling; "I am not that person."
"But, madame," said Henry, "you sent me this key, and this is your writing."
"It is my writing, I confess; the letter came from me, but the key is a different matter. Let it satisfy you to know that it has passed through the hands of four women before it reached you."
"Of four women?" exclaimed Henry in astonishment.