When the Duc d'Anjou, so long expected, entered his mother's rooms, Catharine, usually so cold and formal, and who since the departure of her favorite son had embraced with effusion no one but Coligny, who was to be assassinated the following day, opened her arms to the child of her love, and pressed him to her heart with a burst of maternal affection most surprising in a heart already long grown cold.
Then pushing him from her she gazed at him and again drew him into her arms.
"Ah, madame," said he, "since Heaven grants me the privilege of embracing my mother in private, console me, for I am the most wretched man alive."
"Oh, my God! my beloved child," cried Catharine, "what has happened to you?"
"Nothing which you do not know, mother. I am in love. I am loved; but it is this very love which is the cause of my unhappiness."
"Tell me about it, my son," said Catharine.
"Well, mother,—these ambassadors,—this departure"—
"Yes," said Catharine, "the ambassadors have arrived; the departure is near at hand."
"It need not be near at hand, mother, but my brother hastens it. He detests me. I am in his way, and he wants to rid himself of me."
Catharine smiled.