"What my brother needs," said François, "is to rise and get out into the open air; hunting, of which he is so fond, would do him a great deal of good."
"Yes," said Charles, with a smile, the meaning of which it was impossible for the duke to understand, "and yet the last hunt did me great harm."
Charles uttered these words in such a strange way that the conversation, in which the others present had not taken part, stopped. Then the King gave a slight nod of his head. The courtiers understood that the audience was over, and withdrew one after another.
D'Alençon started to approach his brother, but some secret feeling stopped him. He bowed and went out.
Marguerite seized the wasted hand her brother held out to her, pressed it, and kissed it. Then she, in turn, withdrew.
"Dear Margot!" murmured Charles.
Catharine alone remained, keeping her place at the side of the bed. Finding himself alone with her, Charles recoiled as if from a serpent.
Instructed by the words of Réné, perhaps still better by silence and meditation, Charles no longer had even the happiness of doubt.
He knew perfectly to whom and to what to attribute his approaching death.
So, when Catharine drew near to the bed and extended to him a hand as cold as his glance, the King shuddered in fear.