"You have but one thing to fear, Henry,—civil war; but by remaining converted you will avoid this, for the Huguenots are strong only when you put yourself at their head, and Monsieur de Condé is nothing when opposed to you. France is a country of plains, Henry, and consequently a Catholic country. The King of France ought to be the king of the Catholics and not the king of the Huguenots, for the King of France ought to be the king of the majority. It is said I feel remorse for the massacre of Saint Bartholomew; doubts, yes; remorse, no. It is said I am bleeding the blood of those Huguenots from every pore. I know what is flowing from me. It is arsenic and not blood."
"What do you mean, sire?"
"Nothing. If my death must be avenged, Henriot, it must be avenged by God alone. Let us speak now of the future. I leave you a faithful parliament and a trusty army. Lean on them and they will protect you against your only enemies—my mother and the Duc d'Alençon."
Just then the sound of arms and military commands were heard in the vestibule.
"I am dead!" murmured Henry.
"You fear? You hesitate?" said Charles, anxiously.
"I! sire," replied Henry; "no, I do not fear, nor do I hesitate. I accept."
Charles pressed Henry's hand. At that moment the nurse approached with a drink she had been preparing in the adjoining room, not knowing that the fate of France was being decided three feet from her.
"Call my mother, nurse, and have Monsieur d'Alençon also summoned."