“Husband! I will have no husband but Henri de Guise. Guise or a convent. I should make an enchanting nun!” And she laughs a low merry laugh, springs to her feet, and turns a pirouette on the floor. “I think the dress would suit me. I would write Latin elegies on all my old lovers.”
“You will hear somewhat of that, madame, later from the Queen,” Charlotte replies, with a triumphant air. “A husband is chosen for you already.”
“Who? Who is he?”
“You will learn from her Majesty very shortly.”
“Charlotte, if you do not tell me this instant, I will never forgive you;” and Marguerite suddenly becomes grave and reseats herself. “Next time you want my help I won’t move a finger.”
“I dare not tell you, madame.”
“Then I will tell Guise to-night you are in love with him,” cries she, reddening with anger.
“Oh, Princess,” exclaims Charlotte, sinking at her feet, and seizing her hand; “you would not be so cruel!”
“But I will, unless you tell me.”
At this moment, when Marguerite was dragging her friend beside her on the sofa, determined to obtain an avowal from her almost by force, the low door opens, and Catherine stands before them.