“You blamed the Saint-Bartholomew,” said Charles, “and now you—”
“That is over,” she said; “besides, I agree with Madame Catherine that it was better to do it yourselves than let the Guises do it.”
“Charles VII. had only men to fight; I am face to face with ideas,” resumed the king. “We can kill men, but we can’t kill words! The Emperor Charles V. gave up the attempt; his son Philip has spent his strength upon it; we shall all perish, we kings, in that struggle. On whom can I rely? To right, among the Catholics, I find the Guises, who are my enemies; to left, the Calvinists, who will never forgive me the death of my poor old Coligny, nor that bloody day in August; besides, they want to suppress the throne; and in front of me what have I?—my mother!”
“Arrest her; reign alone,” said Marie in a low voice, whispering in his ear.
“I meant to do so yesterday; to-day I no longer intend it. You speak of it rather coolly.”
“Between the daughter of an apothecary and that of a doctor there is no great difference,” replied Touchet, always ready to laugh at the false origin attributed to her.
The king frowned.
“Marie, don’t take such liberties. Catherine de’ Medici is my mother, and you ought to tremble lest—”
“What is it you fear?”
“Poison!” cried the king, beside himself.