He passed through a large hall, then a long corridor, at the end of which he softly opened a door, and stood looking behind a long half-drawn curtain. The children's cries and shouts of laughter had drowned the noise of his steps; and he was able, himself unseen, to watch a most delightful and graceful picture.
Standing at the window, Mary Stuart, the beautiful young bride, had gathered around her Diane de Castro, and Elisabeth and Marguerite de France, all three very assiduous to help her, and chattering away for dear life, smoothing out a fold in her dress or fixing a lock of hair that had escaped from its fastening,—in short, giving that finishing touch to her lovely toilette which only women know how to give. At the other end of the room, the brothers, Charles, Henri, and François, the youngest of all, laughing and shouting at the top of their voices, were pushing with all their strength against a door which François the dauphin, the young bridegroom, was trying in vain to open, while the little rogues were determined to prevent him from having a sight of his wife till the last moment.
Jacques Amyot, the preceptor of the princes, was talking seriously in a corner with Madame de Coni and Lady Lennox, the governesses of the princesses.
There in one apartment, within a space that could be covered by one glance, was assembled a large part of the history of the future, its woes, its passions, and its glory. There were the dauphin, who became François II.; Élisabeth, who married Philip II., and became Queen of Spain; Charles, who was Charles IX.; Henri, who was Henri III.; Marguerite de Valois, who married Henri IV., and was Queen of Navarre; François, who was successively Duc d'Alençon, d'Anjou, and de Brabant; and Mary Stuart, who was twice a queen, and a martyr too.
The illustrious translator of Plutarch watched with a gaze at once sad and absorbed the sports of these children and the future destinies of France.
"No, no, François, you shall not come in!" cried rather harshly the brutal Charles Maximilien, who was in after years to give the word for the fearful slaughter of Saint Bartholomew.
And with his brothers' help he succeeded in pushing the bolt, and thus made an entrance out of the question for poor François, who was too frail in any event to have made his way in, even against these children, and who could only stamp in his vexation, and beg from the other side of the door.
"Dear François, how they do torment him!" said Mary Stuart to his sisters.
"Keep quiet, do, Madame la Dauphine, at least until I put in this pin," laughed little Marguerite. "What a fine invention these pins are, and what a great man the one who thought of them last year ought to become!" said she.
"And now that the pin is in place," said gentle Élisabeth, "I am going to open the door for poor François, in spite of these young fiends; for it makes me sad to see him so sad."