And René was alone with his King. What happened then will never be known until the last great trumpet blares out its call, and you and I, my friends, stand at God’s Throne to answer for our souls; but when the morning came, Charles the Ninth was King of France.
All this was to happen in a few days, nay, in a few hours; but at the moment, in the hearts of those who stood around, had sprung up a hope—the fever was gone—the King would live.
We stepped forward and knelt by the bedside, and the thin hand of the boy wavered over us as he asked:
“Are these my friends come back?”
Then Catherine bent down and whispered in his ear, and Francis spoke again.
“Pardon them! I would have pardoned them all. There was Castelnau, who used to play with me when I was a boy. There was Ste. Marie, who taught me to ride. There is Condé, always gay and laughing. And I—I have not laughed for months.” He stopped for a moment, and went on, “But my cousin of Guise and the Cardinal will not let me pardon any one—they forbid it,” he added weakly.
“My son,” said the Medicis, “are you not King of France?”
A faint flush spread over the ivory face, the pale lips drew themselves together obstinately, and he muttered to himself:
“Yes! Yes! I am King,” and then, in a louder tone, “I will be King for once—shall I not, Marie?” and he turned to his wife.
And the most beautiful lips in the world pleaded for us, and put courage into the heart of the King; and, boy as he was, there seemed to come upon him all the dignity of his high estate, as he stretched out his hand again to us.