"I deceive you not, my son," pursued Catherine, eagerly. "Each word that I pronounce is God's own truth. Could you then confide into the power of a base and lying Heretic, one who seeks your death, but to grasp himself the Crown, the government of a Catholic and a Christian country? Hear you not already the anathema of our holy father, the Pope, that curses even in the tomb that soul lost by a step so rash? See you not already our blessed Virgin, and all the saints of Heaven, turn from you their glorious faces, and refuse to look on one who has despised them, and set them at nought by a deed so unholy? Feel you not already the torture of that punishment to which the Heretic, and the aider and abettor of the Heretic, are eternally condemned? Have I deceived you when I said that you endanger the welfare of your own immortal soul?"
"But you err, madam," said her miserable son, shuddering at the picture thus placed before him, to work upon his mind in these last moments. "Henry is become a good and fervent Catholic."
"All is ready for his abjuration at the moment of your death," continued the Queen-mother. "To resume a powerful party among the Huguenots, he will renounce our religion. My son—my son—pause, reflect, before you thus sacrifice your own salvation, and throw your unhappy country beneath the Papal ban."
"Heaven aid me!" cried the miserable Charles. "On all sides darkness and despair, in this world and the next."
"Heaven shall aid you, my son," pursued his wily mother, "if you but trust the guidance of your kingdom to such hands as shall maintain it in the true religion. The paper that resigns your country to the hands of a regent, lies, I see, before you. Can you hesitate? Can you a moment doubt? Whose name should fill that space, where but just now you would have written the traitorous name of Henry of Navarre?"
"God guide my unhappy France!" sighed the king, turning his face away and closing his eyes. "In His hands I leave it."
Catherine smiled with a look of scorn, and then picking up the pen, which had fallen by the bedside, calmly fetched some ink from the table, and attempted to place the pen in her son's hand.
Before her purpose could be fulfilled, a noise was heard in the outer room. The voice of a woman clamoured loudly for admittance. Charles heard that voice, opened his eyes, and attempted to raise his head.
"Ah, it is she!" he cried, with choking voice. "At last!—at last! Let her come in."
Catherine de Medicis rose, for the purpose, probably, of opposing the order of her son; but before she could reach the door, an old woman, simply attired, and of a strange appearance and expression, had entered the room.