"As soon as this marriage is over, the Admiral has promised to make another appeal to the king. With Henry to speak a word for me as well, I think Charles will restore my estates. At all events, there is the Spanish war in sight, and Cordel isn't likely to follow me to Flanders."
I spoke lightly, but this second attempt on my life was really a serious matter, showing as it did that my enemy had not abandoned his design. The next few days, however, were very busy ones, and the course of events gave me little leisure for brooding over my own dangerous position.
The betrothal of the royal pair took place on August 17, at the Louvre, and was followed by a supper and a ball. Then, according to custom, the bride was escorted by the king and queen, the queen-mother, monseigneur, and the leading princes and nobles to the palace of the Bishop of Paris, where she was to spend the night.
The actual ceremony was fixed for the next day, and we at the Hôtel Coligny were up betimes. Strangely enough, the uneasy feeling of which I have spoken had increased rather than lessened, though no one could give any reason for this growing apprehension.
Everything was going well; there was no fresh cause for alarm, and yet there was not a man amongst us—unless we except our noble leader—who did not wish the day well over. He was in the highest of spirits, looking upon the marriage as a public proof that henceforth Charles intended to rule all his subjects with equal justice. Perhaps he did!
The day was gloriously fine, and hours before the time announced for the ceremony the streets were thronged with dense crowds of citizens. On the open space in front of Notre Dame a gorgeous pavilion, in which the marriage was to be solemnized, had been erected.
Coligny was accompanied by certain of his gentlemen, but most of us were stationed outside the pavilion. The people glared at us scowlingly, and even when the grand procession passed on the way to escort Margaret from the palace they remained mute.
Yet for those who enjoy idle shows it was a pretty spectacle. Charles, Henry, and Condé, with some idea perhaps of showing their affection for each other, were all dressed alike, in pale yellow satin, embroidered with silver, and adorned with pearls and precious stones. Anjou, who was even more magnificently attired, had a set of thirty-two pearls in his toque, while the noble dames were gorgeous in rich brocades, and velvets interwoven with gold and silver.
"If the people had their way," whispered Felix, as the grand cavalcade swept by, "Henry would be going to his funeral instead of to his marriage, and there would be few of us left to mourn him."
From the Bishop's palace to the pavilion stretched a raised covered platform, and presently there was a slight craning of necks, and the citizens showed some faint interest, as the head of the bridal procession appeared in sight.