“Bien s?r.”
“And before you do”—I force a smile so that I will seem less worried than I am—“you had best take care of the Baronne de Sauve’s misperceptions. I will not be deprived of a best friend by misplaced jealousy.”
He smiles slightly. “You are a most accommodating wife.”
“I promised I would be.”
I do not follow him to the next room but sit down to pen my note to Henri. Not an easy task. The man to whom, less than a week ago, I confided everything without censoring thought or feeling is suddenly separated from me—in part by my simmering anger, but also by a growing recognition that his interests and mine are no longer one. I settle for the short, plain, and unembellished. Will such a terse message wound? Or will Henri recognize that my sending a note is, alone, proof of my caring? Such questions hardly matter. They are overpowered by a more momentous one: Will my words result in action on his part? I cannot know. All I can be certain of is that if Henri is arrested and, God forbid, banished or worse, the thought that I have tried to save him may salve my conscience but it will not prevent my heart from shattering. And to think I believed it broken already.
*
“You will not find the Queen in her bedchamber.” The Baronne de Retz is alone in Mother’s vast antechamber.
“Where, then?” I have spent all afternoon wandering, looking for something more substantial in the way of information than the whisperings that continue to circulate.
“She has gone to the Tuileries.”
At such a time? Then it comes to me: no place is more private. “With whom?”
My former gouvernante hesitates.
I shrug. “I will go and see for myself.”
“Anjou, my husband, the Duc de Nevers, and Cardinal Birague.”
Serious company—all Mother’s Italian favorites and her favorite son, but not the King. An icy shiver runs up my spine. Such a group raises every sort of alarm. I force myself to smile. Then I go directly toward Charles’ apartment. If he does not know where Mother is and with whom, he ought to. As I approach the lesser entrance, the one which only those closest to him use, I am startled to see a hooded figure moving away from that door. The figure raises his head.
“Marguerite!” Henri’s eyes meet mine. I see surprise, pain, love, and anger.
“Why are you still in Paris?”
“Why did you—who know me better than anyone—think I would flee it like a coward?”
“Do brave men skulk around hooded?”
He pulls himself up to his full height and pushes back his hood. His eyes soften and I find it in me to soften as well.
“Henri,” I say, reaching out a hand to touch his arm, “brave men may die as well as cowards.”
“Brave men may die, yes. But they always die better than cowards.”
“I would prefer you live to be a very old man.” I drop my eyes to the floor.
“Would you?” His voice is imbued with a desire to know. I look back up into his face.
“Of course.”
“Do you wish me alive so that you may torture me?” His voice is rough and I know he has heard. “You promised.” The accusation is nearly childlike in its raw anger.
I want to tell him that my cousin has not touched me. But the words will not come. He does not deserve to hear them. And saying them would undo a ruse that my cousin and I agreed to. So instead I say, “We each promised many things. Can you say, Henri, you have been entirely faithful to your word? You who deserted me after saying you would love me forever?” If his conscience twinges, I cannot detect as much in his face.
“I must go.”
“Go, then. But before you do, I must call upon our long friendship. You know I am told nothing. I have passed all day fearing I know not what. You have been with the King: Can you not at least tell me what passes in fact? For the rumors are too wild to be credited.” I do not honestly expect an answer, but, having nothing to lose, a bold play seems the thing.
He hesitates, then says, “I cannot say what your brother will do, and I will not breach the confidence of the others who counseled him. But I advised him to strike the Huguenots before they stop demanding justice and rise up. You see, I too care—I would have you live to old age and your family along with you.”
“Strike how? Arrests?”
He ignores my questions, pulling up his hood once more. When he tries to pass, I reach for him again.
“Pilles was a fool to bring four hundred men to the Louvre, but there was no violence. And not every Protestant gentleman was with him.”
He tries to shake me off, but I cling tighter. If he will dislodge me, he will have to use force.
“Please”—I am begging, and I take no joy in doing so—“if Charles moves against the Huguenot chiefs, will he be indiscriminate? Will he arrest them all?”