"My policy, as well as what you choose to call my intrigues, my son," rejoined the Queen, "have ever been directed to your interests and welfare. You are aware that Henry of Navarre has conspired against the peace of our realm, against your crown, may-be against your life. Would you condemn that care which would prevent the renewal of such misdeeds, when your own sister--when his wife--leagues herself in secret with your enemies!" "Ay! Margaret too!" muttered Charles with bitterness. "Was the list of the Atrides not yet complete?" "The dictates of my love and affection, of my solicitude for my son, and for his weal--such have been the main-springs of my intrigues," pursued the mother in a cajoling tone. "The intrigues of the house of Medicis!" murmured the King, with a mocking laugh. "What would you have me to do more, my son?" continued the Queen-mother. "Nothing," replied Charles, "nothing but leave me--leave me, as others have done, to die alone!" "My son, I will leave you shortly, and if it so please our Blessed Virgin, to a little repose, and a better frame of mind," said Catherine of Medicis. "But I came to speak to you of matters of weight, and of such deep importance that they brook no delay." "I am unfitted for all matters of state--my head is weary, my limbs ache, my heart burns with a torturing fire--I cannot listen to you now, madam," pursued the King languidly; and then, seeing that his mother still stood motionless by his side, he added with more energy--"Am I then no more a king, madam, that, at my own command, I cannot even be left to _die_ in peace?" "It is of your health, your safety, your life, that I would speak," continued Catherine of Medicis, unmoved. "The physicians have sought in vain to discover the real sources of the cruel malady that devours you; but there is no reason to doubt of your recovery, when the cause shall be known and removed." "And you, madam, should know, it would appear, better than my physicians the hidden origin of my sufferings!" said Charles, in a tone in which might be remarked traces of the bitterest irony. "Is it not so?" and he looked upon his mother with a deadly look of suspicion and mistrust. The Queen-mother started slightly at these words; but, after a moment, she answered in her usual bland tone of voice-- "It is my solicitude upon this subject that now brings me hither." "I thank you for your solicitude," replied the King, with the same marked manner; "and so, doubtless, does my brother Anjou: you love him well, madam, and he is the successor of his childish brother."