"Never," exclaimed Catherine, violently grasping the arm of her dying son, as it approached the paper. Charles raised his head to speak to her; but his emotions were too violent for his feeble frame. His lips quivered; the blood rose to his mouth, and choked his utterance. He fell back on his pillow, whilst a hollow rattling sounded in his throat; the pen remained between his powerless fingers. "Ah! he is no more! he is dead!" screamed the nurse in despair, and she flung herself upon the bed. "No--no," said the Queen-mother to herself. "There is still life. My son! Son," she continued aloud, "give me thy hand. If thou wilt sign that paper--be it signed." And grasping his hand, she conducted it to the place of signature on the paper. Mechanically the fingers followed the impulse she bestowed upon them. But four letters only of the name of Charles had been traced, when Catherine uttered a fearful scream. A rough hand had grasped her own, and lacerated its skin. The first thought of her superstitious mind was, that the arch-fiend himself had risen up in bodily form before her. On to the bed had sprung the ape; with a movement of detestation to the Queen-mother, which the animal had always evinced, when she approached its master; it bit the hand that held that of the dying king. Catherine drew back with another cry, but after a moment she again advanced her hand to grasp that of her son. When she took it within her own it was utterly motionless; but, nothing daunted in her purpose, she again fixed the pen between the dead fingers, and thus guiding them, contrived to trace the three remaining letters, regardless of the stream of blood, which, trickling from her wounded hand, besmeared that fatal signature. Then letting fall the dead man's hand, she wrote her own name firmly into the blank space. The Huguenot woman, aroused by her scream, had gazed upon the daring deed with horror. For a moment not a sound was heard. On one side of the corpse knelt the nurse, who had loved so well that erring man. On the other stood the Queen-mother, trembling in spite of her cold and dauntless nature. At the bed's head sat the hideous ape, grinning a fearful grin, as it were the evil spirit that had arisen to claim the lost soul of him who had thus passed away. "Charles the King is dead," exclaimed the Queen-mother, "and Catherine de Medicis is Regent of the Realm!" "It is false! That signature is a forgery," cried Perrotte, starting up, her eyes staring before her with all the expression of the deranged in mind. "I saw it done. To the world I will proclaim that--that Catherine de Medicis is a false Queen, and a usurping Regent." Catherine smiled a smile of scorn; and advancing to the door of the outer room, she flung it open with the words. "The King is dead!" "The King, is dead!" was repeated along the corridors of the Louvre. A pause ensued. "The King is dead! Long live the King, Henry the Third of France!" again said Catherine.