“Darling, he died” (the king lowered his voice) “of hunger; for he feared being poisoned by the dauphin, who had already caused the death of his beautiful Agnes. The father feared his son; to-day the son dreads his mother!” “Why drag up the past?” she said hastily, remembering the dreadful life of Charles VI. “Ah! sweetest, kings have no need to go to sorcerers to discover their coming fate; they need only turn to history. I am at this moment endeavoring to escape the fate of Charles the Simple, who was robbed of his crown, and died in prison after seven years’ captivity.” “Charles V. conquered the English,” she cried triumphantly. “No, not he, but du Guesclin. He himself, poisoned by Charles de Navarre, dragged out a wretched existence.” “Well, Charles IV., then?” “He married three times to obtain an heir, in spite of the masculine beauty of the children of Philippe le Bel. The first house of Valois ended with him, and the second is about to end in the same way. The queen has given me only a daughter, and I shall die without leaving her pregnant; for a long minority would be the greatest curse I could bequeath to the kingdom. Besides, if I had a son, would he live? The name of Charles is fatal; Charlemagne exhausted the luck of it. If I left a son I would tremble at the thought that he would be Charles X.” “Who is it that wants to seize your crown?” “My brother d’Alencon conspires against it. Enemies are all about me.” “Monsieur,” said Marie, with a charming little pout, “do tell me something gayer.” “Ah! my little jewel, my treasure, don’t call me ‘monsieur,’ even in jest; you remind me of my mother, who stabs me incessantly with that title, by which she seems to snatch away my crown. She says ‘my son’ to the Duc d’Anjou--I mean the king of Poland.” “Sire,” exclaimed Marie, clasping her hands as though she were praying, “there is a kingdom where you are worshipped. Your Majesty fills it with his glory, his power; and there the word ‘monsieur,’ means ‘my beloved lord.’” She unclasped her hands, and with a pretty gesture pointed to her heart. The words were so _musiques_ (to use a word of the times which depicted the melodies of love) that Charles IX. caught her round the waist with the nervous force that characterized him, and seated her on his knee, rubbing his forehead gently against the pretty curls so coquettishly arranged. Marie thought the moment favorable; she ventured a few kisses, which Charles allowed rather than accepted, then she said softly:-- “If my servants were not mistaken you were out all night in the streets, as in the days when you played the pranks of a younger son.” “Yes,” replied the king, still lost in his own thoughts.