Chicot began again, and Henri listened with the utmost calm to all the passages about Turenne and his wife, only at the word "Turennius," he said: "Does not 'Turennius' mean Turenne?" "I think so, sire." "And 'Margota' must be the pet name which my brothers gave to their sister Marguerite, my beloved wife." "It is possible," said Chicot; and he continued his letter to the end without the king's face changing in the least. "Is it finished?" asked Henri, when he stopped. "Yes, sire." "It ought to be superb." "I think so, also, sire." "How unlucky that I only understood two words, 'Turennius' and 'Margota.'" "An irreparable misfortune, sire, unless your majesty decides on having it translated by some one." "Oh! no; you yourself, M. Chicot, who were so discreet in destroying the autograph, you would not counsel me to make this letter public?" "But I think that the king's letter to you, recommended to me so carefully, and sent to your majesty by a private hand, must contain something important for your majesty to know." "Yes, but to confide these important things to any one, I must have great confidence in him." "Certainly." "Well, I have an idea. Go and find my wife. She is learned, and will understand it if you recite it to her; then she can explain it to me." "That is an excellent plan." "Is it not? Go." "I will, sire." "Mind not to alter a word of the letter." "That would be impossible, sire. To do that I must know Latin." "Go, then, my friend." Chicot took leave and went, more puzzled with the king than ever. CHAPTER XLV. THE AVENUE THREE THOUSAND FEET LONG. The queen inhabited the other wing of the castle. The famous avenue began at her very window, and her eyes rested only on grass and flowers. A native poet (Marguerite, in the provinces as in Paris, was always the star of the poets) had composed a sonnet about her. "She wishes," said he, "by all these agreeable sights to chase away painful souvenirs." Daughter, sister, and wife of a king as she was, she had indeed suffered much. Her philosophy, although more boasted of than that of the king, was less solid; for it was due only to study, while his was natural. Therefore, stoical as she tried to be, time and grief had already begun to leave their marks on her countenance. Still she was remarkably beautiful. With her joyous yet sweet smile, her brilliant and yet soft eyes, Marguerite was still an adorable creature. She was idolized at Nerac, where she brought elegance, joy, and life. She, a Parisian princess, supported patiently a provincial life, and this alone was a virtue in the eyes of the inhabitants. Every one loved her, both as queen and as woman.