"I never doubt what you tell me," replied the king sarcastically. "I am curious to know how they have sought to kill me." "By magic. Look here." The queen drew from under her mantle a figure of yellow wax about ten inches high, wearing a robe covered with golden stars, and over this a royal mantle. "See, it has on its head a crown," said Catherine, "and there is a needle in its heart. Now do you recognise yourself?" "Myself?" "Yes, in your royal robes, with the crown on your head." "And who made this figure?" asked-the king, weary of the wretched farce. "The King of Navarre, of course!" "No, sire; he did not actually make it, but it was found in the rooms of M. de la Mole, who serves the King of Navarre." "So, then, the person who seeks to kill me is M. de la Mole?" said Charles. "He is only the instrument, and behind the instrument is the hand that directs it," replied Catherine. "This, then, is the cause of my illness. And now what must I do--for I know nothing of sorcery?" "The death of the conspirator destroys the charm. Its power ends with his life. You are convinced now, are you not, of the cause of your illness?" "Oh, certainly," Charles answered ironically. "And I am to punish M. de la Mole, as you say he is the guilty party?" "I say he is the instrument, and," muttered Catherine, "we have infallible means for making him confess the name of his principal." Catherine left hurriedly without understanding the sardonic laughter of the king, and as she went out Marguerite appeared. "Oh, sire--sire," cried Marguerite, "you know what _she_ says is false. It is terrible to accuse anyone's own mother, but she only lives to persecute the man who is devoted to you, Henry--your Henry--and I swear to you that what she says is false!" "I think so, too, Margot. But Henry is safe. Safer in disgrace in Vincennes than in favour at the Louvre." "Oh, thanks, thanks! But there is another person in whose welfare I am interested, whom I hardly dare mention to my brother, much less to my king." "M. de la Mole, is it not? But do you know that a figure dressed in royal robes and pierced to the heart was found in his rooms?" "I know it; but it was the figure of a woman, not of a man." "And the needle?" "Was a charm not to kill a man, but to make a woman love him." "What was the name of this woman?" "Marguerite!" cried the queen, throwing herself down and bathing the king's hand in her tears. "Margot, what if I know the real author of the crime? For a crime has been committed, and I have not three months to live. I am poisoned, but it must be thought I die by magic." "You know who is guilty?" "Yes; but it must be kept from the world, and so it must be believed I die of magic, and by the agency of him they accuse." "But it is monstrous!" exclaimed Marguerite. "You know he is innocent. Pardon him--pardon him!"