Suddenly a Huguenot soldier burst in upon them. ‘Monsieur l’Amiral,’ he cried, ‘you must fly. You must waste no time. The Guisards are here. They are breaking down the inner door.’

‘My friends,’ said the Admiral calmly, ‘you must go . . . all of you. For myself I am ready for death. I have long expected it.’

‘I will never leave you, Father,’ said Téligny.

‘My son, your life is too precious to be recklessly thrown away. Go . . . go at once. Remember Louise. Remember Châtillon, and that it is for such as you to live and fight on. Do not be over-troubled because I must die. I am an old man and my day is done.’

‘I will fight beside you,’ said Téligny. ‘We may yet escape.’

‘I cannot walk, my son. You cannot carry me. It is folly to delay. I hear them on the staircase. That means they are coming over the dead bodies of our faithful friends. Go, my son. Jacqueline will know much sorrow, for this night she will be a widow. If you love my daughter do not subject her to the same fate. You grieve me. I am most unhappy while you stay. Give me the joy of knowing that you have escaped these murderers. Son, I beg of you. There is yet time. The roofs . . . through theabat-son. Now . . . for the love of God, for the love of Louise . . . for Châtillon . . . I beg of you . . . go!’

Téligny kissed his father-in-law and sobbed: ‘I will, Father. I will . . . since it is your wish. For Louise . . .’

‘I beg of you, make haste. To the attics . . . to the roofs . . .’

‘Goodbye, my father.’

‘Goodby, my dearest son.’

Gaspard wiped the sweat from his brow, but he was smiling as he saw the last of his son-in-law. He turned to Merlin. ‘You too, my dearest friend, go .

‘Dear master, I have no wife to make a widow. My place is here with you. I will not leave you.’

‘Nor I, master,’ said Muss. ‘I have my sword and my arm is strong.’

‘It is certain death,’ said the Admiral wearily. ‘We are so few, they so many.’

‘But I would not wish for life, master,’ said Muss, ‘if I left you now.’

‘Dear friends, I would not have those who hold you dear, reproach me with your deaths. You would please me if you went. Merlin, you can do much good elsewhere. Go . . . Follow my son-in-law to the roofs. Listen. They are on the staircase now. Merlin . . . I entreat you. I have learned to pray. I can pray without you. You waste a life . . . a Huguenot life. I beg of you. I command you . . .’

The pastor was persuaded that he could do no good by remaining, but old Nicholas Muss was resolutely standing by the bed, his sword in hand, and Coligny knew that nothing he could say to his servant would make him leave his side.

Then Coligny knelt by the bed. He began to pray. ‘Into Your hands, oh God, I commend my soul. Comfort my wife. Guide my children, for they are of such tender age . . . Into your hands . . . into your hands . . .’

The door was burst open. Cosseins and a man whom the Admiral recognized as an enemy and whose name was Besme, rushed into the room. Behind them came others, among whom were the Italians, Toshingi and Petrucci. They all wore white scarfs about their arms and crosses in their’ hats.

They fell back at the sight of the old man kneeling by the bed. Hastily they crossed themselves. The serenity of the Admiral’s face and the calm manner in which he lifted those noble eyes to their faces temporarily unnerved them.

‘You are Gaspard de Coligny?’ said Toshingi.

‘I am. And you have come to kill me, I see. Do what you will. My life is almost over and there is little you can do.’

Nicholas Muss lifted his sword in defence of his master, but the blow was parried by Toshingi, while Petrucci thrust his dagger into the old man’s chest. The others crowded round to finish what Toshingi had begun, and Muss fell groaning beside the bed.

‘So perish all heretics!’ cried one of the men.

This was the signal; together they rushed on the prostrate Admiral. Besme thrust his sword through the body of the noble old man, while all in turn stabbed him with their daggers, each eager to anoint his blade with the most distinguished of the blood that they had promised themselves they would shed that night.

Coligny lay stretched out before them, and they stood silently looking down at him, none willing that his companions should see that look of shame which he feared he might be weak enough to show.

Besme went to the window and opened it.

‘Is the deed done?’ called Henry of Guise.

‘Yes, my lord Duke,’ answered Besme.

The Chevalier of Angouleme, bastard of Henry the Second and half-brother to the King, who was below with Guise, shouted: ‘Then fling him out of the window that we may see that you speak truth.’

The assassins lifted the body of the Admiral.

‘He still lives,’ said Petrucci.

‘He will not live for long after he has made contact with the courtyard below,’ answered Toshingi. ‘Ah, my good friend, my noble Admiral, if you had not stooped to pick up a paper when I took a shot at you, what a lot of trouble you might have saved yourself . . . and us! Hoist him, my friends. What a weight he is! Steady . . . Over!’

The Admiral made a feeble effort to grasp the windowsill; one of the men pricked his hand with his dagger and then . . . Gaspard de Coligny was lying in the courtyard below.

The Chevalier d’Angoulême, who had dismounted, said to Guise: ‘It is not easy to see that it is he. His white hair is red tonight. It is as though he has followed Madame Margot’s fashion and put a wig of that colour on his head.’

Henry of Guise knelt to examine the body. ‘It is he,’ he said: and he placed his foot on the Admiral. ‘At last, Monsieur de Coligny,’ he said. ‘At last you die, murderer of my father. You have lived too long since you bribed a man to kill Francis of Guise at Orléans.’

Angoulême kicked the body and ordered one of his men to cut off the head.

A cheer went up as the head was held high by the blood-stained hair.

‘Adieu, Coligny!’ the shout went up.

‘Adieu, murderer of François de Guise!’ cried the Duke; and those about him took up the cry.

‘You may take the head to the Louvre,’ said Angoulême. ‘A gift for the Queen Mother, and one which she has long coveted.’

‘What of the body, sir?’ asked Toshingi.

‘A gift to the people of Paris to do with what they will.’

It was at that moment that a messenger came galloping up.

‘From the Queen Mother, my lord Duke. “Stop,” she says. “Do not kill the Admiral.” ‘

‘Ride back with all speed,’ said the Duke. ‘Tell the Queen Mother that you came too late. Come, my men. Death to the heretics! Death to the Huguenots! The King commands that we kill . . . kill . . . kill.’


* * *

Téligny, from the roofs, looked down on the city. Lights had sprung up everywhere, and there were torches and cressets to pick out the horrible sights. The air was filled with the cries of dying men and women—hoarse, appealing, angry and bewildered.

Which way? Which way to safety and Louise? He knew that the Admiral had no chance of survival, and he must reach those loved ones at the Château de Châtillon to comfort them, to mourn with them.

He could already smell the stench of blood. What was happening on this mad, most fantastic of nights? What were they doing down there in the streets? What were they doing to his friends?

He was too young to die. He had not yet lived. The Admiral had known adventure, love, as well as devotion to a cause; he had known the joy of rearing a family; but Téligny as yet knew little of these things. He thought of the fair face of Louise, of walking with her in the flower gardens, through the shady green alleys. How he longed for the peace of Châtillon, how he longed for escape from this nightmare city!

He would wait here on the roof until all was quiet. He would escape through one of the gates of the city. Perhaps he could disguise himself, for if they were murdering the friends of the Admiral, they would never let him live; and he must live; he must get to Châtillon . and Louise.

A bullet whined over his head. He heard a shout from below. They had seen him. They had picked him up by the light from their cressets.

‘There he goes . . . On the roof . . .’

There was a hot pain in his arm. He looked about him, bewildered.

‘I must escape,’ he murmured. ‘I must reach Châtillon . . . and Louise . . .’

The torchlight showed him the outline of the roof. He saw the way he had come; the blood he had shed lay behind him in pools like dark, untidy footprints. He could hear the malignant shouting as more shots whined about him.

He clambered on. He was weak and dizzy. ‘For Louise . . .’ he panted. For Châtillon . . . and Louise . . .’

He was still murmuring ‘Louise’ when he rolled off the roof.

The mob, recognizing his quivering body, fell upon him and called to one another that Téligny was dead. They tore his clothes to shreds to keep as mementoes of this night.


* * *

Margot had gone uneasily to her bedchamber. Her husband was already there. He lay in bed and was surrounded by members of his suite.

She retired to an ante-chamber, called her women to help her disrobe and, when this was done, joined Navarre in the bed.

It seemed that he, like herself, was disinclined to sleep.

She could not forget her sister’s words, nor the anger which they had aroused in her mother. Something threatened her, she was sure. She longed for the gentlemen to depart so that she might tell her husband what had taken place, but the gentlemen showed no signs of departing, and Navarre showed no sign of wishing them to do so.

They were excitedly discussing the shooting of the Admiral, and what the outcome would be.

‘In the morning,’ said Navarre, ‘I shall go to the King and demand justice. I shall ask Condé to accompany me, and I shall demand the arrest of Henry of Guise.’

Margot smiled cynically. Her husband had much to learn. Here in Paris. Henry of Guise was of as great importance as the King. No one—not even her mother or brother—would dare accuse Guise in Paris.

They went on talking of Coligny, of the audience they would demand, of the justice for which they would ask. Margot listened. She was tired, yet she could not sleep while the men remained, and her husband did not dismiss them. So the long night dragged on, and at length, declaring that it would soon be day, Navarre announced that he was going to play tennis until the King should wake up. ‘Then,’ he said, ‘I shall, without delay, go to him and demand audience.’ He turned to his men. ‘Let us go and prepare ourselves for a game. I shall not sleep until I have won justice for Coligny.’

He leaped out of bed and Margot said: ‘I will sleep till daybreak. I am tired.’

They drew the curtains about her and left her, and it was not long before she slept.

She was suddenly awakened. In the streets bells were ringing and people were shouting. She sat up in bed listening in amazement, and now she realized that what had awakened her was a repeated hammering on her own door Immediately she remembered the strange events of the previous evening.

The hammering on her door persisted: it was accompanied by loud cries. She listened. ‘Open . . . Open . . . For the love of God. Navarre! Navarre!’

‘Who is there?’ cried Margot. She called to one of her women who came running in from the ante-chamber. ‘Someone knocks. Unlock the door.’

The woman stumbled to the door. Margot, her bed-curtains parted, saw a man rush into the room. His face was deathly pale, his clothes spattered with blood; the blood dripped on to the carpet.

He saw the bed. He saw Margot. He staggered towards her with his arms outstretched.

Margot had leaped out of bed, and the intruder, flinging his arms about her knelt and, lifting his agonized face to hers, cried: ‘Save me . . . Navarre . . . Navarre . . .’

Margot, for once, was completely bewildered. She had no idea who this man was, why he should be in such a condition and why he should thus break into her bedchamber; but even as he knelt there, his blood staining her nightgown, four men rushed into the room, their bloodstained swords in their hands, their eyes like those of wild animals lusting for the kill.

Ever emotional in the extreme, Margot was roused to pity, anger and indignation all at once. With a quick gesture she released herself from the clinging hands of the man and stood in front of him; her black hair in disorder, her black eyes flashing, she faced those bloodthirsty men in such a manner that even in their present mood they were aware that they stood in the presence of a Queen.