harles IX. is the feeblest of all. That of the
king of Navarre, that of the king of Poland, that of the Duc d'Alencon,
that of the Condes, that of the Guises, that of my mother, are all
intriguing one against another, but they take no account of me, not
even in my own council. My mother, in the midst of so many contending
elements, is, nevertheless, the strongest among them; she has just
proved to me the inanity of my plans. We are surrounded by rebellious
subjects who defy the law. The axe of Louis XI. of which you speak, is
lacking to us. Parliament would not condemn the Guises, nor the king of
Navarre, nor the Condes, nor my brother. No! the courage to assassinate
is needed; the throne will be forced to strike down those insolent men
who suppress both law and justice; but where can we find the faithful
arm? The council I held this morning has disgusted me with everything;
treason everywhere; contending interests all about me. I am tired with
the burden of my crown. I only want to die in peace."

He dropped into a sort of gloomy somnolence.

"Disgusted with everything!" repeated Marie Touchet, sadly; but she did
not disturb the black torpor of her lover.

Charles was the victim of a complete prostration of mind and body,
produced by three things,--the exhaustion of all his faculties,
aggravated by the disheartenment of realizing the extent of an evil; the
recognized impossibility of surmounting his weakness; and the aspect of
difficulties so great that genius itself would dread them. The king's
depression was in proportion to the courage and the loftiness of ideas
to which he had risen during the last few months. In addition to this,
an attack of nervous melancholy, caused by his malady, had seized him
as he left the protracted council which had taken place in his private
cabinet. Marie saw that he was in one of those crises when the least
word, even of love, would be importunate and painful; so she remained
kneeling quietly beside him, her head on his knee, the king's hand
buried in her hair, and he himself motionless, without a word, without
a sigh, as still as Marie herself,--Charles IX. in the lethargy of
impotence, Marie in the stupor of despair which comes to a loving woman
when she perceives the boundaries at which love ends.

The lovers thus remained, in the deepest silence, during one of those
terrible hours when all reflection wounds, when the clouds of an inward
tempest veil even the memory of happiness.