man, and had the woman's right to explain the matter so.

Rather, it was the root-difference of all lack of common interest and
mutual love. Two young people, with different upbringings, with mothers
wide apart as the heaven of Jeanne d'Albret and the inferno of the
Medici, were suddenly thrown together with no bond save that of years to
unite them. Each went a several way--neither the right way--and there is
small wonder that the result of such a marriage was only unhappiness.

Said Henry of Navarre to Rosny, his best confidant, when there was
question of his own wedding:

"Seven things are needed in the woman I ought to marry."

"Seven is a great number, Your Majesty," answered the Right Hand of the
Bearnais; "but tell them to me, and I will at least cause search to be
made. I will make proclamation for the lady who can put her foot into
seven glass slippers, each one smaller than the other!"

"First, then," said the King of Navarre, posing a forefinger on the palm
of his other hand, and speaking sagely, as a master setting out the
steps of a proposition, "she must have beauty of person!"

"Good," said Rosny; "Your Majesty has doubtless satisfied himself that
there are such to be found in the land--once or twice!"

"Wait, Rosny--let me finish!" said the King. And so continued his
enumeration of wifely necessities, as they appeared to a great prince of
the sixteenth century.

"_Item_, she must be modest in her life, of a happy humour, vivid in
spirit, ready in affection, eminent in extraction, and possessed of
great estates in her own right!"

For all answer Rosny held up his hands.

"I know--I know," smiled the Bearnais, "you would say to me that this
marvel of womankind has been dead some time. I would rather say to you
that she has never been born!"

So it came about that Marguerite, the pretty, foolish butterfly of the
Valois courts, and her Bearnais husband, rough, soldierly, far-seeing,
politic, had not seen each other for five years. Marguerite had shut
herself up in the castle of Usson, one of the dread prison fortresses
built by "that fox," Louis the Eleventh.

Though sent almost as a prisoner there, or at least under observation,
she had speedily possessed herself of castle and castellan, guard and
officers, kitchen scullions and gardener varlets. For she had the open
hand, especially when the money was not her own, the ready wit, and
above all, the charming smile, though even that meant nothing.