xcellent 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.

Full of hatred for her enemies, but patient that she might avenge
herself better--feeling instinctively that under the mask of
carelessness and long-suffering worn by Henri of Navarre he had a bad
feeling toward her--she had accustomed herself to replace by poetry, and
by the semblance of love, relations, husband, and friends.

No one, excepting Catherine de Medicis, Chicot, or some melancholy
ghosts returned from the realms of death, could have told why
Marguerite's cheeks were often so pale, why her eyes often filled with
tears, or why her heart often betrayed its melancholy void. Marguerite
had no more confidantes; she had been betrayed too often.

However, the bad feeling which she believed Henri to have for her was
only an instinct, and came rather from the consciousness of her own
faults than from his behavior. He treated her like a daughter of France,
always spoke to her with respectful politeness, or grateful kindness,
and was always the husband and friend.

When Chicot arrived at the place indicated to him by Henri, he found no
one; Marg