to a stranger, and that it was better to take it to you, who
were the most beautiful of learned ladies, and the most learned of
beautiful ones."

"I will listen to you, M. Chicot, since such are the king's orders."

"Thank you, madame; where would you please it to be?"

"Come to my room."

Marguerite looked earnestly at Chicot, who, through pity for her, had
let her have a glimpse of the truth. Perhaps she felt the need of a
support, for she turned toward a gentleman in the group, and said: "M.
de Turenne, your arm to the castle. Precede us, M. Chicot."

CHAPTER XLVI.

MARGUERITE'S ROOM.

Marguerite's room was fashionably furnished; and tapestries, enamels,
china, books and manuscripts in Greek, Latin and French covered all the
tables; while birds in their cages, dogs on the carpet, formed a living
world round Marguerite.

The queen was a woman to understand Epicurus, not in Greek only, but she
occupied her life so well that from a thousand griefs she drew forth a
pleasure.

Chicot was invited to sit down in a beautiful armchair of tapestry,
representing a Cupid scattering a cloud of flowers; and a page, handsome
and richly dressed, offered to him refreshment. He did not accept it,
but as soon as the Vicomte de Turenne had left them, began to recite his
letter. We already know this letter, having read it in French with
Chicot, and therefore think it useless to follow the Latin translation.
Chicot spoke with the worst accent possible, but Marguerite understood
it perfectly, and could not hide her rage and indignation. She knew her
brother's dislike to her, and her mind was divided between anger and
fear. But as he concluded, she decided on her part.

"By the Holy Communion," said she, when Chicot had finished, "my brother
writes well in Latin! What vehemence! what style! I should never have
believed him capable of it. But do you not understand it, M. Chicot? I
thought you were a good Latin scholar."

"Madame, I have forgotten it; all that I remember is that Latin has no
article, that it has a vocative, and that the head belongs to the neuter
gender."

"Really!" said some one, entering noiselessly and merrily. It was the
king of Navarre. "The head is of the neuter gender, M. Chicot? Why is it
not masculine?"

"Ah, sire, I do not know; it astonishes me as much as it does your
majesty."

"It must be because it is sometimes the man, sometimes the woman that
rules, according to their temperaments."