door of the closet, staring at
the traces of blood on the bed, the furniture, and the carpet.

"Ah! madame!" she cried when she saw the queen. "Oh! madame! tell me, is
he dead?"

"Silence!" said Marguerite in that tone of voice which gives some
indication of the importance of the command.

Gillonne was silent.

Marguerite then took from her purse a tiny gilded key, opened the closet
door, and showed the young man to the servant. La Mole had succeeded in
getting to his feet and making his way to the window. A small poniard,
such as women at that time were in the habit of carrying, was at hand,
and when he heard the door opening he had seized it.

"Fear nothing, sir," said Marguerite; "for, on my soul, you are in
safety!"

La Mole sank on his knees.

"Oh, madame," he cried, "you are more than a queen--you are a goddess!"

"Do not agitate yourself, sir," said Marguerite, "your blood is still
flowing. Oh, look, Gillonne, how pale he is--let us see where you are
wounded."

"Madame," said La Mole, trying to fix on certain parts of his body the
pain which pervaded his whole frame, "I think I have a dagger-thrust in
my shoulder, another in my chest,--the other wounds are not worth
bothering about."

"We will see," said Marguerite. "Gillonne, bring me my balsam casket."

Gillonne obeyed, and returned holding in one hand a casket, and in the
other a silver-gilt ewer and some fine Holland linen.

"Help me to lift him, Gillonne," said Queen Marguerite; "for in
attempting to get up the poor gentleman has lost all his strength."

"But, madame," said La Mole, "I am wholly confused. Indeed, I cannot
allow"--

"But, sir, you will let us do for you, I think," said Marguerite. "When
we may save you, it would be a crime to let you die."

"Oh!" cried La Mole, "I would rather die than see you, the queen, stain
your hands with blood as unworthy as mine. Oh, never, never!"

And he drew back respectfully.

"Your blood, sir," replied Gillonne, with a smile, "has already stained
her majesty's bed and chamber."

Marguerite folded her mantle over her cambric peignoir, all bespattered
with small red spots. This movement, so expressive of feminine modesty,
caused La Mole to remember that he had held in his arms and pressed to
his heart this beautiful, beloved queen, and at the recollection a
fugitive glow of color came into his pallid cheeks.

"Madame," stammered La Mole, "can you not leave me to the care of the
surgeon?"