of hurt darken his brother's eyes. And now Charles was gone and it was too late to make amends. But—he smoothed out the crumpled pages—there was more. "I am dying of longing to see you," Catherine had written, "for one thing that can console me and make me forget what I have lost is your presence. . . ."
He was to go back, back to France, to the country he loved. Belatedly the thought came zigzagging through his mind: he was King! Yes, of course, the ambassador himself had brought the dispatch and had hailed him as "Henry III, by the Grace of God King of France." But that had been hours ago and it had left him numb. Only now with his mother's words before him did the full impact of the fact strike him. And Henry knew well what his next move would be though his better judgment and the wiser gentlemen in his suite all advised against it: he was leaving Poland at once—he was free!
Henry loved drama. In the lusty harlequinades performed at Court he was always present in some role involving elegance and a certain effete beauty, and like any prima donna he took a jealous pride in his acting. Now he was faced with drama of a very realistic sort, and though he recognized his danger, he gloried in the spectacular part he was called upon to play. The Polish Senate, on receiving word of Charles's death, made it very clear that Henry, their recently elected King, was not to feel free to return to France, He was the King o£ Poland and in Poland he should remain. He was watched day and night by Tenczynski, the Grand Master of the Household, and whatever plans for escape he might
make must be made with superhuman secrecy under the very nose of his guard. Nevertheless, within twenty-four hours he had packed his jewels and given them to the messenger who had brought his mother's letter and was returning the following day to France. The next move would not be so simple, hut its very challenge fascinated him and, though well aware of the risks involved, he planned it with something very close to glee. Dark eyes flashing, color staining his delicate, girlish cheeks, he paced about his apartment like a dancer practicing his steps, long slender hands nervously plucking at the lace on his cuffs, the full Medici lips curved in a secret smile.
Two nights later Tenczynski respectfully stood by while His Majesty, the King of Poland, was disrobed for the night and escorted to his mammoth bed and the curtains drawn. For another half-hour he waited until the sound of deep, rhythmic breathing came from behind the curtains; a peep through them showed His Majesty curled into a cocoonlike ball, apparently fast asleep. The Grand Master tiptoed from the apartment and was soon on his way to a ball.
From the opposite side of the bed the King's first gentleman swiftly handed in doublet, hose, great cloak, sword and dagger; then a quick sortie by a little-used stairway to a court opening on a meadow. Here coins changed hands and a gate swung open to allow a party of four cloaked figures to slip out into the darkness and go racing off to a point almost a mile away. Horses were waiting and now began a dash for the border more than a hundred miles away. Henry loved every second of that wild ride during which he stopped only
long enougK to change horses and press on. He crossed the Polish border only minutes ahead of Tenczynski; then, traveling by way of Vienna, he entered Italy and so on to Venice, the glorious city of waterways.
Though his first frantic burst of speed had carried him a great distance to safety in a very short time, characteristically enough, once arrived in Italy Henry found that his love of all things aesthetic blurred somewhat his glow of anticipation of homecoming. He lingered, relaxed, began to enjoy the life along the canals. More than two months passed, while in Venice the uncrowned King of France poured gifts of money and jewels beyond price into the laps of his beautiful hostesses and spent still other fortunes on little white poodles to add to his collection. Meanwhile in Paris Catherine watched the calendar and the clock and finally on a day in late summer, overcome with joy, she held her son, Henry, the best beloved, in her arms.
France hailed the young King with something close to adoration. Twenty-three years old, he was the average Frenchman's ideal monarch—handsome, charming, affable. If his natural arrogance was tempered with a strange humility hinting at imminent fanaticism, it was put down as a passing phase. But it was not long before those who had welcomed him most joyously saw to their horror signs of decadence and degeneracy.
Before going to Poland he had fallen in love with Marie de Cleves, the young wife of the Prince of Conde. Both
young people were Huguenots who had been forced to change their religion at the time of Saint Bartholomew's. Conde, however, returned to his Protestant faith and left the country. Marie became a devout Catholic. As a Catholic she would not have divorced her husband even though Henry, soon to be her King, had written her a passionate letter from Poland in which he promised, "You shall be Queen of France if you so choose/* What her answer was never will be known. She may not have received the letter; her answer, if there was one, may have been intercepted and destroyed, for Henry received none.
A week after his return to France the young Princess of Conde died suddenly and there were rumors that her husband had had her poisoned. Perhaps Henry had not realized how deeply he loved her, for the
