There came,
from another direction, the lively chatter of women's voices, and there
appeared, at the head of the stairs up which Marguerite had come, another
group of ladies, all young and radiant but one. The exception was a
stout, self-possessed looking woman of middle age, dressed rather
sedately in dark satin. She had regular features, calm black eyes, an
unruffled expression, and an air of authority without arrogance.
"Queen Catherine and some of her Flying Squadron," said De Rilly, in
answer to my look of inquiry. "She has been taking the air after the
King's council. Her own council is a more serious matter, and lasts all
the time."
"Queen Catherine?" I exclaimed, incredulously, half refusing to see, in
that placid matron, the ceaseless plotter, the woman accused of poisoning
and all manner of bloodshed, whom the name represented.
"Catherine de Medici," said De Rilly, evidently finding it a pleasure to
instruct a newcomer as to the personages and mysteries of the court. "She
who preserves the royal power in France at this moment."
"She does not look as I have imagined her," I said.
"One would not suppose," said De Rilly, "that behind that serene
countenance goes on the mental activity necessary to keep the throne in
possession of her favorite son, who spends fortunes on his minions, taxes
his subjects to the utmost, and disgusts them with his eccentric piety
and peculiar vices.
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