“I pretended to be so.”

“And what do you want with us, M. Chicot?  Am I happy enough to be still remembered in France?”

“Oh, madame,” said Chicot, smiling, “we do not forget queens of your age and your beauty.  The king of France even writes on this subject to the king of Navarre.”

Marguerite colored.  “He writes?”

“Yes, madame.”

“And you have brought the letter?”

“I have not brought it, madame, for reasons that the king of Navarre will explain to you, but learned it by heart and repeated it.”

“I understand.  This letter was important, and you feared to lose it, or have it stolen.”

“That is the truth, madame; but the letter was written in Latin.”

“Oh, very well; you know I know Latin.”

“And the king of Navarre, does he know it?”

“Dear M. Chicot, it is very difficult to find out what he does or does not know.  If one can believe appearances, he knows very little of it, for he never seems to understand when I speak to any one in that language.  Then you told him the purport of the letter?”

“It was to him it was addressed.”

“And did he seem to understand?”

“Only two words.”

“What were they?”

“Turennius et Margota.”

“Turennius et Margota?”

“Yes; those two words were in the letter.”

“Then what did he do?”

“He sent me to you, madame.”

“To me?”

“Yes, saying that the letter contained things of too much importance to be confided 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.