Chapter VIII: Part 8

"We have arranged all about the wedding, madam," said the king reassuringly as he left the palace.

The next day at the hour when the king had met Madeleine for the first time, he threaded his way eagerly through the mazes of the old castle until he came to the door that led him out into the Elysian garden. The weather still befriended him, being of an almost summer mildness.

For several minutes he paced impatiently up and down the gravel walk, but no laughing face greeted him from the battlements above. At last, swearing a good round Scottish oath he said, "I'll solve the mystery of the balcony," and seizing the lower branch of the tree, he was about to climb as he had done before, when a tantalizing silvery laugh brought his arms down to his sides again. It seemed to come from an arbour at the further end of the grounds, but when he reached there the place proved empty. He pretended to search among the bushes, but nevertheless kept an eye on the arbour, when his sharp ear caught a rustling of silk from behind the summer-house. He made a dash towards it, then reversed his direction, speeding like the wind, and next instant this illusive specimen of Gallic womanhood ran plump into his arms, not seeing where she was going, her head averted to watch the danger that threatened from another quarter.

Before she could give utterance to more than one exclamatory "Oh," he had kissed her thrice full on the lips. She struggled in his arms like a frightened bird, nobly indignant with shame-crimsoned cheeks, smiting him with her powerless little snowflake of a hand. Her royal lover laughed.

"Ha, my Madeleine, this is the second stage of the game. The hand was paradise on earth; the lips are the seventh heaven itself."

"Release me, you Scottish clown!" cried Madeleine, her black eyes snapping fire. "I will have you whipped from the court for your insolence."

"My dear, you could not be so cruel. Remember that poor Cupid's back is naked, and he would quiver under every stroke."

"I'd never have condescended to meet you, did I dream of your acting so. 'Tis intolerable, the forwardness of you beggarly Scots!"

"Nay, never beggarly, my dear, except where a woman is concerned, and then we beg for favours."

"You little suspect who I am or you would not venture to misuse me thus, and be so free with your 'my dears.'"

"Indeed, lass, in that you are mistaken. I not only found you in the garden, but I found your name as well. You are Madeleine de Montmorency."

She ceased to struggle, and actually laughed a little.

"How clever you are to have discovered so much in such a short time. Now let me go, and I will thank you; nay more, I promise that if you ask the Duke of Montmorency for his permission, and he grants it, I will see you as often as you please."

"Now Madeleine, I hold you to that, and I will seek an introduction to the duke at once."

She stepped back from him panting, and sank into a deep courtesy that seemed to be characterised more by ridicule than politeness.

"Oh, thank you, sir," she said. "I should dearly love to be an eavesdropper at your conference."

Before he could reply, the door opened by which he had entered the park.

"In the fiend's name, the king!" muttered James, in no manner pleased by the unwelcome interruption.

All colour left the girl's face, and she hastily endeavoured to arrange in brief measure the disordered masses of her hair, somewhat tangled in the struggle. As Francis advanced up the walk, the genial smile froze on his lips, and an expression of deep displeasure overshadowed his countenance, a look of stern resentment coming into his eyes that would have made any man in his realm quail before him. The girl was the first to break the embarrassing silence, saying breathlessly,--

"Your majesty must not blame this Scottish knight. It is all my fault, for I lured him hither."

"Peace, child," exclaimed Francis in a voice of cold anger. "You know not what you say. What do you here alone with the King of Scotland?"

"The King of Scotland!" echoed Madeleine, in surprise, her eyes opening wide with renewed interest as she gazed upon him. Then she laughed. "They told me the King of Scotland was a handsome man!"

James smiled at this imputation on his appearance, and even the rigour of the lord of France relaxed a trifle, and a gleam of affection for the wayward girl that was not to be concealed, rose in his eyes.

"Sire," said James slowly, "we are neither of us to blame. 'Tis the accident that brought us together must bear the brunt of consequence. I cannot marry Mary of Vendome, and indeed I was about to beg your majesty to issue your command that she may wed your Constable of Falaise. If there is to be a union between France and Scotland other than now exists, this lady, and this lady alone, must say yes or no to it. Premising her free consent, I ask her hand in marriage."

"She is but a child," objected Francis, breathing a sigh, which had, however, something of relief in it.

"I am fully seventeen," expostulated Madeleine, with a promptness that made both men laugh.

"Sire, Youth is a fault, which alas, travels continually with Time, its antidote," said James. "If I have your good wishes in this project, on which, I confess, my heart is set, I shall at once approach the Duke of Montmorency and solicit his consent."

The face of Francis had cleared as if a ray of sunshine had fallen upon it.

"The Duke of Montmorency!" he cried in astonishment; "what has he to do with the marriage of my daughter?"

James murmured something that may have been a prayer, but sounded otherwise, as he turned to the girl, whose delight at thus mystifying the great of earth was only too evident.

"I told him he little suspected who I was," said Madeleine, with what might have been termed a giggle in one less highly placed; "but these confident Scots think they know everything. Indeed, it is all your own fault, father, in keeping me practically a prisoner, when the whole castle is throbbing with joy and festivity." Then the irrepressible princess buried her flushed face in her hands, and laughed and laughed, as if this were the most irresistible comedy in the world, instead of a grave affair of state, until at last the two monarchs were forced to laugh in sympathy.

"I could not wish her a braver husband," said Francis at last. "I see she has bewitched you as is her habit with all of us."

And thus it came about that James the Fifth of Scotland married the fair Madeleine of France.

THE END

By A. Conan Doyle

THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES

A Sherlock Holmes Novel

Illustrated by Sidney Paget

_The London Chronicle_, in a review headed

"THE ZENITH OF SHERLOCK HOLMES,"

says:

"We should like to pay Dr. Doyle the highest compliment at our command. It is not simply that this book is superior in originality and construction to the earlier adventures of the great detective. Dr. Doyle has provided a criminal who, as Mr. Holmes admits, is indeed a foeman worthy of his steel.[A] Hitherto he has found it comparatively easy to unmask his antagonists. But in the present case he finds himself checkmated again and again. There is pitted against him a skill nearly equal to his own, and he wins the game almost by a hair."

[Footnote A: "I tell you, Watson, this time we have a foeman who is worthy of our steel."--_Sherlock Holmes._]

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By George Douglas

THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN SHUTTERS

The first novel of a new master. The work has gained wide-spread recognition on both sides of the water. Three of the most conservative and authoritative publications in England include it among the first twelve of the year. In this country _Harper's Weekly_ gives it as one of the two most interesting novels of the year.

_The critics differ as to with what other master George Douglas should be compared:_

_The London Times_ says: "Worthy of the hand that drew 'Weir of Hermiston,'" and that "Balzac and Flaubert, had they been Scotch, would have written such a book."

_The Spectator:_ "His masters are Zola and Balzac, but there are few traces of the novice and none of the imitator."

_Vanity Fair:_ "It moves to its end with all the terrible unity of an AEschylean tragedy."

_Harper's Weekly:_ "If Thomas Hardy had written of Scotland, instead of Wessex, it would have been something like 'The House with the Green Shutters'.... If any man is his (Douglas') master it is Thomas Hardy."

Hardy, Stevenson, Zola, Flaubert, Balzac, and AEschylus.

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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent.