according to an ancient custom, the marriage-banquet awaited them.[6]
The square of the Parvis Notre-Dame was crowded with eager spectators,
and the heart of the Queen-mother beat high with exultation as she
glanced at the retinue of the bridegroom, and recognised in his suite
all the Huguenot leaders who had hitherto refused to pass the gates of
the capital.

Save her own, however, all eyes were rivetted upon Marguerite; and many
were the devout Catholics who murmured beneath their breath at the
policy which had determined the monarch to bestow a Princess of such
beauty and genius upon a heretic. In truth, nothing could be more regal
or more dazzling than the appearance of the youthful bride, who wore,
as Queen of Navarre, a richly-jewelled crown, beneath which her long and
luxuriant dark hair fell in waving masses over an ermine cape (or
_couet_) clasped from the throat to the waist with large diamonds; while
her voluminous train of violet-coloured velvet, three ells in length,
was borne by four princesses.[7] And thus in royal state she moved
along, surrounded and followed by all the nobility and chivalry of
France, amid the acclamations of an admiring and excited people, having
just pledged herself to one whose feelings were as little interested in
the compact as her own.

The bridal festivities lasted throughout three entire days; and never
had such an excess of luxury and magnificence been displayed at the
French Court. Towards the Protestants, the bearing both of Charles IX
and his mother was so courteous, frank, and conciliating, that the most
distrustful gradually threw off their misgivings, and vied with the
Catholic nobles both in gallantry and splendour; and meanwhile
Catherine, the King, the Duc d'Anjou, and the Guises were busied in
organizing the frightful tragedy of St. Bartholomew!