The unexpected visit of a celebrated personage, furnished him with the pretext which he desired.
The beautiful Margaret of Valois, Queen of Navarre, was proceeding to the baths of Spa, to drink the waters.

Her health was as perfect as her beauty, but she was flying from a husband whom she hated, to advance the interest of a brother whom she loved with a more than sisterly fondness--for the worthless Duke of Alencon was one of the many competitors for the Netherland government; the correspondence between himself and his brother with Orange and his agents being still continued.
The hollow truce with the Huguenots in France had, however, been again succeeded by war.

Henry of Valois had already commenced operations in Gascony against Henry of Navarre, whom he hated, almost as cordially as Margaret herself could do, and the Duke of Alencon was besieging Issoire.
Meantime, the beautiful Queen came to mingle he golden thread of her feminine intrigues with the dark woof of the Netherland destinies.
Few spirits have been more subtle, few faces so fatal as hers.

True child of the Medicean mother, worthy sister of Charles, Henry; and Francis--princes for ever infamous in the annals of France--she possessed more beauty and wit than Mary of Scotland, more learning and accomplishments than Elizabeth of England.

In the blaze of her beauty, according to the inflated language of her most determined worshiper, the wings of all rivals were melted.