It was still dark when Jacques undid the fastenings of the gate, and I bade my guest farewell.

"Remember my warning!" he whispered, "and keep free from Cordel's clutches."

"A short visit, monsieur," commented Jacques, as L'Estang rode off.

"But full of interest, nevertheless. My visitor came all the way from Paris in this wretched weather and at some risk to himself to warn me against Etienne Cordel"; and thereupon I told Jacques the story, though without revealing the adventurer's identity.

"The tale rings true," said he, "but we ought to be a match for the lawyer's cut-throats. 'Tis a pity that Cordel won't give us a chance of measuring swords with him."

"He knows better how to handle the goose-quill," I laughed, leaving Jacques to fasten the gate, and returning to my room.



CHAPTER XIX

Who Killed the Courier?

L'Estang's information caused me a certain amount of anxiety, and during the next few weeks I was rarely abroad except for a ride in the broad daylight. Cordel, who was still at home, occasionally came into the village, but nothing happened that served to show he was pushing on his plot.

Indeed, as Jacques pointed out one evening when we were discussing the matter, the lawyer had a difficult game to play. He could strike at me only outside the castle walls, while the villagers were my devoted friends, and every man of them would be eager to put me on my guard.

But Cordel's threats had apparently ended in smoke. Week followed week; the old year gave place to the new, and I remained unmolested.

About the beginning of February, 1572, I received another letter from Jeanne, informing me that her royal mistress had finally consented to journey to Blois, and that they would set out in a week or two at the latest. She also added, in a brief postscript at the end, that Roger Braund intended to pay us a visit before the summer ended.

About the same time a message reached me from Felix, who was at Blois again, in attendance on our patron. The king, he wrote, was more than ever fixed on the marriage of his sister Margaret to Henry of Beam, though the Pope and all the Guises were bitterly opposed to the match. "But the marriage is certain to take place," he concluded, "and then, if not before, I trust Charles will see that justice is done you."

"'Twas from Monsieur Bellievre, Jacques," I said, when the messenger had departed with my reply; "he is at Blois once more. There is to be a marriage between the king's sister and our Prince Henry, and the Court is filled with excitement. Do you know, Jacques, I am getting weary of this life. If we were at Blois I should have a chance of meeting the king and pressing my claims. The longer we stay here, the more likely I am to be forgotten."

"True, monsieur; in my opinion it was a mistake to come. When one is not in sight, one is not in mind, and the Admiral has many weighty matters to think about."

"I have told Monsieur Bellievre what I think, and asked his advice. But still, I cannot return without the Admiral's commands."

The next morning Jacques came early to my room before I had risen. "Monsieur," he said, "will you get up? A strange thing has happened."

"A strange thing?" I repeated, springing from the bed.

"A man has been slain—at least I believe the poor fellow is dead—on the highroad. Urie found him; he was not dead then, and had sufficient strength to whisper your name. Urie declares that he said quite distinctly, 'Monsieur Le Blanc!' so he had him brought here."

"Do we know him?" I asked, now thoroughly roused.

"He is a stranger to me. I have never seen him before, and he does not belong to these parts. But one thing is certain: he is no peaceable citizen."

All this time I was hastily dressing, and now, filled with curiosity, I accompanied Jacques to the room where the wounded man lay. He was a sturdy-looking fellow, in the prime of life, tough, wiry, and with muscles well developed by exercise. His dress was that of an ordinary trooper; he wore a long knife at his girdle, and Urie had placed his sword, which was broken and stained with blood, by his side. The mark of an old scar disfigured his left cheek, and his chest showed that he had been wounded more than once in his life. Jacques was certainly right in saying he was no peaceable citizen.

Urie had fetched the cure, who had bandaged his hurts, but the worthy priest shook his head at me as if to say, "There was really little use in doing it."

"Foul work!" I exclaimed; "the man must have made a desperate struggle for life. Where did you find him, Urie?"

"Just outside the little wood, monsieur. The ground all around was ploughed up by horses' hoofs, and stained with blood. I should say he was attacked by at least three horsemen. I thought he was dead, but when I bent over him he was muttering 'Monsieur Le Blanc'"

"Did he seem sensible?"

"I asked him several questions, but he did not reply, except to repeat monsieur's name, so I had him brought here."

"It is very strange," I said; "he is a perfect stranger; I have never seen him before. Why should he mention my name? Is it possible for him to recover?"

"Quite impossible, my son," exclaimed the cure; "he is dying fast; no surgeon could do anything for him. The wonder is that he has lived so long. He has been fearfully hurt."

"Did you meet no strange persons in the village?" I asked Urie.

"Not a soul, monsieur. It was very early; the villagers were not yet about, and the road was empty."

The wounded man groaned, and the cure partly raised his head, when he seemed more comfortable. His eyes were closed, and his breath came in quick gasps; the shadow of death was stealing across his face. Would he have strength to speak before he died? It was unlikely.

Who was he? What was his secret? How did it concern me? These and a dozen similar questions ran through my mind as I stood there watching him die, and quite helpless to obtain the information I needed. Once or twice he stirred uneasily; his eyes opened; his fingers strayed uncertainly over the bed as if seeking something that had gone astray, and presently he said quite distinctly, but very, very faintly, "Le Blanc! Monsieur Le Blanc!"

"He is here," said the cure softly. "This is Monsieur Le Blanc. What have you to tell him?"

I do not know if the man heard; his eyes remained open; his fingers were still fumbling among the bedclothes; a frown clouded his forehead, and presently he whispered, but to himself, not to us, "The note! I can't find it. It has gone."

I bent over, him, placing my hand on his brow. "The note?" I said, "tell me about it. Who gave it you? Come, who gave you the note that is lost?"

My question produced an effect, but not the one I intended. The angry scowl spread over his face; the dying eyes filled with passion; the voice became quite strong again as the man cried angrily, "I did not lose it. I earned my money. It was stolen. They set on me—three of them—they were too many—I—I—"

A great hush fell across us, and we gazed at each other blankly. "It is too late," said the cure; "he has carried his secret to the grave."

"Is he dead?"

"Dead, monsieur."

"We must make inquiries," I murmured. "Urie shall show us the place where he found the body. Come, Jacques, we can do no good here."

"I will follow in a few minutes, monsieur. I wish to discover if there is anything by which we can identify the stranger."

Urie and I went out together, but the keenest search failed to help us. The dead man's horse had disappeared, and his assailants had left no trace behind them. I questioned the villagers closely, but none could throw any light on the tragedy. The victim was unknown to them, and no one had seen any strange persons in the neighbourhood. Jacques, too, was at fault, having failed to find anything in the stranger's clothing that would tend to solve the mystery.

"It is a curious thing, monsieur," he remarked that evening. "A dead body on the highroad is not an uncommon sight, but this man was coming to you on a special errand."

"It is evident he was bringing me a letter. The question is—did his murderers kill him to obtain possession of it?"

"The note has disappeared."

"True, and I am inclined to think it was the possession of the letter that cost him his life. Now, who are the persons likely to write to me? My sister—but we can dismiss her—one doesn't commit murder for a page of ordinary gossip."

"No," said Jacques, "I do not think the poor fellow was a messenger from Mademoiselle Jeanne."

"There is Monsieur Bellievre! He is at Court and aware of what is going on there. Is it likely that he has heard some favourable news, and—"

"Ah, monsieur," Jacques broke in hastily, "our thoughts are the same. These cut-throats are in the pay of Etienne Cordel, and in killing this poor fellow they have struck at you. But how, I cannot understand."

"We know that Cordel has friends at Court," I continued. "Let us suppose for an instant that the king has agreed to sign the papers; the lawyer would learn the news quickly enough."

"Yes, monsieur," agreed Jacques, "that is so. But how does that help us?"

"Thus. Monsieur Bellievre or the Admiral writes, giving me the information, and advising me to return. I arrive at Blois, or wherever the Court may be; the papers are signed, and Cordel's chance of the estates has vanished. He certainly might kill me afterwards, but it could be only in revenge."

"But, monsieur, the news could not have been kept from you for long. Besides, the journey to Blois would have given the lawyer the very chance he wanted. It would have suited him better for the letter to have reached you. Then his ruffians would have waited, and have waylaid you on the road."

"He might not have thought of that!"

"It would not have needed much cunning, monsieur!"

"There is just one other solution possible," I said. "You remember the man who came here on the night of the wild storm? You did not recognize him, but—"

"I am hardly likely to forget the man who tried hard to kill both of us!" interrupted Jacques.

"You have kept your knowledge very close then!" I replied.

"I had no wish to pry into your secrets, monsieur."

"It was not exactly a secret. Something happened while you were with the Count of St Cyr. I had this man's life in my hand, and spared it."

Jacques shrugged his shoulders as if to imply that he had hardly thought me capable of acting so foolishly.

"He is in Monseigneur's service, and, as you know, came to warn me against Etienne Cordel. He promised, if he could ferret out the lawyer's schemes, to write to me."

"Do you really trust this fellow, monsieur?"

"He bears no love to those of the Religion," I answered; "but for me personally I believe he would lay down his life."

"Very good," said Jacques, as if argument was utterly useless against such folly.

"I was thinking it possible that in coming to or going from Le Blanc he was recognized. If so, the lawyer would be put on his guard."

"There is certainly something in that, monsieur."

"And if he sent me a warning message, it would be to Cordel's interest to secure it."

"'Twould be easy to test the truth of the matter," said Jacques. "This fellow will be with Monseigneur; let me go to him, and put the question directly. In that way, if you are right, we shall get at the lawyer's schemes in spite of his villainy. I will not loiter on the road, and I don't see how any danger can happen to you before my return."

We talked the plan over, and at length I agreed that Jacques should start on the journey the next morning. I gave him the name of my strange friend, and he promised to get to work with the utmost caution.

"It is possible," I remarked, "you will find him at Blois, and in that case you will have an opportunity of talking with Monsieur Bellievre. Tell him that Mademoiselle Jeanne is accompanying the Queen of Navarre."

He went to the stables, and I did not see him again until just before my time for going to bed, when he returned looking gloomy and troubled.

"I have been thinking, monsieur," he said rather shamefacedly, "and I am beginning to doubt the wisdom of my advice. If Cordel's ruffians are close at hand, my going away will make their work easier. Now that it comes to the point I do not like leaving you, and that is the truth."

"That's a poor compliment, Jacques!" I laughed; "evidently you don't think I can take care of myself."

"The poor fellow they brought here this morning was as strong as you, and had as much experience, but he is dead all the same."

"I will take care, Jacques; I will go only into the village, and if it will make you feel more easy, Urie shall sleep here at night all the time you are away."

He was somewhat relieved by this promise, and his face brightened considerably.

"Let Urie bring an iron bar," he laughed, "and a man need wear a thick steel cap to save his skull!"

I went to bed hoping to obtain a good night's rest, but the startling tragedy had weakened my nerves more than I guessed, and I lay awake a long time, wondering what the secret was that the dead man had carried with him to the grave. Was he really a messenger from L'Estang? And if so, what was the news he was bringing? I little dreamed that one of these questions was to be answered within a few hours.

We rose early; I saw that Jacques made a good breakfast, and was standing in the courtyard giving him his final instructions when we heard the clatter of hoofs, and saw a horseman coming at a gallop up the slope.

"Another visitor!" I exclaimed, "and one apparently in a desperate hurry."

Jacques dismounted, saying, "He looks as if he had been frightened half out of his wits. Stay here, monsieur, while I find out what he wants."

In a few minutes he returned with the man, who, jumping from his horse, said questioningly, "Monsieur Le Blanc?"

"Yes," I said, looking at him keenly. He might have been own brother to the poor fellow whom Urie had found by the wood. He was short but strongly built; his face was scarred; his skin red and rough through continual exposure to the weather. He carried a sword and a long knife, and a pair of pistols peeped from the holsters. Plainly he was a man accustomed to take his life in his hand.

"You have ridden fast!" I remarked, for his animal's sides were lathered with foam.

"I was paid to ride fast!" he answered surlily; "my employer feared you would have started."

"Started!" I echoed unsurprised, "whither?"

"He did not confide in me," the fellow replied, "and I didn't ask; 'twould have been no use. My orders were to ride for my life, to give you a letter, and afterwards to guide you to a certain place mentioned in the note."

"And who is your employer?"

"I had no orders to tell that; I expect he has written it down here," and the fellow handed me a sealed packet.

As he raised his arm I noticed a hole, apparently made by a bullet, through his cloak.

"What is the meaning of that?" I asked.

"It means," said he grimly, "that had I not received orders to make no delay on my journey, there would have been one rogue less in your part of the world, monsieur."

"You have been attacked on the road?" I said, with a swift glance at Jacques.

"The bullet went a trifle wide," he answered shortly, "but it came close enough for my comfort."

"Well," exclaimed Jacques, "a miss is as good as a mile. Come and have some breakfast, while monsieur reads his letter. Both you and the animal need food and rest."

Leaving my servant and the messenger together, I returned to my own room, and opened the packet. As I more than half expected, the letter was signed "D'Angely." It was very short, but it answered one of the questions I had been asking myself.

"Since sending my first messenger," it ran, "Monseigneur's business calls me immediately to Poictiers; so I must meet you there instead. Start at once; you can trust the bearer."

Directly Jacques was at liberty he joined me, and I handed him the letter without comment.

"That clears up one point of the mystery," said he. "It is plain the lawyer knows he has this L'Estang to fight against; but 'tis a pity your friend does not give a hint of what is in progress. He might, for instance, have sent a description of Cordel's tools."

"Very probably he did. You forget that this letter only supplements the first one."

"Yes," said Jacques, adding, "will you go to Poictiers, monsieur?"

"I must. L'Estang may have something of importance to tell me."

"He could have written it," said Jacques. "I don't like this journey. These assassins are on the watch. One messenger killed, and the next shot at—we can be sure they won't let you pass free."

"There are three of us," I replied lightly—"you and I and L'Estang's courier, and he seems well able to take care of himself. Let us get ready while he is resting."



CHAPTER XX

L'Estang's Courier

"The stranger rides a fine beast," remarked Jacques, as we entered the stables; "it has stood the long journey well. The grooming and feed of oats have made it as fresh as ever."

"Did he tell you his name?" I asked.

"No; he is a surly rascal. If he were to be in our company long, I should have to teach him good manners. Had I not better waken him? We shall not reach Poictiers to-night."

"Yes; tell him we are ready to start. I have no wish to pass the night at some village inn."

L'Estang's messenger was indeed a surly fellow. He came into the courtyard rubbing his eyes and grumbling at being disturbed. His patron might not reach the town before the morning, he said, and it would be better for us to make a two days' journey. His horse was tired, and likely to break down on the way.

"Little fear of that!" declared Jacques brusquely; "the beast has strength for a hundred miles yet. 'Tis as fine a creature as I have seen."

The courier looked at him with a gratified smile. "Yes," he said, brightening up, "'tis as good an animal as monsieur has in his stables."

He replaced the saddle and tightened the girths, but spent so much time over the business that Jacques was hard put to it to restrain his impatience. However, he was ready at last, and we all three rode down the slope, and along the road toward the wood.

Jacques and the courier rode together a little in the rear, and, turning round, I remarked pleasantly, "By the way, my good fellow, I suppose you have a name of your own?"

"I can't say if it's mine or not," he replied sulkily, "but men call me Casimir."

"Is this the place where you were attacked?" I asked, as we came to the wood.

The fellow returned no answer, but, suddenly seizing his pistol and spurring his horse cruelly, he dashed to the front and disappeared. A minute or two later, we heard a loud report, and Jacques and I gazed at each other in amazement.

"Your friend sent you a pretty guide, monsieur," said Jacques; "the fellow must be crazy!"

"He fancied, perhaps, that he perceived one of his assailants."

"I saw nothing, and heard nothing; but he is coming back. Well, my friend, did you get a successful shot?"

"No," replied Casimir, who seemed angry at his own clumsiness, "I missed. But there are more days than one in a week, and my turn will come yet! Did you get a good view of the fellow, monsieur?"

I admitted that I had neither seen nor heard any one, at which he cried scornfully: "'Tis plain I shall have to be eyes and ears for the party. He was half hidden by yonder tree, but I saw the barrel of his arquebus. Had I known I was to be dragged into your quarrels, I would have stayed in Paris!"

"Tell me where to find your patron, and you can return at once," I said sternly; "I want no unwilling service!" but, muttering something under his breath he once more took his place beside Jacques.

"'Tis a rough dog, L'Estang has sent me," I thought, "but one that will bite if need be. I wonder if the fellow he fired at was one of Cordel's ruffians? Strange that neither Jacques nor I saw him."

The incident had rendered us more cautious, and we proceeded through the wood carefully, keeping a sharp lookout and listening intently; but the mysterious man had vanished so completely that I began to wonder if Casimir had not been a victim of his imagination.

From the wood we turned into the highroad, and after travelling steadily for nearly three hours halted at a wayside inn. For myself I wished to push on, and Jacques was equally impatient, but our guide complained that his horse was tired and needed a rest.

"'Twould be folly to risk foundering a valuable animal for the sake of getting to a place before one is wanted there," said he, laughing as if he had made some humorous remark. But laughter was not Casimir's strong point, and he made a sorry business of it.

However, since we were entirely in his hands, he had his way, and much precious time was wasted.

"It will take us three days at this rate to reach Poictiers," grumbled Jacques, as we resumed the journey.

"We shall be there as soon as we are expected," returned Casimir, who seemed to have a fresh fit of sullenness, which increased rather than lessened as we proceeded.

About five miles from our stopping-place, two horsemen overtook us. They were cantering briskly along, but drew rein to bid us good-day.

"Are you for Poictiers?" asked one of them pleasantly, but before I had time to reply our guide broke in roughly:

"We are going where we please. The highroad is free to all, I suppose!"

"Certainly, friend, and I doubt if many travellers would care to share it with you. A civil question is worth a civil answer."

"Our business is our own," muttered Casimir, "and we are able to look after it."

The horseman who had first spoken was on the point of making an angry reply, but his companion exclaimed with a laugh, "Let the boor alone to do his business; by the look of his face 'twill bring him pretty close to the hangman's rope!" and, taking no further notice of us, they galloped on.

"By my faith, Casimir," I exclaimed hotly, "your Parisian manners are not of the pleasantest. I could wish that your patron had employed a less boorish messenger."

"See here, monsieur," said he, "there is no need for us to quarrel, but I don't intend losing my life on your account, and it's plain there is some one who bears you no goodwill. How do I know who these travellers are? They may belong to the same gang that shot at me in the wood!"

"Well," I returned rather scornfully, "since you are so fearful of being in my company we had better push on faster. The sooner you bring me to your patron the sooner you can take yourself off."

The rebuke apparently produced some effect, and for a time we proceeded at a fairly rapid pace; but the best part of the day was over, and the late afternoon was already closing in. To reach Poictiers before nightfall was out of the question, and I began to resign myself to sleeping at some wayside inn.

"At any rate," I thought, "there can be little danger. What with Casimir's fears and Jacques' vigilance I shall receive plenty of warning."

I was never an advocate of overboldness, but our guide erred in the other extreme. He became more and more nervous and fidgety, stopping a dozen times to listen, fancying he heard the beat of horses' hoofs in our rear, and declaring we were being followed. And the more his nervousness increased, the more Jacques and I laughed at his fears.

It was fast getting dark when we entered a narrow road, where there was scarcely room for Jacques and Casimir to ride abreast. To the right was a wall of rock, to the left a steep stony slope, on which one might easily break a limb if not one's neck. I rode a little in advance; Jacques on the edge of the slope, and Casimir next to the wall. It was so dark that we could see hardly more than a few yards ahead, and I warned Jacques to be careful.

Suddenly our guide, crying, "Stop a minute, monsieur, my horse has a stone in its foot!" jumped to the ground.

What the reason was I had no suspicion at the time, though it was easy enough to guess afterwards; but the animal began plunging and rearing so violently that its owner had hard work to hold it. Jacques had no time to escape the danger, and, before I realized what had happened, his frightened horse, edging away from the kicking creature at its side, toppled over the slope.

When in after days I related the story to Felix, he laughed at my simplicity, saying I ought to have guessed the secret from the beginning; but, as a matter of fact, even when my servant disappeared I had no thought of treachery. I hugged the wall closely, and looked round.

"Get down, monsieur," cried Casimir loudly; "get down and help me. The beast has gone crazy."

Now I could dismount only in front of the plunging brute, and having no desire to be kicked to death, and the danger being pressing, I seized my pistol and shot the animal in the forehead. Being a keen lover of horses I hated to do it, but there was no alternative.

The effect of the shot produced a far more serious result than I intended. The poor beast, plunging madly, must have kicked Casimir in its last desperate struggle, for a scream of agony rang out wildly on the night air, and I could just distinguish the man's body lying motionless.

This was not all. The report from my pistol was quickly followed by two others, and a couple of bullets whizzed past my head. The next instant I heard the clatter of hoofs, and two horsemen came tearing along the road toward me. Bewildered by these sudden and startling events, I had yet sufficient presence of mind to realize that I had been trapped, and that my only chance of escape lay in flight.

Turning my animal's head, I prepared to gallop off, when I found my way barred by another horseman, who had come up during the struggle. The sudden movement saved my life; he was in the very act of firing when I struck at him fiercely, and he dropped across his saddle with a cry of pain.

The road was now open, and, keeping as far from the slope as possible, I stretched my horse to his utmost speed. It was a mad gallop, with the risk of a sudden and violent death in every foot of the road. My pursuers were not far behind, but I dared not look round. My limbs shook, the sweat poured in streams down my face; I could not think, I could only sit firm and leave my fate in the hands of Providence.



My poor horse bounded along like a crazy thing, but he kept his footing, though every moment I expected him to tumble headlong. The men behind must have ridden more warily, for the sound of hoofs, though still audible, became more faint and indistinct.

I could have cried aloud in joyful triumph as my gallant horse flew out from the narrow pass on to the broad road. My pursuers were now far in the rear, and I had a moment to think. Whoever they were, they knew I had come from Le Blanc, and would expect me to return there. My best plan was to let them pass, and then go back in search of Jacques. Even to save my own life I must not desert my trusty servant.

In a few seconds I had formed my plan, and acted upon it. Leaving the highroad, I struck into the open country, and dismounting, concealed my horse in a hollow. Several minutes passed before the two horsemen came galloping by, evidently bent on following me to Le Blanc.

As soon as they had gone out of hearing, I mounted again and returned quickly but cautiously to the spot where the startling struggle had taken place. Casimir still lay where he had fallen, by the side of his horse. The second animal had disappeared, but its rider was huddled against the wall groaning, and talking as if in delirium.

"It was not my fault, monsieur," he was saying, "Casimir bungled it; he struck too soon."

His head had evidently been dashed with great violence against the wall and I could do little for him. Besides, there was my servant to be considered. Tying my horse securely, I advanced to the edge of the slope, and cried aloud, "Jacques! Jacques!"

There was no answer, and my heart sank as I thought how likely it was that the poor fellow lay there dead, killed by the terrible fall. I found the spot where his horse had slipped, and groped my way down, still calling his name. And at last I heard a feeble "I am here, monsieur!"

"Where?" I cried, "where?" and, guided by the sound of his voice, I made my way toward him.

He was half lying, half sitting at the foot of a chestnut tree, and at my approach he struggled to his feet.

"I am coming round, monsieur," he said in a whisper, "I must have been stunned. I do not know what happened; I think I must have been thrown against a tree."

"Sit down," I commanded, "and rest while I find the horse and get your pistols; they may be useful."

The poor beast had rolled to the bottom of the slope, and was, of course, quite dead; so I removed the pistols and returned to Jacques hastily.

"We were trapped, monsieur," he whispered.

"Yes," I agreed, "but we can talk of that later. The question now is whether you can get to the top of the slope. Lean on me and take your time. There is not much danger. Casimir and a second man are dead, two others are galloping in the direction of Le Blanc. Now, are you ready?"

"I shall soon be all right. There is no bone broken; it is my head that pains!"

His steps at first were very tottery, and he had need of support, but once we reached level ground he walked steadily. We paused at Casimir's body, and Jacques said thoughtfully, "He was a cunning rogue; he deceived me to the very end. Poor fellow, I am sorry to see him like this, but he took his risks. He thought to kill me and he is dead himself."

I went over to the second of our assailants. He had fallen forward on his face; his heart had ceased beating; he lay quite motionless. He was beyond human aid, and we turned away quietly. The dead must ever give place to the claims of the living.

Jacques, who was fast recovering from the blow on his head, now seemed capable of discussing the situation with me. What was best to be done was the question in my mind. We had but the one horse, which could not carry both of us, and Jacques was too weak to walk far. It was plain that if we returned to Le Blanc he must ride, in spite of his objection.

But was it safe to return? At any moment our two assailants might abandon the pursuit, and we were not equal to continuing the fight. They were doubtless strong, sturdy ruffians, well armed, and experienced in the use of their weapons. I should be on foot, and unable to count on Jacques for much assistance.

"I think," I said, "we had better conceal ourselves until the morning; they will hardly dare to attack us in broad daylight. Besides, we can hire a horse at one of the inns."

"Why not stay here?" asked my companion. "They may come back to see if their comrades are living; then we can pounce on them."

Poor old Jacques! He was as brave as a lion, and gave no thought to his weakness.

After a while I convinced him that my plan was the best, so we unfastened the horse, and, leaving the two bodies, walked slowly along the narrow road, and so to the hollow where I had already lain.

Having secured the horse so that he would not stray, I compelled my servant, much against his wish, to lie down in a sheltered nook, and covered him with my cloak, for the night was bitterly cold.

"A good sleep will clear your brain," I remarked, "and you will need all your wits in the morning."

Walking briskly to and fro in order to keep myself warm, I listened intently for the sound of hoofs. Perhaps three hours had passed—the time seemed an age—when clambering softly from the gully and advancing to the roadside I stretched myself flat on the grass. Two horsemen were approaching slowly, and their animals were jaded and leg-weary.

They came close to me at a walking pace; I could dimly distinguish their figures as they leaned forward; they were level with me, one so close that I could have shot him dead with my eyes shut; but it was horrible to think of slaying a fellow creature in cold blood, and I let them pass. Slowly and painfully they proceeded until at length they reached the narrow road.

Returning to the hollow I wakened Jacques, and, telling him of the two ruffians' return, advised that we should proceed.

"Very good, monsieur," he said at once, "I am at your service."



CHAPTER XXI

I Save Cordel's Life

Leading the horse to the road I helped Jacques to mount, for in spite of his bold words he was still very weak, and then walked along by his side. The night was passing, though it was not yet light, but as the road stretched straight ahead of us for several miles we could not mistake the way.

I walked at a smart pace, but rather with the idea of reaching some place of shelter than from any fear of danger. Our pursuers had abandoned the chase, and for a while, at least, were unlikely to renew it. They were too tired for a fresh pursuit, and their animals were worn out.

Jacques being still wrapped in my cloak, I was able to walk briskly, and this prevented me from feeling the cold. Mile after mile I trudged along, and as we proceeded the haze of darkness lifted, and dawn began to glimmer in the eastern sky.

Save for ourselves the road was deserted; the country around seemed dead; not a hamlet, not even a house appeared in sight. Everything was gloomy and depressing; the very rays of the sun were cold and cheerless, and the bare trees added only another dreary feature to the landscape.

Several times Jacques begged earnestly that we should change places, but, knowing this would make the pace slower, I insisted on his keeping his seat.

"We will stop at the first inn," I said, "have some food and a rest, and procure another horse."

About eight o'clock we entered the street of a village and drew up before the door of the inn. Jacques dismounted, the ostler led the animal away, and we entered the house, the landlord, who could not conceal his curiosity, showing us a room.

"A good breakfast," I said; "the best the house contains. And while you are getting it ready we will put ourselves straight. Have you any salve suitable for cuts and bruises?"

"Yes, monsieur; I will fetch some."

"Faith, Jacques," I exclaimed, when the man had bustled off, "you are a pretty object at present. There is a lump as large as a hen's egg on your head, and your face is covered with bruises, which will show more distinctly when we get the dirt off."

"Perhaps it had better be kept on," said he, smiling cheerily.

After we had brushed our soiled clothing and washed ourselves I applied some salve to Jacques' bruises, while the landlord prepared a compress for the swelling on his head. Then we sat down to breakfast, and our attack on the provisions proved that the startling adventures of the past night had not robbed us of our appetites.

I had, meanwhile, arranged with the landlord to furnish us with a second horse, and now suggested that Jacques should take a couple of hours' rest before starting. Against this he protested vigorously, declaring he had slept well during the night, and that it was I who needed rest.

At last he persuaded me to lie down, while he sat in the room facing the road, with a loaded pistol in one hand and another by his side. Nothing happened however, during the time I slept, and at the end of the second hour Jacques wakened me.

The food and rest had made new men of us, and, having settled accounts with the landlord, we mounted our horses, and set off cheerfully in the direction of Le Blanc. For the time being the danger had passed. It was broad daylight, and every yard forward brought us nearer to my friends.

But there were several things in the adventure to worry me, and that evening, after we had safely reached home, I called Jacques into my room to discuss the matter.

"I don't pretend to understand it, monsieur," he said, "but I feel sure these fellows were in the lawyer's pay. Who else would set a trap for you?"

"I cannot think. Cordel is my only enemy, and yet before concluding it was he who planned the assault there are one or two questions to answer. Casimir, for instance, was he in league with our assailants? If so, he played his part marvellously well, and blinded me effectually."

"So he did me; but he was in league with them, for all that. Remember how he shot at a man in the wood, when no man was there."

"I certainly neither saw nor heard one."

"Nor did Casimir. The shot was a signal to his comrades, and told them that his trick had succeeded. And then his fear about being dragged into your quarrel! That was a blind, monsieur, meant to throw you off your guard."

"It certainly succeeded," I was forced to admit.

"And the fuss he made about foundering his horse! It was a mere trick to delay us on the road; there was nothing the matter with the beast."

"Do you think," I asked, "he behaved so rudely to those horsemen through fear that they might upset the plot?"

"No, monsieur," replied Jacques, with a shake of the head; "I cannot see through it clearly, but in my opinion that was all a part of the scheme. I believe they were the fellows who rode out on you while I was lying stunned."

"But why should they join us?"

"There is no telling, monsieur. It might have been to learn from Casimir if it was safe to carry out their plot. He was a crafty rogue. I had no suspicion of the truth until he began to make his horse plunge and rear. Then I knew he meant to kill me—by accident!" he concluded grimly.

"And in the confusion it would have been an easy matter to settle my account!"

"A very easy matter," agreed Jacques.

"The facts fit in well with your idea," I said, after a pause; "but if you are right, the puzzle becomes worse than ever."

"In what way, monsieur."

"It brings us face to face with this question—was Casimir in the pay of two employers—one my friend the other my enemy?"

"Pardon me, monsieur," exclaimed Jacques hesitatingly, "but are you sure this adventurer is your friend? He once tried to take your life; he belongs to the opposite camp, and he is a henchman of Monseigneur's, who certainly does not love the Huguenots. You have done this man a service, but it is easy to forget benefits."

"I am afraid that is so, Jacques, yet I cannot doubt L'Estang. Besides, he had me in his power the night he came here."

"Yes," said my servant, with a queer smile, "but he knew that had he done you any harm he would never have left the room alive."

"Still, we will assume that L'Estang is really my friend. In that case Casimir must have sold his knowledge to the lawyer. But if he was in touch with Cordel, who would shoot at him in the wood?"

"A friendly hand could shoot a hole through a cloak. Of course, it is just possible Casimir did not come from L'Estang at all. It is as easy to kill two messengers as one, and the first was killed."

"But how would he know what was in the letter? It had not been opened."

"I had not thought of that," said Jacques. "It drives me back on my first suspicion, which monsieur does not like. But, unless L'Estang helped in the plot, I cannot understand how it was carried out!"

We sat talking half the night, but without coming any nearer to solving the problem, and at last, thoroughly tired, I went to bed. Out of the whole tangle one thing only was plain—Etienne Cordel was playing a desperate game, and no scruples would prevent him from winning it.

And there was no way of getting at the rascal! He laid his plots with so much skill that I could accuse him of nothing. I had no real proofs against him, and without proofs he could laugh in my face.

The story of the attempt on my life quickly spread abroad, and the villagers came in a crowd to learn if I had been injured.

"Who are the villains, monsieur?" cried Urie. "Tell us who they are, and we will make an end of them."

"Ay," said another; "we will pull them in pieces!" and his companions shouted their approval.

"No," I exclaimed, "you must do nothing against the law, or you will be made to suffer for it. Two of the rascals are dead, and the others are not likely to trouble me again. But there is no harm in keeping watch on any strangers hanging about the neighbourhood."

"We will do that, monsieur!" they cried, and at last I succeeded in persuading them to return to their homes.

The excitement, however, did not die down, and the next evening Jacques informed me there was a fierce talk going on at old Pierre's. Some one had started the report that my enemy was Etienne Cordel, and a cry had been raised to march to his house and burn it about his ears.

"But they do not mean it?" I exclaimed.

"As far as words go, they do," replied Jacques; "but dogs that are so ready to bark rarely bite."

He treated the subject so lightly that I thought no more of it; but about ten o'clock a woman came from the village with the news that a number of the men, armed with clubs, pikes and forks, had started off in a body for the lawyer's house. In answer to my anxious questioning she said they had been gone some time, and had taken a short cut across country.

"Saddle the horses, Jacques!" I cried; "this must be stopped. Cordel has influence enough to have every one of them broken on the wheel. Look alive, man!"

Putting on my boots hastily, I followed him to the stables, when we saddled the horses and led them out. I was in a fever of excitement lest we should not arrive at the house in time, since it was necessary for us to take the longer route by the road.

Jacques endeavoured to calm me, saying, "They will do no harm; they will only shout and threaten, and frighten the old fox half out of his wits. It won't hurt him, and it may teach him a lesson."

This was likely enough, but, fearing lest these foolish people should get themselves into trouble I galloped along, almost as fast as when my two assailants were in pursuit of me. Fortunately, we met no travellers, but, on turning into the cross-road leading to the lawyer's house, I heard a confused roar of voices. The villagers had arrived before us.

I spurred my willing beast, swept swiftly along the narrrow road, shot through the open gateway, and drew up in front of the building, where a mob of men were shouting and yelling for Etienne Cordel.

"Bring your pikes!" roared one, "and break the door down!"

"Smoke the old fox out!" yelled another; and at that a dozen cried, "Yes, yes, that's the plan! Smoke the fox out, or let him die in his den."

Some had brought torches, and in their lurid glare the peasants looked quite truculent and formidable. Pushing between them and the building, I called for silence, but the sound of my voice caused the hubbub to grow louder.

"Monsieur Edmond!" they yelled, giving me the name by which I was best known to them; "Bravo, bravo, we will see justice done, monsieur!"

"Be quiet!" I cried angrily, "and listen to me. Do you know what you are doing?"

"Yes, yes. Burn the house down! He set the murderers on!"

"Who told you that?"

"Let him deny it! Where is he? Fetch him out!"

They were excited, even dangerous; I almost doubted if my influence was sufficient to keep them from doing mischief; yet in ordinary times they were as docile and obedient as a flock of sheep. They vowed they would not depart unless Cordel came out to them, and at length the lawyer appeared on the balcony which ran along the front of the house above the ground floor.

He had huddled on a dressing-gown, and looked so wretched and forlorn that I almost felt it in my heart to pity him. But the mob showed no mercy, greeting him with cries of "Assassin!" "Murderer!" and declaring loudly that he was unfit to live.

As soon as their shouts ceased, I exclaimed, "Monsieur Cordel, an attempt has been made on my life, and it is rumoured that you hired the men to kill me. Perhaps you will satisfy these good people that they are mistaken!"

He leaned over the railing and looked down, his face yellow, his eyes staring, evidently in abject fear for his life.

"My friends," he cried desperately, and it made one laugh to hear him address these peasants, whom he utterly despised, as his friends, "I know nothing; I am innocent; I have conspired against no man's life. I swear it!"

The fellow lied, and knew that I was aware of it, but for the sake of the people themselves, I was bound to protect him. An attack on the house would be followed by a visit from the king's troops, and I shuddered to think of the miseries the unfortunate villagers would suffer.

"You hear his denial," I cried loudly, "you have been deceived. We cannot punish an innocent man. Now disperse quietly to your homes. Have no fear for me; I can hold my own against any assassins who may come to Le Blanc."

They departed sullenly, still murmuring threats of vengeance, and turning round to shake their motley weapons menacingly at Cordel's house.

"Now, Monsieur Cordel," I cried, when the last of them had disappeared, "you can go to sleep without fear. I rejoice that I got here in time to prevent mischief; but, monsieur," I added drily, "had the ruffians killed me, I could not have come to your rescue!" and with that parting shot I rode off.

"'Tis a pity you had to stop them," said Jacques presently; they would have made short work of the rascal."

"And have been fearfully punished afterwards!"

"As to that, monsieur, he will do them all the mischief he can now if he gets a chance."

The next morning I sent for Urie and the leading men, lectured them on the folly of their proceedings, pointed out the risks they were running, and made them promise to keep their companions from committing any violence in the future.

"You are more or less in Monsieur Cordel's power," I said; "he has strong friends at Court, while I have none, and am unable to protect you."

"We will be careful," replied Urie for the others, "but if anything happens to monsieur the rascally lawyer will have need of all his powerful friends."

The failure of his plot—if it was his plot—served to keep the lawyer quiet for a while. He remained at home with only his own domestics in the house, and although many men kept a strict watch no suspicious-looking stranger was seen to visit him.

Meanwhile the prospects of those of the Religion began to brighten: the king was apparently throwing off the influence of his mother and brother; it was reported that he relied more and more on the advice of Coligny, and in spite of the Pope and the Guises, he was still stubbornly bent on marrying his sister to Henry of Bearn.

The Queen of Navarre was at Blois, and Jeanne wrote me a long account of the balls and festivities Charles had arranged. I do not suppose they appealed strongly to Queen Joan, who had little taste for such worldly matters, but the music, the dance, and the joyous merriment were quite to the liking of the younger ladies in her train.

"The king has persuaded my dear mistress to consent to the marriage," Jeanne wrote, "and it is settled that we are to go from here to Paris. Felix has just left for Touraine. He is a dear, good fellow, and has been very kind. He says it is stupid for you to stay at Le Blanc. The king is so full of the marriage and of affairs of State that he will not attend to any less important business. Felix declares that if Prince Henry comes to Paris you must come too, and push your claims. It is certain that the prince's marriage will stop all further persecution of the Huguenots, and it is that which caused my mistress to give her consent. Felix told me yesterday that the Guises are very angry with the king, and have gone away. From all I hear, I really believe he would be pleased if they never came back."

I read portions of my sister's letter to Jacques, but when I remarked that our troubles were nearly at an end, he shook his head, saying, "Those who live will see, monsieur."



CHAPTER XXII

L'Estang Tells His Story

Spring had ripened into summer, and I was still at Le Blanc, not having heard from my patron, and being unwilling to depart without his orders. Cordel had gone to Paris, and, for the time at least, had abandoned his schemes.

One day, about the third week in June, I had just returned from a morning gallop when Jacques met me in the courtyard with the news that Ambroise Devine had brought me a packet from Monsieur Bellievre.

I had almost forgotten the man, never having seen him since the morning when I started on the memorable journey to Tanlay.

"It is along while since we met," I said, greeting him. "My father told me you recovered from your wounds, and I expected to find you in Rochelle."

"Rochelle forms my headquarters, so to speak, monsieur, but I am in the hands of the chiefs. My last journey was to Flanders, whence I am now returning. Hearing that I was on my way to Rochelle, Monsieur Bellievre entrusted me with this packet for you."

"You must stay and have a gossip with me," said I, having thanked him; "I hear little news from the outside world."

"You honour me, monsieur; but it is necessary for me to push on with all speed; I am carrying important despatches."

"But you need refreshment!"

"Jacques has seen to that, monsieur, and also to my horse."

"We may meet again," I said, as he took his leave.

"It is very likely. There will be a gathering of our gentlemen in Paris before long; but doubtless Monsieur Bellievre has told you all the news."

When he had gone I sat down eagerly to read my comrade's letter. There was a smaller packet enclosed, but that I set aside. Felix wrote at some length, and his first item of news was very startling.

"It will cause you both grief and astonishment," he wrote, "to learn of the death of our good Queen Joan. She died on June 9, and some talk has passed of her having been poisoned. There is, however, a great deal of sickness here, and from what Jeanne tells me, I think the poor queen took fever."

"This may cause events to move more rapidly," I thought. "Now that Henry has become King of Navarre, he is a person of even greater importance. Charles will need to reckon with him."

"Our patron," Felix continued, "remains in close attendance on the king, who treats him with the utmost kindness, and even respect. The Guises are in despair, Monseigneur is furious, and even the Queen-Mother has to swallow her pride. This is strange, is it not?"

"Strange!" I exclaimed aloud, "it is a miracle! What else does this wonderful budget contain?"

"Our patron has a grand scheme in his head. He is working hard to unite the Huguenots and the Moderate Catholics into a national party, and to declare war against Spain. The king has nearly consented, and unless the Queen-Mother regains her power war may break out at any moment."

"Better to fight the Spaniards than to cut each other's throats," I muttered.

"I have kept my best news until the last," the letter continued. "Our patron believes the coming war will afford you the chance needed. He will nominate you to a commission, and present you to the king at the same time. For this purpose you must be here, and I am to instruct you to repair at once to the Hotel Coligny, at Paris. Is not this glorious news?"

I had scarcely patience to finish the letter, feeling more inclined to jump up and dance around the room; and yet the ending was full of strange interest.

"A week ago, a man, closely muffled, who refused to give his name, sought me out late at night. He wished, he said, to communicate with you, but for a special reason preferred to send in an indirect way. He finished by asking me to enclose a note the first time I was sending any correspondence to Le Blanc. It sounded very mysterious, but thinking a letter could not work much mischief I consented."

"That is odd," I thought, looking at the smaller packet, which bore no address, and opening it I read in Renaud L'Estang's handwriting—

"Monsieur, I fear something has gone wrong. Did you receive my letter? My messenger has not returned, and I can hear no word of him. I am too busily engaged to leave Monseigneur, and I do not care to send to you openly. Cordel either suspects or knows that I am your friend.

D'ANGELY."

Calling Jacques, I handed the note to him, and asked his opinion.

"It does not help us a bit," he declared; "it explains nothing. If L'Estang is a false friend, as I believe, he is merely trying by this note to throw dust into your eyes. If, on the other hand, he was not a party to the plot, the mystery remains the same."

"I fear you are right, Jacques. However, let us not trouble our heads with the riddle; it will solve itself one of these days. I have other news; can you guess what it is?"

"By your face, monsieur, it should be something pleasant: the king has signed those tiresome papers!"

"Not exactly right," I answered laughing, "but I have hope of that happening in time. We are going to Paris, Jacques. There is likely to be war with Spain, and I am to receive the king's commission. It will be better than fighting against those of our own race and blood; and if we come through the campaign alive, Monsieur Cordel may even cast his eyes on some other person's estates."

"When do we start?" asked Jacques eagerly.

"I have a few arrangements to make. Let us say the day after to-morrow."

"Very good, monsieur, but it is a long time to wait."

The lawyer was still absent from his house, but in case any of his spies should carry information, Jacques let it be known the next morning that in a few days we were going to La Rochelle; nor did I give my own servants any different information.

It was a glorious summer morning when we set forth: the sun shone brightly in a blue sky thinly flaked with snowy clouds; the birds carolled joyously; the green leaves, made brilliant by the sunlight, danced in the gentle breeze; a fresh, sweet smell rose from the fragrant earth.

Many a long day had passed since my heart had felt so light, and as we cantered into the highroad I hummed a gay refrain. I felt as if this was bound to prove the most successful of our ventures.

I had real hope as a foundation on which to rear my airy castle. The war of Religion was over and done with; Huguenot and Catholic would stand shoulder to shoulder against the common foe; Monseigneur, the Guises, and all those who were striving for their own interests to embroil the country in civil strife would have to stand aside; France would at length be united, and therefore strong.

My own private fortunes also wore a rosy tint that morning. Even if the king did not restore my estates at the outset, he would certainly not refuse to do so after I had fought his battles, and perhaps helped to gain his victories! No, I had not a single fear when I turned to take a last lingering view of the castle of Le Blanc.

As a matter of precaution we rode a few miles in the direction of La Rochelle, but neither Jacques nor I expected that any further attempt would be made upon us in that part of the country. Cordel was most probably in Paris, and could have no knowledge of our sudden departure from Le Blanc. In fact we reached Paris without any mishap, save the casting of a horse's shoe, and the loss of a few hours one night when we went astray in the darkness.

We entered Paris a little before the gate was closed for the night. It was still very light, and the streets were filled with people, very few of whom, however, took much notice of us. The capital was utterly strange to me, and I knew nothing of Coligny's residence, except that it was situated in the Rue de l'Arbre Sec. Overtaking an officer of the king's guards I asked to be directed to that street, and he very courteously undertook to conduct me part of the way.

"You are a stranger in Paris?" said he, looking critically at me and my servant.

"Yes, I have but now arrived from the south, to meet a friend who lives in the Rue de l'Arbre Sec."

"I should fancy," exclaimed the officer, with a humorous twinkle, "that your friend's residence is not far from the Hotel Coligny! Have you borne arms, monsieur?"

"I fought at Arnay-le-Duc," I replied, feeling sure that my questioner had already set me down in his own mind as a Huguenot.

"I was there, too," he said, "but I'll wager we were not on the same side. However, those days are gone, and we may yet have a chance of fighting under the same flag!" to which I replied that nothing would give the members of our party more pleasure.

Having conducted me to the corner of the street and pointed out Coligny's house he took his leave, with a cheery hope that I should find my stay in town pleasant.

The Admiral was absent, but the house was occupied by several of his gentlemen, who gave me a hearty welcome. Felix was somewhere in the town on business, one said, not unconnected with my family, at which the others laughed.

He came in about an hour later, when I learned he had been spending the evening with the Countess Guichy, at whose house my sister was staying.

"The countess, my dear Edmond," said he, "is a relative of mine. She does not belong to the Religion, but she is a worthy soul, and when Queen Joan died and everything was in confusion, I persuaded your sister to go to her until she could consult you as to her future."

"That was like your kind heart, Felix; you have ever been a good friend to both of us. I had not thought how awkwardly Jeanne would be placed by the queen's death."

"There is no need to thank me," he replied, "I have done the countess a favour. Your sister has won her heart already, though to be sure there is no miracle in that. They called her the Queen of Hearts at Blois. I must take you to see her in the morning. Did Jacques come with you?"

"Yes, he is making himself at home with some of his old acquaintances; but where is the Admiral?"

"At Fontainebleau with the king. Everything is settled; Henry comes to Paris in a week or two, and there is to be a grand wedding. Our opponents are furious, but helpless. There is only one thing I dread."

"What is that?" I asked, rather taken aback by the sudden serious look on his face.

"There are ugly rumours about, Edmond. It is whispered that Guise has sworn to take our patron's life. Coligny has received a dozen warnings, but he is too fearless to notice them. He shrugs his shoulders and says 'It would be better to die a hundred times than to live in constant fear. I am tired of such alarms, and have lived long enough.' But he hasn't lived long enough, Edmond! Without him, the Cause would be ruined."

"No one will dare to do him an injury while the king stands by him," I said cheerfully. "If Charles is really his friend there is nothing to fear."

"I am not so sure of that. Unless the Admiral is at his elbow Charles is simply a tool in the hands of Monseigneur and the Queen-Mother."

"Even so it should be difficult for the assassin's knife to reach our patron while he has his body-guard around him!" at which Felix laughed, saying the Admiral frequently ventured abroad either alone, or with but one or two attendants.

The next morning we set off for the Countess Guichy's, where Jeanne received me with open arms. Since our last meeting she had become even prettier, and I scarcely wondered that the gay young courtiers had called her the "Queen of Hearts." She was very happy and cheerful, and full of praise for Felix, who had watched over her as tenderly as if she were his own sister.

The countess was a stately lady, with a kind face and twinkling eyes. It was easy to see she had become very attached to Jeanne, and she would listen to no arrangements that would remove my sister from her house.

"From all I can gather," she said, "you will be off to the wars soon, and pray what will Jeanne do then? Bury herself in that musty Rochelle? No, my dear, you shall remain with me until—ah, well, it isn't your brother who will part us!" at which poor Jeanne flushed painfully.

The countess insisted on our remaining to dinner, after which we escorted Jeanne into the city, Felix pointing out the sights and describing the buildings with the air of one who had lived in Paris all his life.

Our patron still being with the king we enjoyed a great deal of leisure, and for nearly a week spent most of our time with the countess and Jeanne, much to the satisfaction of Felix, who so contrived that I always had the honour of escorting his noble relative.

We were returning late one evening, walking quietly along the Rue de Bethisy, at the corner of which stood the Admiral's house, when a man, who had evidently been watching the approaches to the building, tapped me on the shoulder and whispered "Monsieur Le Blanc!"

He wore a large plumed hat which was drawn partly over his forehead, and he was, besides, closely muffled, but I had no difficulty in recognizing him as Renaud L'Estang. Telling Felix I would follow in a few minutes, I turned aside with the adventurer into the courtyard of a large house where we were not likely to be interrupted.

"I learned yesterday you were in Paris," he remarked, "and have been watching for you. Did your friend send you my note?"

"Yes, but it was difficult to answer. Your first messenger was killed; your second was a traitor. That is why I did not meet you at Poictiers."

"My second messenger!" he exclaimed in a tone of surprise. "Poictiers! Either you or I must be dreaming! I sent but one man, and he vanished. Why should you expect to meet me at Poictiers?"

"At your own invitation!" I replied.

"But, monsieur, this is a puzzle! I do not understand; it is beyond me."

"Perhaps," I remarked drily, "you have forgotten Casimir!"

At that he drew a long breath. "Casimir!" he exclaimed; "ah, that lets in a little light. Monsieur, will you tell me the story? We shall get at something surprising."

He listened attentively while I related what had happened, and then "Truly," he said, "this Cordel is a clever rogue, and Casimir an able tool. I have found him useful myself before now."

"He cheated you to some purpose in the end," I remarked.

"But he did not cheat me at all; I had nothing to do with him. Listen, and judge for yourself. I discovered that the lawyer had bargained with four men, one of whom was this very Casimir, to take your life. The murder was to be done in such a manner that no suspicion should attach to him, and the first thing was to get you away from Le Blanc."

"In that at least," said I laughing, "they succeeded."

"I wrote a letter warning you of this, and describing the four men, and despatched it by the hand of a trusty messenger."

"He was worthy of your trust," I said.

"The second letter asking you to meet me at Poictiers was not written by me."

"Then who was the writer?" I asked.

"It would be difficult to prove, but I should say it was Etienne Cordel. Several little matters convinced me he had heard of my flying visit to Le Blanc. That put him on his guard, and unfortunately my messenger was known to Casimir and his companions."

"Do you think they tracked him?"

"Waylaid him in the wood, abstracted the letter, and carried it to the lawyer. It was easy for him to imitate my writing, and the signature of D'Angely would disarm suspicion."

"Your explanation certainly seems reasonable," I remarked.

"And I believe it to be true. And now, take my advice and be very cautious. Men are cheap in Paris, and Cordel will stick at nothing. If I can help you against him, you may be sure I will."

I thanked him warmly, and proceeded to the hotel.

"Jacques will be glad to know that gratitude is not altogether dead in the world," I said to myself.



CHAPTER XXIII

A Royal Marriage

I should probably have worried myself considerably over the strange story related by Renaud L'Estang, but for the public events which occurred almost immediately. On the very next morning we received orders from the Admiral to be prepared to escort Henry of Navarre into the capital.

My purse, fortunately, was not yet empty, for it was necessary to don a mourning suit in order to show respect to the memory of the late queen.

"We must show ourselves as fine as those popinjays of Anjou's," said Felix. "Fine feathers make fine birds in the eyes of the populace, and we must let them see that Huguenot gentlemen are a match for those of the king."

It was early morning of July 8, 1572, when about a dozen of us, all splendidly, though sombrely attired, rode out from the courtyard of the Hotel Coligny, and, passing quickly through the empty streets, proceeded to meet the princely cavalcade.

Henry's retinue formed a striking and impressive spectacle. He was attended by young Conde, the Cardinal of Bourbon, and our own beloved chief. Behind them rode eight hundred gallant gentlemen, all in mourning, the majority of whom had proved their zeal and devotion to the Cause on more than one battle-field. We saluted the chiefs, and took our places in the procession.

"I think even the Parisians will admit we do not make a very sorry show," remarked Felix as we rode along.

At the gates of St. Jacques we were met by Monseigneur at the head of fifteen hundred gorgeously attired horsemen. He greeted our leaders with elaborate ceremony, but, as far as I could judge, with little goodwill, and Catholics and Huguenots mingled together, forming one imposing body. Young Conde and his brother, the Marquis, rode between Guise and the Chevalier d'Angouleme; Henry himself was placed between the king's brothers, Anjou and Alencon.

The streets were packed with dense crowds of citizens; every balcony was filled, and fair ladies sat watching from the open windows. Here and there men shouted lustily for Monseigneur, but for Henry of Navarre there was no word of kindly welcome; we proceeded amidst a cold and chilling silence.

"This may be a royal welcome," laughed one of my neighbours, "'tis anything but a friendly one. Faith, I am beginning to think already that we shall have as much need of our swords in Paris as ever we had at Arnay-le-Duc."

"Bah!" cried Felix; "who wants the plaudits of a mob? These people are but puppets, and the strings are pulled by the priests."

"The citizens are hardly reconciled yet to the new order of things," remarked one of Monseigneur's gentlemen; "but the strangeness will soon wear off, and you will be as welcome in Paris as in Rochelle. It is not strange that at present Anjou is their favourite; you must give them time."

The speaker may have been right, but the hostile attitude with which the citizens met us became stronger, when, having escorted the princes to the palace, we broke up into small groups and rode towards our various dwellings.

The sullen silence gave place to angry murmurs, and even to open threats, especially when we passed the crosses and images at the corners of the streets without raising our hats.

"Well," I said, as, entering the courtyard of the hotel, we gave our animals to Jacques, "the king may desire the marriage, but it certainly does not meet with the approval of the citizens. In truth, now that to-day's ceremony is over, I am rather surprised to find myself alive."

"You are not the only one, Le Blanc," said De Guerchy, who was entering with us; "I expected every moment to hear a cry of 'Kill the Huguenots!' They say a bad beginning often leads to a good ending; let us hope this will be a case in proof of it. But I wish the Admiral was in the midst of us!"

"There lies the danger," I said; "a pistol-shot or the stroke of a sword, and the streets of Paris will run with blood."

"They will," declared Felix fiercely, "if any harm happens to our leader!"

When I came to think about these things in after days, it seemed strange to remember how, through all the time of rejoicing and apparent friendliness, there ran an uneasy feeling, for which even Henry's chilling reception by the Parisians was not sufficient to account.

Our first thought in the morning and our last thought at night centred upon the Admiral's safety. Absolutely fearless, and placing unbounded confidence in the king's honesty, that chivalrous nobleman behaved as if he were surrounded by loyal friends. He had consecrated his life to the welfare of France, and no thought of self could turn him aside from his duty.

His usual attendants were De Guerchy and Des Pruneaux, and with them he would set out from his residence to transact his business with the king at the Louvre. But, unknown to him, two of us always went a little ahead, while two followed closely in the rear. We carefully avoided drawing attention to ourselves, but our eyes sought every passer-by and examined every window where an assassin might lurk.

Thus the time passed between hopes and fears. There was little talk now of the war with Spain, and it began to be understood that the subject would not be pursued until after the marriage.

Being so fully occupied we saw little of Jeanne during these days, but one evening Felix and I started to pay her a visit. It was the first week in August, the day had been hot, and most of the citizens were out of doors seeking the cool air.

"One minute, monsieur!"

We were at the bottom of the steps in front of the Countess Guichy's hotel, but, recognizing the voice, I stopped and turned.

"Is it you, L'Estang?" I said.

"Hush! It would be as well to call me D'Angely. You have been followed here from the Rue de l'Arbre Sec. A strange man, now hiding on the other side of the road, has been watching you for these two days past. The populace have no love for a Huguenot gentleman."

"What is the fellow like?" I asked.

"He keeps himself well muffled; he is about your own height and build; that is all I can discover. But I believe he has been hired by Cordel. Take care not to expose yourself too freely."

"Many thanks," I said, as he disappeared.

"'Tis almost a pity," exclaimed Felix, "that you interfered with your peasants. You should have let them rid you of that rascally lawyer while they were in the mood."

"Nonsense!" I replied, "you are talking wildly. Of course there must be no word of this to Jeanne."

"I am not likely to alarm her!" he replied, and ran lightly up the steps.

The ladies were full of the approaching ceremony, and could talk of nothing but stomachers and brilliants and gold lace and such like stuff, without which they seemed to imply there could be no wedding at all. The countess, who had arranged for Jeanne to form one of the young bride's attendants, had been spending money lavishly on a wonderful dress, and she declared laughingly that when Henry saw my sister he would wish she could change places with Margaret; at which Felix remarked it would certainly show his good taste.

Jeanne laughed and blushed, calling him a flatterer, but she was very happy, and her eyes were sparkling with pleasure.

As our visit drew to a close, she contrived to whisper: "I have heard from your English friend. A messenger from La Rochelle brought me a letter yesterday. He is coming to see you shortly; he may be in France already."

"Oh," I replied, "unless he comes quickly he may have to travel as far as Flanders; that is," I added, slily "if he really wishes to see me."

"Of course he does," she answered gaily, "and to visit Paris; he has set his heart on seeing our capital."

Although very fond of Roger Braund, I felt, somehow, rather sorry to hear Jeanne's news, and, as we left the house, my comrade rallied me on my thoughtfulness.

"Come," said he briskly, "we must hurry; the Admiral does not like our being abroad so late," at which, remembering how persistently he had refused to leave earlier, I laughed heartily.

The streets were for the most part deserted; but in spite of the late hour it was not dark.

"Listen!" exclaimed Felix suddenly, "there is some one following us; he is coming at a quick pace, as if trying to overtake us. Perhaps it is your quixotic adventurer friend, with a further warning."

"No," I replied, "L'Estang is not so heavy; he is more cat-footed. 'Tis some belated wayfarer like ourselves, in a hurry to reach his lodgings."

The man caught us up, gave a surly growl in response to our "Good-night," and passed on rapidly.

"'Tis plain that all the boors do not live in the country," remarked Felix, as the fellow disappeared. "I thought all Parisians were noted for their good breeding."

"Another mistake corrected, my friend. As we grow older—ah! After him, quick!"

A bullet had whizzed past my head, cutting, as I found later, the feather stuck jauntily in my hat—for we did not choose that Anjou's gentlemen should exhibit all the airs and graces. The shot was fired from a low entry, and before the noise of the report had died away Felix, who kept his wits wonderfully, darted inside.

In another instant I had joined him, and we raced together up the narrow court.

"There he is!" I cried; "ah, he is climbing the wall!"

Felix being the swifter runner drew ahead, but he was too late. The assassin, straddling the wall, struck him furiously with his arquebus, and my comrade fell. I bent over him in an agony of fright, but he struggled to his feet, saying, "It is all right, Edmond; he has raised a lump on my head, nothing more; but I fear he has escaped."

"Yes, we should only lose ourselves trying to follow him there. Are you sure you are not hurt?"

"Quite sure. My head will ache for an hour or two, but I shall be all right in the morning. I suppose that bullet was meant for you!"

"There can be little doubt of it. L'Estang must have had good ground for his warning."

"You will have to put an end to this, Edmond."

"As soon as this marriage is over, the Admiral has promised to make another appeal to the king. With Henry to speak a word for me as well, I think Charles will restore my estates. At all events, there is the Spanish war in sight, and Cordel isn't likely to follow me to Flanders."

I spoke lightly, but this second attempt on my life was really a serious matter, showing as it did that my enemy had not abandoned his design. The next few days, however, were very busy ones, and the course of events gave me little leisure for brooding over my own dangerous position.

The betrothal of the royal pair took place on August 17, at the Louvre, and was followed by a supper and a ball. Then, according to custom, the bride was escorted by the king and queen, the queen-mother, monseigneur, and the leading princes and nobles to the palace of the Bishop of Paris, where she was to spend the night.

The actual ceremony was fixed for the next day, and we at the Hotel Coligny were up betimes. Strangely enough, the uneasy feeling of which I have spoken had increased rather than lessened, though no one could give any reason for this growing apprehension.

Everything was going well; there was no fresh cause for alarm, and yet there was not a man amongst us—unless we except our noble leader—who did not wish the day well over. He was in the highest of spirits, looking upon the marriage as a public proof that henceforth Charles intended to rule all his subjects with equal justice. Perhaps he did!

The day was gloriously fine, and hours before the time announced for the ceremony the streets were thronged with dense crowds of citizens. On the open space in front of Notre Dame a gorgeous pavilion, in which the marriage was to be solemnized, had been erected.

Coligny was accompanied by certain of his gentlemen, but most of us were stationed outside the pavilion. The people glared at us scowlingly, and even when the grand procession passed on the way to escort Margaret from the palace they remained mute.

Yet for those who enjoy idle shows it was a pretty spectacle. Charles, Henry, and Conde, with some idea perhaps of showing their affection for each other, were all dressed alike, in pale yellow satin, embroidered with silver, and adorned with pearls and precious stones. Anjou, who was even more magnificently attired, had a set of thirty-two pearls in his toque, while the noble dames were gorgeous in rich brocades, and velvets interwoven with gold and silver.

"If the people had their way," whispered Felix, as the grand cavalcade swept by, "Henry would be going to his funeral instead of to his marriage, and there would be few of us left to mourn him."

From the Bishop's palace to the pavilion stretched a raised covered platform, and presently there was a slight craning of necks, and the citizens showed some faint interest, as the head of the bridal procession appeared in sight.

First came the archbishops and bishops in their copes of cloth of gold; then the cardinals in their scarlet robes, and the Knights of St. Michael, their breasts glittering with orders; but not a cheer was raised until young Henry of Guise appeared, when it was easy to tell who was the favourite of the Parisians.

I regarded him with much interest. He was only twenty-two years old; tall and handsome, with a lissom figure and an air of easy grace that became him well. His eyes were keen and bright; he wore a light beard, and a profusion of curly hair. Altogether, he looked a very dashing and accomplished nobleman.

"There she is!" cried Felix suddenly; "do you see her? Could any one look more lovely?"

"She is certainly magnificent."

"Bah!" he interrupted in disgust, "you are looking at Margaret. 'Tis Jeanne I am speaking of—your sister. Edmond, you are more blind than a mole!"

There really was some excuse for his extravagant praise, for even amongst that galaxy of beauty Jeanne shone with a loveliness all her own, and Felix was not the only one of my comrades to declare that she was the most beautiful of all that glittering throng.

But the centre of attraction was Margaret herself, still only a girl of twenty, with a beautifully clear complexion and bright black eyes full of fire and spirit. She was truly a royal bride, gracious, dignified, queenly Magnificent brilliants sparkled in her glossy hair; her stomacher was set with lustrous pearls; her dress was of cloth of gold, and gold lace fringed her dainty handkerchief and gloves.

"A magnificent creature to look at!" grunted the man next to me, "but I would prefer my wife to be a trifle more womanly."

At length they had all passed into the pavilion, and when the ceremony was concluded Henry led his bride into the cathedral, afterwards joining Coligny, Conde, and a few other Huguenot gentlemen, who walked up and down the close, conversing earnestly together.

Leaving the Admiral at the Louvre with a small escort, we returned to the Hotel Coligny, discussing the great event of the day. The citizens were slowly dispersing, and as we passed some of them muttered violent threats against the Huguenots; others cheered for Henry of Guise, a few raised a cheer for Monseigneur, but I did not hear a word of welcome for the king, or for Henry of Navarre, or for our own noble leader—the most chivalrous of them all.



"Charles hasn't increased his popularity by this marriage!" I remarked.

"No," said one of my comrades, "he has lost ground among the Parisians. It will frighten him; he will be more afraid of Guise than ever. How the fools roared for the duke! Perhaps they would like him for king! They would find they had their master, for all his smooth speech and courtly manners."

"The people's coldness may do good in one way," remarked Felix. "Charles may rush into a war with Spain, thinking that a brilliant victory or two would win back his popularity."

"The war with Spain will never come about," growled a grizzled veteran, who had fought with Coligny on his earliest battle-field. "Guise, the Pope, Monseigneur, and the Queen-Mother are all against it, and Charles is just a lump of clay in their hands: they can mould him as they please."

"Well," exclaimed Felix, as we entered the courtyard, "in my opinion it's either a Spanish war, or a civil war, and Charles must take his choice."



CHAPTER XXIV

A Mysterious Warning

It was the evening of August 20. The Louvre was brilliantly illuminated; the gardens and the various apartments were crowded with the beauty and nobility of France. Catholics and Huguenots mingled together on the friendliest terms; everything pointed to peace and goodwill. Henry of Navarre and his handsome queen were there, and so were Monseigneur and Henry of Guise.

One could hardly think of danger in the midst of so much mirth and gaiety, and yet, though unseen by us, the shadow of death was hovering very near!

Felix and I had gone to the palace together, but, as he basely deserted me for Jeanne, I was left to wander about alone. I was, however, by no means depressed by my isolation. The lights, the music, the beauty of the ladies, and the handsome uniforms of the men, all filled me with the liveliest pleasure, and two hours rapidly slipped by.

Now and again I exchanged greetings with some cavalier whose acquaintance I had made during my stay in the city, and amongst others I met the Catholic officer who had befriended me on the night of my arrival in Paris.

"This is far better than cutting each other's throats, monsieur," said he, with a wave of his hand. "Your Henry of Navarre has proved a real peacemaker!"

"And the king!" I responded, unwilling to be outdone in generosity. "We must not forget his part in bringing about this happy state of affairs!"

"Nor the noble Coligny's. I expect the Admiral has had more to do with it than both the others."

Now it was exceedingly pleasant to hear my patron praised in this way by one of his opponents, and I began to think that after all our prospects were less gloomy than the conversation of my comrades would lead one to suppose.

Toward midnight I was crossing the hall in order to speak with Felix and my sister, who were standing with the Countess Guichy and several ladies, when I caught sight of Renaud L'Estang. He had been in attendance upon Monseigneur, but was now at liberty. Turning aside, I went to meet him, intending to thank him for his timely warning.

"Ah, monsieur," said he pleasantly, "I have been looking for you. I have something to say, and one can talk without fear in a crowded room. But do not let people guess by your face that I am saying anything serious. That lady," and he glanced toward Jeanne, "is, I believe, your sister?"

"Yes," I replied, wondering what he could say which concerned Jeanne.

"Listen," he continued. "I have tried to keep the promise made to you that miserable night in Rochelle."

"You have more than kept your promise," I interrupted eagerly.

"I have done what I could. It is not much, but enough perhaps to show I am your friend. Now, ask me no questions; I cannot reply to them; but for the love you bear your sister answer what I ask you. Can you make an excuse to leave Paris?"

"And desert my patron?"

"No," said he thoughtfully, "it is too much to expect from a man of honour; but there is your servant! He is shrewd and capable, and will fight to the death in your sister's defence."

"Yes," I exclaimed, "you judge him rightly."

"Do not start; keep a smile on your face, but understand all the time that I am speaking of a matter of life and death. Invent what excuse you like, but to-morrow morning send Jacques to Rochelle in charge of your sister, and let him make no delay on the road. Brush aside all objections; do not be influenced by any one; follow my advice, and I pledge my word that you will not regret it."

"This is somewhat startling!" I exclaimed; "you must have some good reasons for such advice as this. Can you not trust me?"

"Monsieur," he replied a little bitterly, "I have already told you that I have my own code of honour. It sounds strange from the lips of an adventurer, does it not? But I cannot betray the man whose bread I eat. As a matter of fact, I know nothing; to-morrow I may know more—that is why I am speaking to-night. Now I must leave you, but I say again with all the earnestness I possess, send your sister to Rochelle in the morning, even if you have to force her to go!"

Raising his voice he uttered some commonplace about the brilliancy of the scene, smiled brightly, waved his hand, and disappeared, leaving me lost in wonder and perplexity.

What was the meaning of this strange warning? He was in deadly earnest; of that there could be no doubt, and yet he refused to give me the slightest clue to the mystery. But perhaps that very refusal would help to reveal the secret! I must discuss the matter with Felix, and meanwhile try to bear myself as if nothing had happened.

As a matter of precaution, however, I told Jeanne I had received news from Rochelle, and that it might be necessary for her to travel to that town.

"There is nothing at which to be alarmed," I continued, "but we will talk about it to-morrow. If it really becomes necessary for you to go, I shall want you to depart without delay."

Jeanne was a brave girl. "Do you fear danger, Edmond?" she asked. "If there is danger, I will stay and share it with you."

"What a queer fancy!" I exclaimed lightly. "It is just a little matter in which you can be of assistance to the Cause"; at which she smiled, saying, "Anything I can do for the Cause, Edmond, I will do willingly."

"Even leave Paris!" I laughed, and having driven away her fears I left her.

Felix was very bright and joyous that night, and so merry in himself that he failed to notice my thoughtfulness. I said nothing of L'Estang's communication until we were alone in our room, when I told him the story.

I had not to ask for his opinion. Almost before I had finished, he exclaimed with decision, "Whatever this does or does not mean, Jeanne must go to Rochelle. L'Estang has proved himself your friend; he can have no reason for deceiving you."

"I will answer for L'Estang's loyalty."

"Then send Jeanne away; or, rather, take her yourself."

"That is impossible! If there is anything in L'Estang's story, it points to a plot against our chief. He is evidently afraid of trouble, perhaps of fierce fighting between the two parties, and thinks my sister would be safer out of the city."

"He gave you no hint?"

"Not the slightest. He said he knew nothing, but had he known he would not have betrayed his own party. We must remember that though he has done so much for me, he belongs to the side of our opponents. It must have cost him a struggle to tell what he did."

"Yes," said Felix thoughtfully, "between loyalty to his party and friendship for you he was in a cleft stick! You will repeat the story to our patron?"

"To what end? He has received dozens of warnings! Still, I will tell him."

I obtained little sleep that night; spending the hours tossing restlessly, turning from side to side, wondering what the danger was which had induced L'Estang to give this indirect but ominous warning. As soon as the household began to stir, I rose and dressed, eager to seek an interview with Coligny.

He was already dressed and busy with Des Pruneaux, but he spoke to me graciously and with the kindly interest that he ever showed.

"You must not keep me long, Le Blanc," he said, laying a hand on my shoulder in his fatherly manner.