"My lord," I replied, "you shall have my story in the fewest possible words. I think it is of the greatest importance, but in any case I am bound to tell you! When we were in Rochelle, I did a simple service for one of our opponents."

"A good deed ever brings forth good fruit, my boy."

"It did in this instance, my lord. The man, who is in the pay of Monseigneur, has since proved a faithful friend in connexion with my private affairs. I owe him my life. He is, I believe deep in the secrets of his party, but these he has never revealed, and I have never asked him."

"Quite right," observed the Admiral.

"Since the death of Queen Joan, my sister has lived in Paris with the Countess Guichy. Last night this strange friend of mine advised me with the utmost earnestness to have her conveyed to Rochelle. He gave me no reason, but from his manner I am sure he fears something terrible is about to happen. 'Invent what excuse you like,' said he, 'but to-morrow morning send Jacques'—that is my servant—'to Rochelle in charge of your sister, and let him make no delay on the road.' There must be some grave reason for his advice, my lord."

"You have no doubt of this man's friendship?"

"Not a shadow of doubt; he has proved it to the hilt."

"Then your sister must leave Paris promptly, and she shall carry a letter from me to the commandant. That will furnish an excuse for her hurried departure. I will write it immediately."

"But, my lord," I said hesitatingly, for it ever required some courage to hint that he should take measures for his personal safety, "it is of the possible peril to yourself I am thinking."

"I do not believe there is any danger," he replied; "but I am in the hands of God, Le Blanc. If He, in His wisdom, and for His own good purpose, wills that I should die at my post, I am content. Now, Des Pruneaux shall write the letter, and after breakfast you shall take it to your sister."

I went out, and writing a note to Jeanne, bidding her get ready for an early start, sent it off by Jacques.

"I wonder," said Felix, "if your friend's warning has anything to do with the king's fresh move. Last night twelve hundred of the guards marched into Paris, and are quartered near the Louvre."

"They may be wanted to overawe Guise and Anjou," I suggested. "If so, it was a wise step to take."

"Yes, if so!" he agreed, but the tone of his voice did not imply much confidence in my suggestion.

As soon as Jacques returned, I told him to prepare for a journey to Rochelle, dwelling strongly upon the necessity for the greatest expedition.

"There is some danger threatening you," exclaimed the trusty fellow.

"No more than there was yesterday, Jacques; but I am uneasy about my sister, and would rather she were behind the walls of La Rochelle."

"I do not like leaving you, monsieur."

"You must, Jacques; there is no one else to whom I would care to entrust my sister. But not a word to her of the real reason! She must imagine she is doing us a service or she will not stir; so we are sending her with a letter from the Admiral to the commandant at Rochelle."

When Felix and I went to the house, we were received by the countess, who was not at all pleased by the news of Jeanne's approaching departure. "What new conspiracy is this," she asked, "that you need a young girl for an ally? Have you not men enough to do your work?"

"Ah," laughed Felix playfully, "you wish to discover our secrets. It is quite useless, my lady; we are proof against all your wiles; but on her return, Mademoiselle Jeanne shall tell you herself; you won't be able to do any mischief then!"

"You are a saucy boy!" exclaimed the countess, pinching his ear. "And pray, which of you is to be Jeanne's escort?"

"I am sending my servant," I answered. "He is very trustworthy, and will guard her with his own life."

"Do you intend your sister to walk to Rochelle?" she asked, the humorous twinkle coming back to her eyes.

"I am going to procure a carriage."

"You will do nothing of the kind!" she declared emphatically. "I am not supposed to be acquainted with your stupid plots, and your sister shall go to Rochelle in my carriage, drawn by my horses, and driven by my coachman. The poor beasts will probably die of the plague in that gloomy hole, but they must take their chance. Now, do not speak! I am not to be lectured by two giddy boys. And do not kiss me, Felix! What I am doing is for Jeanne. Perhaps when they cut off my head for joining in your horrid conspiracy you will be sorry. Now, have the horses put into the carriage, while I see Jeanne."

"She is a generous soul!" exclaimed Felix, as we left the room. "She has many strange whims, but no one could be more loyal to a friend, and she has grown to love Jeanne very dearly."

"She is exceedingly kind," I said, "and the more so since we have no claims on her generosity."

By the time Jacques arrived everything was ready, and we had only to bid my sister good-bye. She bore up bravely, but the parting was a painful one, for in our hearts both Felix and I had an uneasy feeling that we were saying farewell to her for ever. Of this, fortunately, she had no suspicion, and she promised the countess to return directly the business with the commandant was finished.

"Remember," I whispered to Jacques, as the coachman gathered up the reins, "there must be no delay. Reach Rochelle as quickly as possible, and keep your mistress there until I send to you. The commandant, who will understand the real purpose of the journey, will help you."

Jacques drew up beside the carriage; Jeanne, leaning out, fluttered her dainty handkerchief; we waved our hands in response, and she was gone.

"Jeanne is a brave girl and a good girl," said the countess. "I wish she were my daughter. And now, you two villains, who have deprived an old woman of her only pleasure in life, leave me. I am going to my room, where I can cry comfortably. I am not so young that tears will spoil my eyes."

On our way back to the Hotel Coligny we encountered Monseigneur, with a body of his gentlemen, riding through the city. Numerous persons were in the streets, and as he passed by, bowing and smiling graciously, they greeted him with cheers.

"Anjou has some purpose in doing that," remarked Felix; but I made no answer, being occupied in watching L'Estang, who rode in the very rear of the cavalcade. He had caught sight of me, and while still looking straight before him he raised his hand, pointing significantly to the west. I nodded my head, and with a smile of satisfaction he rode on.

"Did you notice that?" I asked.

"Yes," replied Felix, "but without understanding."

"The meaning was plain enough. He was asking if Jeanne had gone, and I answered 'Yes.'"

"He takes a great interest in your sister," said Felix a trifle discontentedly.

"Because she is my sister," I replied. "Listen, the worthy citizens are cheering for Guise now."

"I suppose he is parading the streets as well. What a pack of fools these Parisians are!"

"If they cheered for Coligny," I laughed, "you would credit them with all the wisdom under the sun. So much depends on one's point of view!"

"Edmond! Felix! Why do you look so astonished? Do you fancy I am a spirit? Feel my hand; that is substantial enough, is it not?" and Roger Braund laughed heartily as he crossed the lobby of the Admiral's house toward us.

"You in Paris!" I exclaimed, after we had exchanged greetings, "when did you arrive? How long have you been here?"

"An hour," he replied cheerfully. "Is your sister well, Edmond?"

"Quite well, thank you. She is on the way to Rochelle; but come to our room, where we can talk more privately."

He accompanied us to our room, and I told him the story as it has been set down here.

"You did right," said he thoughtfully! "Paris just now is no place for her. But this journey to Rochelle is a hazardous venture with only Jacques to protect her!"

"Jacques is a man of courage and discretion!" exclaimed Felix, with rather more heat than was necessary.

"Jacques is a brave fellow," agreed Roger, "but he is only one man. Edmond, with your leave, I will set out after the travellers, and assist Jacques in guarding your sister."

"You will have but a short stay in Paris," remarked Felix.

"I shall return quickly to offer my sword to your chief. From Edmond's story, I fancy he will have need of all his friends. I left my horse at an inn; it is a fine beast, and is thoroughly rested now. I will start immediately. No, I am not hungry; I have made a substantial meal. I shall come straight here on my return. Good-bye to you both. Directly I have placed Mademoiselle Jeanne in safety you will see me again?"

We had scarcely time to answer before he had gone, and from the window I saw him speeding along the street as if he feared the loss of a single second would overthrow all his plans.



CHAPTER XXV

A Dastardly Deed

In the evening of that same day, the Admiral in passing to his room inquired kindly if I had executed his commission, and appeared pleased to learn that my sister had already started on her journey.

"I do not think it was necessary," he remarked, "but at least no harm can come from it, and you will feel easier in your mind. Good-night, gentlemen; our plans are progressing favourably, and I hope soon to have good news for you all."

I went to bed early that night, for Felix, unlike his usual bright self, was very gloomy and morose. I fancy he was not well pleased with the coming of Roger Braund, and still less so with his ready offer to escort Jeanne to Rochelle.

"What is the fellow doing here at all?" he asked. "Why can he not stay in his own country?"

I ventured to suggest that no one put the question at Jarnac, or at Montcontour, and that we of the Religion at least owed a great debt of gratitude to Roger and his brave comrades. Felix seemed rather to resent this remark, so I said no more, trusting that by another day he would have recovered his good humour and pleasant manners.

I remember well how that memorable day began. It was Friday, August 22, and as I wakened from a long sleep the cheery rays of the morning sun flooded the room. How little any of us in the Hotel Coligny dreamed of what was to happen before that same sun sank to rest!

After breakfast, Des Pruneaux drew me on one side. "The Admiral proceeds to the Louvre this morning," he said. "De Guerchy and I attend him; you and Bellievre will walk a little distance behind us. Be more vigilant even than usual, for there are strange rumours abroad."

Each trifling incident comes back to me now as vividly as if it happened yesterday. We went to the Louvre, waited while our chief transacted his business, and started on the journey home. Presently we met Charles, who greeted the Admiral affectionately, and the two walked together in the direction of the tennis-court. Des Pruneaux and De Guerchy joined the king's attendants; Felix and I followed a few paces in the rear.

At the court Charles and the Duke of Guise made up a match against our patron's son-in-law, Teligny, and a gentleman whose name I did not know. The Admiral stood watching the game for some time, but between ten and eleven o'clock he bade the king adieu and once more started for home. He walked between Des Pruneaux and De Guerchy, talking cheerfully about the game, and praising the skill of the king, for Charles was certainly an accomplished player, superior in my opinion even to Guise.

"Yes," exclaimed Felix, to whom I passed some such remark, and who had not altogether thrown off his bitterness of the previous day, "if he were as good a ruler as tennis-player France might have some chance of happiness."

"Well, he is making good progress even in that!" I replied cheerfully.

I have said that the hotel was in the Rue de l'Arbre Sec, at the corner of the Rue de Bethisy, and we were passing along the Rue des Fosses de St. Germain, when a man approached the Admiral with what looked like a petition. We quickened our pace, but the citizen was an inoffensive person, and the Admiral, taking the paper, began to read, walking on slowly the while.

He turned the corner in front of us, and was hidden for an instant from our view, when we heard a loud report.

"Treachery!" cried my comrade, drawing his sword, and with a rush we sped round the corner. My heart leaped into my mouth as I realized what had happened. There was our noble chief, the truest, bravest, most chivalrous man in France, supported in De Guerchy's arms.

Des Pruneaux, who was stanching the blood with a handkerchief, pointed to the latticed windows of the Hotel de Retz on our right, and, understanding it was from there the assassin had fired, we ran across, my comrade's cries of "For the Admiral!" bringing out a number of Huguenot gentlemen who lodged in the neighbourhood.

"This way!" I cried excitedly, "the assassin is in this house!" and the next minute, having burst open the doors, we were swarming into the building. Save for a deaf old woman and a horse-boy the place was empty, and a howl of rage rose from the searchers.

Nothing could be got from the old woman, but Felix, clutching the boy by the throat, demanded sternly "Where is the assassin? Speak, or I will kill you!"

"The man who was upstairs has got away through the cloisters, monsieur. I do not know him. I was only told to bring a swift horse from my master's stables."

"Who is your master?"

"The Duke of Guise, monsieur," and at that another howl of execration went up, several men shouting "Guise is the murderer! Kill the Duke of Guise!"

"Whose house is this?" I asked.

The boy could not answer, but a voice cried out "Canon Vallemur's! He used to be the Duke's tutor! Guise is the assassin!"

"Yes, yes! Let us kill Guise!"

"Here is the weapon," cried one of the searchers, bringing forward an arquebus which he had found in the window; "it has Monseigneur's arms stamped on it; it must belong to one of his body-guard. Guise and Anjou are the murderers!"

"Come," exclaimed Felix, "we can do nothing here; the fellow is out of the city by now!"

An excited crowd had gathered in front of the Hotel Coligny, but, pushing the people roughly aside, we made our way into the courtyard.

"Is he dead?" asked Felix of one of our comrades.

"No; one bullet carried off the first finger of his right hand; the other wounded him seriously in the left arm. Pare"—the king's own surgeon—"is attending him. They say Charles is furious, but I do not know; all his family are accomplished actors. Were you there? Did you see it done? Tell us all about it," and they gathered round as Felix described the incident and the search in the empty house.

"Guise is the real murderer!" exclaimed one angrily.

"Or Anjou!"

"Or both!"

"If Charles doesn't punish them, we won't rest till we have made an end of him and his whole stock!"

"'Tis likely he is as guilty as the rest!"

"And Coligny trusts him implicitly!"

"The Admiral is too trustful and kind-hearted! Did you hear what he said to Des Pruneaux? 'I forgive freely and with all my heart both him that struck me and those who incited him to do it.' If I catch the fellow, I will tear him limb from limb!"

"Let us capture Guise and Anjou," cried Felix, "and if the Admiral dies hang them both."

"Bravo, Bellievre! There's sense in that! To arms, my friends! We will have vengeance!" and a number of the most hot-headed were rushing out wildly when a cry arose of "Navarre! Navarre!" and, going to the street, we saw Henry of Navarre accompanied by five or six hundred Huguenot gentlemen.

The gallant prince was angry and excited. "What means this foul outrage?" he cried, leaping from his horse. "Have they slain our noble leader?"

"No, no, sire; he has been shot at and wounded, but he is not dead. Way there for Navarre! We want justice, sire!"

"By my faith, gentlemen," exclaimed the fiery Henry, as he mounted the stairs, "you shall have it, or Navarre shall lose its monarch."

Save for the sick-room, where our illustrious chief lay, the whole house was crowded with excited men. From time to time messengers arrived bringing reports from the city, and from their accounts it really looked as if Charles was bent on discovering and punishing the murderer. The civic guards were mustered; the sentries at the gates doubled; and no one was permitted to go armed into the streets.

"A blind!" cried some hotly. "There is no need to hunt for the murderer; Charles can find him at his own table!"

"Why do we stay here?" cried Felix; "let us march to the palace and demand justice!"

"Let us first consult Navarre," said another; "he must be our leader now," and the majority agreed with this suggestion.

About two oclock a man came running into the courtyard crying "The king! The king!" and shortly afterwards Charles appeared, followed by his mother and Anjou. And here I must say that few of us, after looking at his gloomy face, believed that he had any share in the dastardly plot against our beloved chief. We let him pass in silence, but when Anjou came, there were many muttered threats of vengeance, and more than one loud cry of "Assassin!"

"Monseigneur comes to gloat over his victim!" exclaimed one man, and so intense was our anger that but for the king's presence I doubt if Monseigneur would have left the house alive.

When the royal party had ended their visit, Henry, Conde, and other leading members of our party held a meeting in one of the lower rooms. Felix and I remained on duty in the ante-chamber where De Guerchy came to fetch us.

"The King of Navarre wishes to learn the truth about the discoveries in Vallemur's house," he said.

The room was very crowded, and the nobles were discussing the situation with fierce excitement.

"'Tis no time for playing like children," De Pilles was saying, "I tell you we are all doomed; this is but the first stroke. Let us strike back, and strike hard."

"I would suggest," said his neighbour, "that we get Coligny safe to Rochelle, and then gather all our forces."

"We cannot move the Admiral; Pare will not answer for his life if he is moved."

"My lords," said Teligny, "I do not think it is necessary. I am convinced that the king has no hand in this vile outrage, and that if we trust him he will bring the murderer to justice."

"What!" sneered De Pilles, "execute his own brother! Or even the Duke of Guise! You have more faith in Charles than I have!"

"Where are those gentlemen who helped to search the house?" asked Henry. "Let them stand forward. Ah, my friend," catching sight of me, "I have not forgotten your face. Now let us hear the story, and why the Duke of Guise is suspected in the matter."

Thereupon I related all that had occurred, and at the conclusion Henry observed gravely, "Truly there is something here for the Duke to explain!"

"Explain, sire!" cried De Pilles scornfully, "how can he explain? Who here doubts the Duke's guilt? Let us kill him and Anjou, I say, or they will kill us. Put no trust in Charles. They will drag him into the plot."

"What would you have us do?" asked Henry; "overthrow the throne?"

"Ay," answered De Pilles stoutly, "I would clear the kingdom of the whole family."

I cannot say what further arguments were used, as De Guerchy made a sign for us to withdraw; but presently the meeting broke up, and the cavaliers, mounting their horses, rode away, singing psalms, and vowing to obtain justice.

"De Pilles was right!" exclaimed Felix, as we returned to the ante-chamber; "this means war to the knife, and the sooner our leaders give the word the better. I am thankful that your sister has left Paris."

"We owe that to L'Estang I wonder if he had any actual information of what was about to happen? I have a mind to endeavour to find him this evening; he will probably be at the Louvre."

"We will go together," said Felix, and accordingly about seven o'clock, there being nothing for us to do, we set out.

The city was in a state of intense excitement, the streets were thronged, and groups of men were discussing the attempt on the Admiral's life, and praising those who had directed the plot.

"The king is too weak," they said, "this Coligny twines him round his finger. He should listen to Monseigneur and the Duke of Guise; they would make an end of these Huguenots."

Several times I had to grasp Felix by the arms, and whisper to him to control himself, since a brawl in the streets could end only in his death and mine. A knowledge of fence is of little service against a mob of ruffians armed with clubs and pikes.

Approaching the Marais we heard a tremendous hubbub, and running forward quickly beheld a number of Huguenot gentlemen gathered outside the Hotel de Guise, waving their swords defiantly and threatening to have justice done upon the Duke. De Pilles was at their head, and I expected every moment to see him give the signal for an attack on the building. Had he done so, he would have been instantly obeyed, and perhaps we should not have had cause to mourn the horrors of the impending tragedy.

Instead of doing so, however, he suddenly exclaimed, "To the palace! We will demand justice from the king; he cannot deny us!" and the Huguenots, suspicious, alarmed and rapidly losing their heads, took up the cry.

"To the palace!" they shouted; "let us see if Charles will give us justice!"

Felix, as passionate and headstrong as any of them, exclaimed, "Come along, Edmond; we shall count two more. Let us discover if there is any honour in the man."

Not believing it could effect any good, I had no wish to be drawn into the flighty venture, but as my comrade was resolute in courting danger I was forced to accompany him.

The king was at supper when, flourishing our swords and demanding justice, we burst into the palace. Charles behaved coolly enough, but Anjou, who sat next to him, changed colour and trembled, while beads of sweat stood upon his forehead.

"We demand justice, sire!" cried De Pilles, who cared no more for a monarch than for a peasant. "If the king refuses it we will take the matter into our own hands," and he looked at Anjou, who averted his head.

"You will obtain justice, gentlemen," answered Charles. "My word is pledged, and I will not break it. I have assured my friend, the noble Coligny, that the villain who shot him shall be sought out and punished. I will not spare the guilty parties whoever they are!"

At that we gave him a round of cheers, and marched out, De Pilles and his followers returning straight to the city. L'Estang was not present, but seeing one of Anjou's guards I asked if he could find my friend for me, which he did.

"The palace is not a safe place for you to-night," said L'Estang as he came to meet me.

"As safe as any part of the city," I answered. "It seems I did well in taking your advice and sending my sister away. You have heard of this morning's dastardly crime?"

"All Paris has heard of it," said he; "but pardon me if I say that to-night's folly will not make the king's task any the easier."

"Surely you do not expect us to see our leader murdered without protest!" exclaimed Felix.

"Not at all; but there is such a thing as being over hasty. It would have paid better to show, or to appear to show, some trust in the king."

"Pshaw!" cried my comrade, "for all we know Charles himself is responsible for the deed!"

"At all events," I said, "the plot must have been known beforehand in the palace!"

"If you think that, because I warned you to remove your sister from Paris, you are mistaken. Your surprise this morning was not greater than my own. I believe that scarcely any one inside the palace knew of what was going on."

"But you yourself expected trouble of some kind!"

"True; and now I am sure of it. How can it be avoided? Each side is suspicious of the other: you are angry, and justly angry, at the assault on your chief, and you threaten vengeance even on the king. I believe he wishes to be your friend, and you are driving him into the arms of your enemies. Do you fancy he will care to trust himself in your hands after to-night's mad freak? But the hour grows late, and the streets are not safe; I will walk a short distance with you."

"The citizens are still abroad!" I remarked after a time. "Listen! they are cheering for Guise!"

"And there lies the trouble," he said. "But, monsieur, I have a private word for you. Etienne Cordel is in Paris; he can read the signs as well as most men, and if there is a disturbance he will take advantage of it. You are doubly in danger—first as a Huguenot and a friend of Coligny's; next as the owner of Le Blanc. You will have to steer skilfully to avoid both dangers!"

"You speak as if a plot to murder the Huguenots were already afoot."

"I am aware of no plot at present," he said, "but after to-day's unlucky events one can be sure of nothing. Here is the corner of your street; I will bid you good-night, and once more I repeat my warning. Guard yourself, and sleep with your sword at your hand."



CHAPTER XXVI

What will the King do?

The morning of August 23 broke bright and clear, but I rose from my bed with a troubled and unquiet feeling. I had passed a restless night, dreaming that all Paris was ablaze, and that the streets of the city were running with blood, and I could not get rid of the thought that some terrible calamity was about to happen.

Directly it was light the house began to fill with Huguenot gentlemen, asking eagerly how it fared with their beloved chief. He was still extremely weak, but Pare spoke hopefully, declaring there was no cause for alarm, and that his illustrious patient required only rest and quietness.

"In a few days he will be able to leave Paris," said the famous surgeon, "and his recovery is certain. I have not the slightest anxiety about him."

This was cheering news, but as the day wore on strange and alarming rumours began to reach us from the city. Our spies reported that the streets were thronged with excited people, cheering for Guise and threatening the Huguenots with death.

"There is some one behind all this," said Felix, "some one working in secret to stir up the passions of the citizens. Unless the king interferes there will be a terrible outbreak shortly."

About noon—we had not long risen from dinner—a man arrived bearing news that, to our heated imaginations, was startling indeed. A great meeting was taking place at the Hotel de Guise, where our bitterest enemies had assembled. The spy brought a list of the names, and as he recounted them one by one our feeling of uneasiness deepened.

"'Tis a plot against us," said one, "with Guise at the head, and Anjou secretly favouring it."

"Are we to wait to be killed like sheep?" demanded Felix. "Have we not swords of our own? Shall we keep them in their scabbards? Out upon us for timid hares! We deserve to die, if we have not the courage to strike a blow in our own defence!"

"What can we do?" asked Carnaton, who had just come from the sick-room. "The Admiral is helpless, and Henry of Navarre is being closely watched. We have no leaders, and it would be folly for us to break the peace."

"Let us wait," laughed Felix mockingly, "till this dog of a Guise has murdered us all! Then, perhaps, it will be time to strike."

"The king has pledged his word to protect us," said La Bonne; "let us ask him to send a guard for our chief."

"A guard for Coligny!" cried Felix in a bitter tone; "a guard for Coligny, and a thousand Huguenot gentlemen in Paris! Let us summon our comrades and guard our chief with our own lives!"

We spoke angrily, and many sharp words passed between us, the more fiery of the speakers upholding Felix, the cooler and wiser ones supporting La Bonne, and finally it was agreed to despatch a messenger to the king.

"When the troops arrive," said Felix, "we will give them our weapons to take care of for us!"

I did not hold altogether with my hot-headed comrade, but when in the course of an hour or two the king's soldiers marched into the street I began to think we had committed a serious blunder. There were fifty of them, and at their head marched Cosseins, the Admiral's determined enemy.

"Faith!" exclaimed Felix, as the soldiers posted themselves in two houses close at hand, "I have heard that Charles loves a practical joke, but this must be one of the grimmest that even he has played!"

"He could have bettered it," said Yolet, our beloved chief's trusty esquire, "only by sending Guise himself!"

Presently a man, threading his way through the crowd in front of the courtyard, ran up to Carnaton, and whispered something in his ear.

"More bad news?" said I, noticing his look of surprise.

"I fear it is not good at any rate," he replied slowly. "Charles has sent for Guise to the Louvre."

"Guise at the Louvre!" cried Felix, "and we stay here with our arms folded! Now this is downright madness!"

"It may be," suggested La Bonne mildly, "that the king wishes to give him orders not to break the peace."

"It seems to me," said Felix, "that we might employ our time better than in inventing excuses for our enemies. This visit to the Louvre means that Charles has gone over to the side of Anjou and Guise."

"It may be so," agreed Carnaton, "but we have no proof."

"Proof!" cried my comrade with a mocking laugh, "it will be sufficient proof when one of Anjou's troopers runs a sword through your heart!"

Carnaton was about to reply when he was summoned to attend the Admiral, and we settled down to wait doggedly for the next piece of information. It was not long in coming. A messenger despatched by La Bonne returned a few minutes before three o'clock. His face was pale, and he had a frightened look which was far from reassuring.

"Well?" exclaimed La Bonne, "what news?" "Ill news, monsieur," replied the man. "Guise has left the Louvre and is in the city. The streets are crowded and the citizens are wild with excitement. He is stirring them up against us, and they are cheering him, and crying that the Huguenots ought not to live."

We gazed at each other blankly; this certainly did not appear as if Charles had given him any peaceful commands. Nor was our alarm lessened when an hour later another spy reported that Anjou and Angouleme were following Guise's example, and doing their best to rouse the passions of the people.

"They are telling the citizens," our messenger said, "that a plot to take the king's life, and to slay Monseigneur has been discovered, and the citizens are crying for vengeance on the Huguenots."

"Guise and Anjou will see to it that they get their vengeance," I remarked, for it was no longer possible to doubt that our enemies had determined on our destruction. We had put our trust in Charles; if he deserted us it was all over.

"At least," said La Bonne, "if we have to die, we will die like men."

"With our swords in our hands, and not in their scabbards!" exclaimed Felix, and a fierce growl of approval greeted his words.

As the day wore to a close it became more and more plain that, as my comrade had declared, we were like hunted animals caught in a trap. We might sell our lives dearly, but we could not hope to fight successfully against the royal troops and a city in arms.

Only one chance of escape presented itself. By banding together and making a determined rush we might force a passage through the streets, and seek safety in flight; but to do this we must abandon our illustrious chief, whose weakness prevented him from being moved. I hope it is needless to add that every Huguenot gentleman in Paris would have lost his life fifty times over rather than have agreed to such a base proceeding.

About seven o'clock in the evening many of Navarre's gentlemen left the house, and some of us accompanied them to the end of the street. La Bonne having received favourable news from the palace, our alarm, in consequence, had begun to subside, though we still remained a trifle anxious.

We were returning in a body to the hotel, Felix and I being the last of the company, when a man slipped a paper into my hand and instantly disappeared.

"Another warning from your strange friend, I suppose," said Felix.

I opened the paper and read hurriedly: "Bring Monsieur Bellievre with you shortly after midnight, and meet me at the little gate of the Louvre where I saw you before. Wrap yourselves up closely, and attract as little attention as possible. Do not fail to come, as I have important news.—D'ANGELY."

"Are you sure this is not a second invitation from the lawyer?" my comrade asked.

"It appears to be L'Estang's handwriting."

"So did the other note."

"True, but Etienne Cordel would not bait a trap for you. He bears you no grudge, and besides you would only be in his way!"

"Yes," said my comrade, "there is something in that. Will you go?"

"Why not? We may learn something that will be useful to our chief. L'Estang wishes me well, and in order to save my life he may be tempted to disclose what he knows of Guise's conspiracy; for I feel sure there is one."

"If it will serve the Admiral," said Felix hesitatingly.

"It may. I cannot tell, but it is worth running a little risk to discover."

"He has chosen an odd time and an odd place."

"He cannot meet us in broad day, and a thousand causes may prevent him from coming to this quarter. You must remember he is Anjou's servant, and he will not wish to draw suspicion upon himself."

"Very well," said my comrade, "we will go. Carnaton and La Bonne are on duty to-night."

As the evening closed in the streets began to empty; our comrades went off to their lodgings, and by nine o'clock there were few of us left in the hotel. Teligny and De Guerchy were in the sick-room, and with them Pare, the surgeon, and the Admiral's chaplain, Pastor Merlin; Carnaton and La Bonne dozed in the ante-chamber, while Yolet was posting the five Switzers who formed part of Navarre's bodyguard.

"It seems as if we shall have a quiet night, Yolet," I remarked.

"The danger has blown over," he answered. "Charles was frightened into believing we intended to murder him, but the King of Navarre has opened his eyes. The real plotters will have an unwelcome surprise in a day or two. I heard De Guerchy telling the Admiral."

"Oh," said I, quite relieved by this information, "if the king keeps firm, we have nothing to fear."

"Trusting to the king," remarked my comrade, who always spoke of Charles as a puppet in the hands of his mother and brother, "is trusting to a broken reed. For my part I hope the instant our chief is strong enough to travel he will hasten to Rochelle. I have more faith in a keen blade than in a king's promise," and from Yolet's face one would have judged he was of the same opinion.

About a quarter before midnight he came with us to open the front gate, and to fasten it after our departure. We had told him something of our errand, and he advised us to go to work very warily, saying, "Do not forget that a dog isn't dead because he has ceased barking!"

We slipped into the street and he fastened the gate quietly. It was fairly dark now, and being closely muffled in our mantles there was little chance of our being recognized. Cossein's soldiers were apparently asleep; no lights gleamed anywhere; the Rue des Fosses de St. Germain was empty.

On approaching nearer the Louvre, however, we observed a body of citizens, armed, and marching with some sort of military discipline. We had barely time to conceal ourselves in a doorway before they came by, so close to us that we could almost count their numbers.

"What does that mean?" asked my comrade when at last we ventured out again. "Where are those fellows going? Edmond, I don't like the look of that; it is suspicious."

"On the contrary, it has helped to remove my suspicion," I answered. "They are under the provost's orders, and he would not dare to muster them except by the king's instructions."

"From which you think——?"

"That Charles is taking measures in our favour on his own account."

"I hope you will prove a true prophet, though I do not feel very sanguine."

The delay caused us to be a trifle late in keeping our appointment, and when we reached the place of meeting no one was to be seen. For half an hour we walked softly to and fro, keeping in the shadow of the wall, watching keenly, and listening for the sound of a footstep.

It was strange that L'Estang should not be there, and I had a vague, uneasy feeling that it was impossible to banish. Felix, too, became fidgety, and at last said in a whisper, "Edmond, let us return; there is something wrong, I am sure of it!"

"Nonsense," I replied, more to keep up my own spirits than for any other reason; "a hundred things may have kept the man from coming. Besides, what is there to fear?"

"I don't know," he admitted, "but I am certain there is mischief afoot. It may be the darkness and the silence. Listen!" and he caught me by the arm, "do you hear that? Horses, Edmond, and horsemen! Where are they?"

Listening intently I recognized the sounds. Soldiers were gathering inside the grounds. Where could they be going at this time? Once more I slipped back to the little gate, calling softly "D'Angely!" but there was no response. The adventurer for once had failed me. I returned to my comrade, who was now trembling with excitement.

"There is some terrible business on hand!" said he. "What can it mean?"

"Let us wait here; we may discover the secret."

"Yes," he answered bitterly, "when it is too late! We have all been blind fools, Edmond, from Navarre downwards. Ah, they are coming out—horse and foot."

It was too dark for us to distinguish them closely, but we could make out a group of officers riding a little ahead, a number of troopers, and two or three score foot-soldiers. They proceeded at a walking pace, making scarcely any sound.

"Let us follow," whispered Felix, and he was in such a restless state that, although unwilling to leave without having met L'Estang, I offered no objection.

Silently, and keeping well in the shadow of the houses, we stole after them, creeping like unquiet spirits through the streets of the sleeping city. At first we imagined they were going to the Hotel de Guise, and it was only on entering the Rue des Fosses de St. Germain that the dreadful truth flashed across our minds.

"They are going to murder the Admiral!" whispered my comrade with a groan. "Edmond, can we do nothing? Is there no way of warning La Bonne?"

"I fear not, we cannot get past the troops."

Even had that been possible it would have proved of but little service. The leaders quickened their pace; the whole body swept round the corner; they were in front of the building; only by the roof could any one escape; and the Admiral, alas! could not walk even across his chamber.

The blood ran cold in my veins; it seemed as if my heart had ceased to beat. Death was calling for my beloved chief, and I was powerless to keep the grisly visitor at bay. I felt Felix fumbling at his sword, and, gripping him firmly by the wrist, whispered, "Keep still! What can you do?"

"Die with him!" he answered fiercely.

"Nonsense!" I said coldly, for I had no wish to see him butchered uselessly before my eyes, "you cannot do even that! You will be slain before you have moved three yards. And I will not let you throw your life away. Live, my friend, live to avenge him!"

"Ah," he whispered, "that is well said, Edmond. Take your hand off me. I am calm enough now. Ah, they are knocking at the gate. Listen! 'In the king's name!' That is Guise's voice. Will they open, think you, Edmond?"

I had dragged him into a doorway, so that the troopers might not see us, but by this time there was little danger of detection; the noise had aroused the neighbourhood, and many citizens were already in the street.

"Yes," I said, "they will think it is a messenger from Charles. See!" for the dawn was breaking now, "there is Guise!"

"And Angouleme! And Cosseins! He has come to defend the Admiral! Let us go nearer, Edmond; they will not bother about us!"

Leaving the shelter of the doorway we mingled with the crowd, pressing close upon the heels of the troops. For several minutes we waited in breathless suspense; then the gate was opened; there was a wild rush; a cry of warning, stifled suddenly, rang out, and the troopers surged into the courtyard.

"That was La Bonne's voice," I said with a shudder, "he has learned the value of a king's promise."

Drawing our mantles up to our faces, we ran with the rest to the courtyard. Already the house was filled with soldiers, and several shrieks of agony told us that they were killing even the poor servants. We heard sterner shouts also, and hoped in our hearts that Carnaton, Yolet, and the few Switzers were making Guise's butchers pay dearly for their cruel treachery.

Guise and Angouleme had not entered the house; they were standing in the courtyard, beneath the window of the Admiral's room, awaiting the completion of the brutal work. We heard the crashing of timber, the cries of the Switzers, and then the tramp of feet up the stairway.

Suddenly the sound ceased, and Felix, turning to me, whispered, "They have broken into his room!"

An awful silence fell upon us in the courtyard as we stood there waiting for the end of the ghastly tragedy.



CHAPTER XXVII

The Day of the Massacre

I always think of this incident in my life with a certain amount of shame; yet even now I cannot see in what I failed. My comrade and I would have spent our lives freely in the Admiral's defence, but what could we do? To fight our way through that mob of soldiers was impossible; we could not have taken two steps without being killed.

And yet—and yet—perhaps it would have been the nobler part to have died with our chief! I remember the look on Roger Braund's face when he heard the story—an expression that plainly asked, "How comes it then that you are still alive?"

If we did indeed act the coward's part the blame must rest on my shoulders; but for me Felix would have flung himself at the troopers and died with the old battle-cry "For the Admiral!" on his lips. It was I who, regarding such sacrifice as sheer folly, kept him back, though my blood boiled and my heart ached at what was going forward.

Presently a man wearing a corslet and waving a sword dyed red with blood appeared at the window of the sick-room. "It is done, my lord!" cried he lustily, "it is all over."

"Where is the body?" asked Guise brutally. "Monseigneur d'Angouleme will not believe unless he sees the body."

I was beside myself with grief and passion; yet even at that awful moment I gripped Felix tightly, bidding him control himself. "We must live, and not die!" I whispered.

Behm, and Cosseins, and a trooper in the dark green and white uniform of Anjou's guard approached the window, half dragging, half carrying a lifeless body. Raising it up, they flung it, as if it were the carcase of a sheep, into the courtyard, Behm exclaiming, "There is your enemy; he can do little harm now!"

"Yes, it is he," said Guise, spurning the dead hero with his foot, "I know him well. We have made a good beginning, my men; let us finish the business. Forward, in the king's name!"

Our cry of agony was drowned by the shouting of the troopers, and the next moment we were swept with the rest of the crowd from the courtyard into the narrow street. Suddenly, as if it were a signal, the great bell of St. Germain l'Auxerrois began to toll; other bells in the neighbourhood clanged and clashed, and mingling with their sounds were the fierce cries of "Kill the Huguenots! Kill! Kill!"

Felix turned to me with a look of horror. "It is a planned massacre!" he exclaimed, "our comrades will be murdered in their beds!"

We were borne along helplessly in the midst of the crowd. In all the world, I think, no one could have ever beheld a more fearful spectacle. The men and women were mad with passion; their faces were as the faces of fiends; already some of their weapons were wet with blood. Each had a white band bound round the arm, and most of them wore a white cross in their caps.

Guise and Angouleme rode off with their troopers to carry on the terrible work elsewhere, and they bade the citizens slay and spare not. Crash went the doors of the houses where the Huguenots lived; shrieks of despair and cries of "Kill! Kill!" rose on the air; the glare of numerous torches lit up the hideous scene.

"Drag them out!"

"Death to the Huguenots!"

"Burn the houses!"

"Long live the Duke of Guise!"

"Throw them from the windows!"

"Kill the whole brood!"

Very soon the street was dotted with dead bodies. The unhappy people, roused from sleep by the yells of the mob, could offer but little resistance; they were slain in their beds, or escaped from the murderers only to be killed in the streets.

But every one did not die tamely. At one spot we saw about a dozen of our comrades, some only half dressed, standing shoulder to shoulder, with their backs to the wall and holding the mob at bay. At this sight Felix, wrapping his mantle round his left arm and drawing his sword, ran toward them, crying defiantly, "Coligny! Coligny! For the Admiral!"

It was a daring venture, and yet no more, dangerous than remaining in the crowd, where we must shortly have been discovered.

"Coligny! Coligny!" shouted the fighters by the wall, and the very sound of the name inspired them with fresh courage. One of the ruffians pushed at Felix with his pike, but he, with a vigorous stroke, clave him from the shoulder, and our comrades cheered again as the rascal fell.

"This way, Bellievre," they cried; "this way, Le Blanc! Where is the Admiral?"

"Murdered!" answered Felix bitterly, "and thrown like a dog into the courtyard of his own house."

His words sent a thrill of horror through the little band. Coligny murdered! Their noble chief done to death by a pack of human wolves! Their eyes flashed fire; they set their teeth hard, and one, a strong, sturdy fellow from Chatillon, crying "Vengeance for Coligny!" sprang at the howling mob. Three times his blade gleamed in the air, and each time it descended a man fell.

"Three for Coligny!" he cried grimly, springing back to his place.

It was a fearful conflict, chiefly because we had no hope. We could fight to the death, but there was no escape. The men with the pikes rushed at us repeatedly; we beat them off, and the heap of their slain grew steadily larger, but we had lost two of our number, and were worn with fatigue. And presently from the rear of the mob there arose a shout of "Anjou! Anjou!" as if Monseigneur himself or some of his troopers had arrived to complete our destruction.

"Let us defend the house!" exclaimed Felix, "we can kill more from the inside!" and the rest agreed.

The door of the house to which my comrade pointed had been smashed; the building itself contained no one but the dead. We worked our way along, keeping the mob at bay with our swords, until we were all in shelter; then they came with a terrific rush, but the foremost were wounded or slain, and their bodies blocked the entrance.

"Drag the furniture into the passage!" cried Felix; but we had not the time. Roused to desperation by their losses, the mob surged through the doorway, trampling upon their fallen comrades, screaming "Kill the Huguenots!" flinging themselves upon us with a fury we could not withstand.

Back we went to the foot of the stairs, where not more than two men could stand abreast; the passage was packed with a swaying, struggling mass that forced a way by its own weight. "Kill! Kill!" they screamed, and we answered with defiant shouts of "Coligny! Coligny! For the Admiral."

They gained the lowest stair, and then another; it was evident we could not hold out much longer, but the knowledge had no effect on our courage. As Felix said, we could die but once. On the landing at the top of the stairs were two rooms, but our numbers were not strong enough to garrison them both. There were only seven of us left, and not one unwounded.

"The end is close now," cried my comrade, "but we will die hard for the honour of the Admiral."

"Well said, Bellievre!" and once more the familiar battle-cry "Coligny! Coligny! For the Admiral!" rang out.



"Good-bye, Edmond. I am glad Jeanne is safe." "Farewell, Felix. Ah!" Our two comrades nearest the door were down, and the angry mob, lusting for blood, burst into the room. We numbered five now, and a minute later four.

"For the Admiral!" cried Felix, running a man through the chest, but before he could withdraw his sword a violent blow from a club struck him to the ground.

We were three now, all faint, weary, and wounded. We were entirely at the mercy of our assailants. They leaped at us, brandishing their weapons, and yelling exultingly.

"Coligny! Coligny" I shouted in defiance. Crash! I was down, and almost immediately afterwards the noise and the shouting died away. I was dimly conscious of some one bending over me, and then knew no more.

I opened my eyes in a small room almost bare of furniture. I was lying dressed, on a bed; my head was bandaged; every muscle of my body ached with pain. Forgetting what had happened, I called for Jacques, and then for Felix, but by degrees the sickening events of the awful tragedy came back to my memory.

Getting down from the bed, I crossed the room slowly and cautiously, and tried the door; it was fastened from the outside. I went back to the little window for the purpose of looking into the street. It was crowded with people wearing white crosses in their hats and white bands round their arms.

Then, for the first time, I noticed that some one had tied a white band round my arm. I tore the accursed emblem off, and trampled it underfoot, in a fit of childish rage.

The citizens were dancing, shouting, and yelling like maniacs. They were armed with clubs and pikes and swords, and one could see the clots of blood clinging to the deadly weapons. I stood at the window horrified, yet fascinated by the dreadful sight. A soldier, evidently an officer of high rank, rode past cheering and waving a blood-stained sword. I caught sight of his face, and recognized Marshal Tavannes.

Directly afterwards, a man chased by human bloodhounds from the shelter of a neighbouring house darted into the midst of the crowd. He twisted and doubled, running now this way, now that, like a hunted hare. The assassins struck at him fiercely as he ran, holding his hands above his head to protect himself.

A blow from a club struck one arm, and it dropped to his side, broken. He turned sharply; a ruffian pricked him with his knife; he staggered forward, lurched, swayed to and fro, and finally fell. I closed my eyes in order not to see the end of the ghastly tragedy.

Presently a cart rumbled slowly along. Men and women danced round about it, shouting and jeering, and brandishing their pikes and clubs. The clumsy vehicle was packed with human beings, bound hand and foot, and tied, as far as I could see, two together. They lay in a confused heap, some of them wounded and bleeding.

I wondered in a dull sort of way where they were being taken. I learned later that they were flung one and two at a time into the Seine, while their savage enemies watched them drown.

Sick at heart, and stricken with horror, I lay down again upon the bed. My misery was so intense that I cared nothing about my own fate. Coligny was dead; I had seen Felix killed before my eyes; most of the gallant gentlemen who had been my true and loyal comrades were slain—what mattered it whether I lived or died? Strangely enough, perhaps, I did not even ask myself how I had escaped the awful butchery.

Shortly after noon, the door was opened, and some one entered the room. I expected to see a ruffian with a blood-red pike; my visitor was a pale but pretty woman, carrying a bowl of soup.

"Drink this, monsieur," she said, "it will give you strength. Renaud will return in the evening."

"Renaud!" I exclaimed, "do you mean Renaud L'Estang? Do I owe my life to him?"

"He is a brave man," she answered, "he saved your life at the risk of his own; but I must go again. Do not make any sound, monsieur. If the citizens were aware of your being here they would murder us."

She went out and fastened the door, leaving me to drink the soup at my leisure. So, it was Renaud L'Estang who had saved me. Truly that little action of mine in Rochelle had borne good fruit.

Several times during the afternoon I returned to the window overlooking the narrow street, but toward evening I lay down and slept, and when a noise at the door wakened me the room was nearly dark.

"Monsieur," a voice exclaimed, "are you awake? Do not be alarmed; it is I—L'Estang."

Hearing me move, he closed the door softly, and came across to the bed. "You are better," he said, "I am glad of that, as you must leave Paris. I have saved your life thus far, but it will be impossible to do so much longer. Cordel has discovered that you are alive, and his fellows are searching for your hiding-place. You must go to Rochelle at once; that is your only place of safety."

"It is easy to say 'Go to Rochelle,'" I answered a trifle bitterly, "but how is it to be done? The streets are filled with my enemies who will kill me without mercy, and the gates, no doubt, are strictly watched."

"Yes," he replied slowly, "the sentries have been doubled, still it is not impossible to get through, while to stay here means death. For the sake of your sister you should endeavour to live."

"What do you propose?" I asked.

"I have a pass from Monseigneur in my pocket. The officer on duty is commanded to let myself and Louis Bourdonais leave the city without question or delay. For the time being you are Louis Bourdonais. As soon as the night becomes darker I will bring a carriage to the house, you will enter, and we will drive to the gate of St. Jacques. Unless you are recognized there is no danger."

"And if I am?"

"Then," said he, "I fear you will share the fate of your friends."

"And you?"

He shrugged his shoulders carelessly, saying, "Have no fear for me; I can easily make my peace with Monseigneur."

There seemed to me something cowardly in this running away from danger, but L'Estang mocked at my scruples.

"What can you do?" he asked. "At present there is no Huguenot party. The Admiral, Teligny, La Rochefoucalt, De Guerchy, all are dead; Henry of Navarre and Conde are both prisoners, and may be put to death at any moment; your particular friend, Bellievre, is slain—I would have saved him for your sake, but was too late. Now, if you stay in Paris, one of two things will happen. You will be discovered here, when every person in the house will be murdered; or you will venture into the street and be clubbed to death in less than five minutes."

"I do not wish to drag you into danger."

"There is no danger to me," he answered rather brusquely, "unless you are obstinate."

"Then I will go with you."

"Very good," he replied, as coolly as if we were about to embark on an enterprise of the most ordinary kind. "I will make my preparations and return in a short time."

He went out softly, and I sat on the side of the bed thinking sadly over the information he had brought. There was no Huguenot party; there were neither leaders nor followers. The assassins had not only lopped the branches but had uprooted the tree. Even Conde and Henry of Navarre were not safe from the royal vengeance! The horror pressed upon me heavily; even now I could scarcely realize the full extent of the fearful business.

I still sat brooding when L'Estang came again, this time bringing a light. He noticed the white band on the ground, and, stooping, picked it up. "It may be disagreeable," he said, "but it is necessary; it has saved your life once. Remember you are Louis Bourdonais, and he would not refuse to wear it."

"'Tis horrible!" I cried, turning from the badge with loathing.

"That may be, but it is a safeguard you cannot afford to despise. Lean on me; you are weaker than I thought."

He supported me across the room, down the stairway, and so to the door of the house, in front of which a carriage was drawn up. The coachman wore Anjou's livery—a device of L'Estang's, since the equipage did not belong to Monseigneur—and the crowd stood around cheering wildly.

L'Estang, fearful lest any of the lawyer's spies should be there, helped me into the carriage quickly, jumped in himself, and told the driver to whip up his horses. The worst of the massacre was over, but the citizens having tasted blood thirsted for more, and, though the hour was so late, they were roaming about in bands shouting for vengeance on the Huguenots.

Our carriage being compelled to proceed slowly, I had ample opportunity to note the traces of the awful tragedy. Every house where a Huguenot had lived was wrecked; in many instances the window-sills were smeared with blood, and dead bodies still lay thick in the streets. I shut my eyes tightly, while my whole body was convulsed by a shudder of horror.

"Monsieur, we are at the gate. Turn your head to the left, so that the officer may not see your face easily. If he asks questions, remember you are Louis Bourdonais of Monseigneur's household."

"Halt! Who goes there?"

My companion looked out. "We are on Monseigneur's private business," he exclaimed. "Here is his pass. Be quick, if you please, we are in a hurry."

The officer took the paper and examined it closely, "Where is Louis Bourdonais?" he asked.

"Here!" I said, bracing myself with an effort.

"I wish Monseigneur knew his own mind!" he grumbled, "my orders were to let no one through!"

"Shall we go back and ask him to write down his reasons for the change?" asked L'Estang; but the officer was already giving instructions for the opening of the gate, and in a few minutes we were outside the walls.



CHAPTER XXVIII

Farewell France!

"The danger is over!" exclaimed my companion as we left the city behind us; "lean back on the cushions and try to sleep."

"There are several questions I wish to ask first."

"I will answer them in the morning, when you have rested, but not now," he said firmly.

He had brought a number of cushions and rugs, and he tended me as carefully as if I had been a delicate woman. And yet he was in the pay of the brutal Anjou, and perhaps his own hands were not innocent of the blood of my slain comrades!

It might have been that he guessed something of the thoughts passing through my mind, for he exclaimed suddenly, "There is one thing I would say, monsieur. This massacre is none of my seeking, and through it all my sword has never left the scabbard except in your defence. The mercy once shown to me I have shown again."

"You are a good fellow, L'Estang," I murmured, "and I thank you."

After that I fell asleep and in spite of the jolting of the carriage did not waken until the sun was high in the heavens.

"You have wakened in time for breakfast," said my companion, who appeared not to have slept at all; "in a few minutes we shall arrive at an inn where I intend to halt. I am known there, and we shall be well treated."

We stayed a couple of hours, during which time fresh horses were procured and harnessed to the carriage, while the coachman removed Monseigneur's favours from his hat, and covered his livery with a blue overall.

"Now," I said, when the journey was resumed, tell me why you asked us to meet you at the Louvre, and then failed to keep the appointment!"

"I will answer the last part of the question first; the explanation is very simple. Monseigneur needed my attendance, and when I was able to leave him it was too late."

"You intended to give us warning of this horrible conspiracy?"

"No, I could not betray my patron, but I intended to save you and Monsieur Bellievre. I felt sure you would not leave your leader; I should have despised you if you had."

"And rightly, too."

"So," he continued, "I arranged to carry you off by force, and keep you shut up until the danger was past. Monseigneur, without intending it, disturbed my plans. Guessing you would return to Coligny's hotel I followed as quickly as possible with a few rascals who would do my bidding, and ask no questions. You were not there."

"The troopers reached the hotel before us," I explained.

"I guessed what had happened, and searched the streets. Finally I reached the house where you had taken refuge. I was too late for Monsieur Bellievre; he was dead."

"As true a heart as beat in France!" I said.

"Yes," agreed L'Estang, "he was a gallant youngster. Turning from him I saw you fall, and ran across the room. The mob recognized me as Monseigneur's attendant, or it would have gone hard with you. Even as it was—but there, do the details matter? I got you away at last to the room I had prepared; then it was necessary to return to my patron."

I endeavoured to thank him, but he would hear nothing, saying, "A promise to the dead is sacred, monsieur."

"Charles may not be a strong king," I remarked some time later, "but he plays the hypocrite vastly well. One would have thought from his visit to the Admiral that he was devoured by grief."

"He was both sorry and angry at the attempt on Coligny's life; it was not his work."

"But surely he must have given orders for the massacre!"

"Afterwards, monsieur. At first I do not believe that even Guise meant to do more than kill Coligny and a few of the most powerful leaders. But they were blinded by panic; carried away by their own fears, and they swept Charles into the same stream."

"The world will say the horrible tragedy was planned from the beginning."

"The world may be right, but I hardly think so. No one, monsieur, can be more cruel than a panic-stricken man."

"Who was it," I asked, "that made the first attempt on the Admiral's life?"

"Maurevel."

"The king's assassin!"

"The same man; but he did not receive his orders from Charles; on that point I feel certain."

"Henry of Navarre still lives," I said after a time.

"Yes; he and Conde have been spared so far."

"And their gentlemen? They were lodged with their chiefs in the Louvre; surely they have not been slain?"

"Monsieur, I will tell you the story, so that you may understand how utterly helpless you are. Every one in the palace went to bed that night, restless and excited, afraid and yet not knowing of what they were afraid. As soon as day broke, Henry descended the staircase; Conde was with him, and they were followed by their gentlemen."

"They must have numbered two hundred!"

"About that number. At the foot of the staircase Henry and Conde were arrested and disarmed. Their gentlemen were called by name, and they stepped one by one into the courtyard."

"Yes," I said, as he hesitated.

"The courtyard was filled with Swiss guards. Your colleagues died bravely, monsieur, some of them defiantly, taunting the king with their last breath."

"The king!" I cried in astonishment, "where was the king?"

"Looking from an upper window."

"Yet you endeavoured to make me believe he was not responsible for the massacre!"

"I still believe that to be true; but when it began, he became blood mad."

"De Pilles was at the Louvre!"

"De Pilles is dead! Except Navarre, who cannot help even himself, you have not a single friend left. You cannot return to Le Blanc, and wherever you go you will be hunted down by Cordel's assassins. He can strike at you now without fear, and he will do so. He has the promise of your estates, and a strong hope of a patent of nobility. You cannot leave Rochelle, and even there you will not be safe."

"Your comfort is but cold," I said, forcing myself to laugh.

"I want you to see the truth in all its nakedness, so that you may not feed yourself with false hopes," he replied soberly.

"After what has happened in Paris there is little chance of my doing that; but I must have time to think; I must consult with my friends at Rochelle."

By this time the news of the fearful massacre on the day of St. Bartholomew had spread far and wide; the whole country was wild with excitement, and in the various towns through which we passed the unhappy Huguenots were being hounded mercilessly to death. Thanks, however, to L'Estang, I was never in any danger, and at length we arrived at the gates of what had become a veritable city of refuge.

Here, with many expressions of good-will on both sides, we parted, L'Estang to return to Paris, and I to enter the grief-stricken town. Numbers of fugitives thronged the streets; everywhere one saw groups of men, and weeping women, and frightened children who had abandoned their homes in terror.

I proceeded slowly and haltingly, being still extremely weak, and many a curious glance was directed toward my bandaged head. Expecting to find Jeanne at my aunt's house, I went there first, and in the courtyard saw two horses saddled and bridled as if for a journey. I stopped a moment to speak to the servant, when a voice exclaimed joyfully, "'Tis he! 'Tis Monsieur Edmond!" and Jacques came running out, his face beaming with delight.

"We were coming in search of you," he cried. "Monsieur Braund is in the house, bidding mademoiselle farewell. She is terribly alarmed on your account; she believes you to be dead. She blames herself bitterly for leaving you in Paris. Is the news true, monsieur? Is it really true that the noble Coligny has been murdered?"

"Yes," I answered sadly, "it is too true. But you shall hear all about it later; I must go to my sister."

Roger was endeavouring to comfort her, but on seeing me she broke from him and ran across the room, crying, "Edmond! Edmond!" as if she could scarcely credit the evidence of her senses.

"Did you think I was a ghost, Jeanne?" I asked laughingly. "'Tis I, Edmond, and very much alive, I assure you. Come, let me dry those tears; you will spoil your pretty eyes."

"Oh, Edmond," she gasped, "I thought you were killed! And you have been wounded! Your head is bandaged."

"I have had a very narrow escape, Jeanne; but here I am, and there is no need for any more sorrow on my account."

"And Felix?" she cried, "has he escaped too? Where have you left him? Ah, he is dead! I am sure of it! I can read it in your face!"

"Yes," I answered sadly, "there have been terrible doings in Paris, and Felix is among the slain."

"And he was so brave and good!" she sobbed. "Poor Felix! Tell me about it, Edmond."

When she had become more composed I related the story just as it had happened, but softening down the more brutal parts lest her grief should break out afresh. She was silent for a little while, but presently she said, "The Cause is ruined, Edmond!"

"Yes," I admitted, reluctantly, "with all our leaders slain, or in the hands of the king, we are powerless. And now, my dear Jeanne, you had better go to your room and rest a while."

"But you are hurt!" she exclaimed anxiously.

"The wound is not serious, and it has been skilfully dressed. However, Roger shall fetch a surgeon."

"And you need food," she said, "you are weak and faint. It is you who need rest, and I will take care of you."

"Very well," I said, thinking it would be better perhaps if she had something to occupy her mind, "you shall nurse back my strength."

Now that the excitement of the journey had passed I felt, indeed, painfully weak, and for several days kept to my bed, being waited upon by Jeanne and Roger, while Jacques slept at night in my chamber.

One morning toward the end of the week Roger came as usual to sit with me. Jeanne was in the room, but she disappeared quickly, her pretty cheeks covered with blushes.

"You have frightened Jeanne away!" I exclaimed, laughing.

"She knows that I wish to have a talk with you," he answered, and upon my word he began to blush like an overgrown boy.

"One would fancy it a matter of some importance!"

"Of the greatest importance," he replied earnestly, "since it affects all your future life. Do you realize that unless you desert your faith, and go to mass, your career is ruined? Your account of the massacre was under rather than over the mark. With the exception of Conde and Navarre there does not appear to be a single Huguenot leader left, and it is reported that Conde has recanted in order to save his life."

"The Cause is not dead because Conde has forsaken it."

"No," agreed Roger, "but it is dead nevertheless. Henry is a prisoner in Paris; the Huguenots are scattered and dispirited; they have no leaders, no arms, no money; there is not a single district in which they are not at the mercy of the king's troops. Already the Paris massacre has been repeated in several towns."

"Well," I said, wondering whither all this tended.

"You yourself cannot leave Rochelle except at the risk of your life."

"Because of Cordel?"

"Because of Cordel. He means to possess your estates; he has a powerful patron in Anjou, and you cannot obtain the ear of the king."

"'Twould do me little service if I could!"

"What will you do in Rochelle?"

"I shall not stay here long; I shall sail to our colony in America, where one can at least worship God in peace."

"Yes," he said musingly, "you can do that"; and then as if the thought had but just occurred to him, "it will be a terribly rough life for Jeanne—I mean for your sister."

"I had forgotten Jeanne. Well, that plan must be given up."

"There is one way out of the difficulty," he continued, coming finally to the point toward which he had been leading. "I am rich, and my own master. I have a good estate in England."

"Yes," I said, leaving him, rather ungenerously, to flounder through as best he could.

"I love your sister," he blurted out. "I wish to make her my wife. Do you object to having me for a brother, Edmond?"

Now, I was very fond of my English friend; he was a gallant gentleman, and the soul of honour. To be quite frank, I had once hoped that Jeanne would marry Felix, but he, poor fellow, was dead.

I gave Roger my hand, saying, "There is no one living to whom I would rather trust my sister's happiness. Besides, that gets rid of all our difficulties at once. With you to protect Jeanne, I can carry out my plans."

"Not so fast, Edmond," he interposed. "Jeanne is willing to be my wife, but she is not willing to part from you. She still blames herself for leaving you in Paris, though that, of course, is nonsense. She could not have done you any good."

"Most probably, had she stayed, both of us would have been killed. However, to return to our point; I cannot ask you to cross the ocean with us."

"It is unnecessary," said he, smiling cheerfully; "I can ask you to cross the Channel with me. No, don't speak yet. The scheme has several advantages. You will be out of Cordel's way, and yet close at hand. Things are bound to change. The king may die, or Henry of Navarre may obtain greater influence. He cannot be kept a prisoner all his life, and the time may come when he is once more at the head of an army. That will be your opportunity. A few days will take you across the water, and with Navarre as your friend—for he is not likely to go back on his pledged word—you can hope for justice."

"There is something in that," I said thoughtfully.

"There is everything, my dear fellow. Now, on the other hand, by sailing to the New World, you will cut yourself off from France for ever; and lose all chance of regaining your estates. The rascally lawyer will be left to enjoy his stolen property in peace."

This was an argument that touched me nearly, and Roger, perceiving the effect it produced, harped upon it so strongly that at last I agreed to accompany him to his English home. There was, however, still my servant to be considered, but Roger declared merrily there was plenty of room for Jacques, who should be given the charge of the stables.

"And," added the generous fellow, "I shall be the gainer by that, for he is a splendid judge of horses!" which was perfectly true.

I had a talk with Jacques the same evening and asked him to give me his opinion freely on the subject. The honest fellow did not hesitate an instant.

"Go with Monsieur Braund by all means," said he. "As long as the King of Navarre remains a prisoner you can do nothing, but directly he is free you will have a chance of settling accounts with this Cordel. To go to the New World will be to acknowledge yourself beaten."

"You are right, Jacques," I said; "we will stay in England, and bide our time."

"It will come, monsieur, be assured of that; and then let Etienne Cordel look out for himself."

We were still talking about the lawyer when Roger came in, bringing a note that had been left by a stranger at the Hotel Coligny. It was addressed to me, and I recognized the handwriting immediately.

"'Tis from L'Estang," I said; "what can he have to say?"

"Open it and see," suggested Roger merrily, "that is the easiest way of finding out!"

The contents were brief, but they made me bite my lips hard. "Cordel has been granted the Le Blanc estates, and in all likelihood a patent of nobility will be made out in a few weeks. His assassins are still seeking for you."

"Well," said Roger, "as it happens, they will seek in vain, and when they do find you, they may be sorry for the discovery."

Now that my decision was made, I felt anxious to get away, hoping that new scenes and new faces might blunt the misery which L'Estang's letter had caused me. Roger was also desirous to return immediately, and, as there was a vessel timed to sail in a few days, he arranged that we should take our passage in her.

It was a beautiful September morning when we went on board, and as the ship moved slowly from the harbour I took a sad farewell of my fair but unhappy country. Stronger men might have laughed at my weakness, but my eyes were dim as, leaning over the vessel's side, I watched the receding shore. Who could foretell if I should ever behold my own land again?

"Courage, monsieur!" whispered Jacques; "we shall return."

"Yes," I replied, with a sudden glow of confidence, "we shall return; let us hold fast by that!"



L'ENVOI.

My story as I set out to tell it really ends on the day when the White Rose left the harbour of Rochelle, but those who have followed my fortunes thus far may not take it amiss if I relate very briefly the upshot of my adventures.

Concerning Jeanne and her English husband there is little to tell. Happy, it is said, is the country that has no history, and their lives were one long happiness, passed in their beautiful home, surrounded by friends, and blessed by the presence of little children.

For four years I stayed with them, until, indeed, the joyful news of Henry's escape from Paris sent me, accompanied by the faithful Jacques, in hot haste to France, where the offer of my services was gladly accepted by the great Huguenot chief.

"The dawn is long in coming, Le Blanc," he said kindly; "but it will come at last."

It would take too long to tell you of the years of strife, of our marches and countermarches, of our defeats and victories, of how we changed from hope to despair, and from despair to hope, until on that memorable field of Ivri we smote our enemies hip and thigh, and broke the League that had brought so much misery on the country.

It was at Ivri, right at the moment of triumph, I lost Jacques, who, through good and ill, had followed my fortunes with a loyalty and devotion that no man ever exceeded, and fell just when I had the power to reward his services.

Renaud L'Estang I rarely met after my return. He served his patron faithfully and well, and on Anjou's death joined the household of the Duke of Guise, who held him in high esteem. He was, I believe, slain in one of the numerous skirmishes, but even that I learned only by hearsay.

In spite of my vaunts and boastings Etienne Cordel enjoyed his ill-gotten gains for several years, and then it was not to me, but to a higher judge he had to render his account.

But when Henry of Navarre became King of France, the estates of Le Blanc were restored to their rightful owner, and in the old castle to-day, hung in the place of honour, is the sword which Henry gave me at Arnay-le-Duc, and on which he has graciously caused to be inscribed, "From Henry of Navarre to the Sieur Le Blanc."

THE END