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A murmur of assent came from all, mingled with astonishment, for each
one knew only what concerned himself, and was ignorant that his neighbor
had been moved by the same influence.

"Well, then!" continued De Loignac, "you will have time to become
acquainted with each other afterward. You agree that you have come here
to obey him?"

"Yes, yes," they cried.

"Then, to begin; go quietly out of this hotel to the lodgings prepared
for you."

"For all?" asked St. Maline.

"Yes, for all."

"We are all equal here," cried Perducas, whose limbs felt rather
doubtful under him.

"Yes," replied De Loignac; "all are equal before the will of the
master."

"Oh!" cried Carmainges, coloring; "I do not know that M. d'Epernon would
be called my master."

"Wait!"

"I did not expect that."

"Wait, hot head! I did not tell you who was to be your master."

"No; but you said we should have one."

"Every one has a master; and if you are too proud to acknowledge him we
spoke of, you may look higher; I authorize you."

"The king!" murmured Carmainges.

"Silence!" said De Loignac. "But first will you do me the favor to read
aloud this parchment."

Ernanton took it and read these words:

"Order to M. de Loignac to take the command of the forty-five
gentlemen whom I have sent for to Paris with the consent of his
majesty.

"NOGARET DE LAVALETTE.

"Duc d'Epernon."

They all bowed at this.

"Thus," continued De Loignac, "you have to follow me at once; your
equipages and servants will remain here, M. Fournichon will take care of
them: we will send for them; but now, be quick! the boats are ready."

"The boats!" cried they.

"Certainly; to go to the Louvre, we must go by water."

"To the Louvre!" cried they, joyfully. "Cap de Bious! we are going to
the Louvre."

De Loignac made them all pass before him, counting them as they went,
and then conducted them to the place where three large boats were
waiting for them.




CHAPTER X.

THE PURCHASE OF CUIRASSES.


As soon as the valet of Pertinax heard the words of Madame Fournichon,
he ran after the dealer, but as it was night and he was doubtless in a
hurry, he had gone some little way and Samuel was obliged to call to
him. He appeared to hesitate at first, but seeing that Samuel was laden
with merchandise, he stopped.

"What do you want, my friend?" said he.

"Pardieu! I want to do a little business with you."--"Well, be quick!"

"Are you in a hurry?"

"Yes."

"When you have seen what I bring you, you will be willing to wait."

"What is it?"

"A magnificent piece, of which the work--but you do not listen."

"Yes; but I am also looking round."

"Why?"

"Do you not know that it is forbidden to buy arms?"

Samuel thought it best to feign ignorance, and said, "I know nothing; I
have just arrived from Mont-de-Marsan."

"Oh! that is another thing; but how did you know that I bought arms?"

"I was at the door of 'The Brave Chevalier.'"

"Well, come under that portico; it is too public here. Now, let me see
this cuirass," said he, when they were there.

"It is so heavy."

"It is old and out of date."

"A work of art."

"I will give you six crowns."

"What! six crowns! and you gave ten just now for an old thing--"

"Six, or none."

"But look at the chasing."

"Of what use is the chasing, when I sell by weight?"

"The gilding alone is worth ten crowns--"

"Well, I will give you seven."

"You bargain here, and at the inn you gave anything; you go against the
law and then endeavor to cheat honest people."--"Do not call out so
loud."

"Oh! I am not afraid."

"Come, then, take ten crowns and begone."

"I told you the gold was worth more. Ah! you want to escape; I will call
the guard," and he raised his voice.

At the noise, a window opposite was opened.

"Come," said the dealer; "I see I must give you what you want. Here are
fifteen crowns; now go."

"That will do," said Samuel; "only these are for my master: I want
something for myself."

The dealer half drew his dagger.

"Yes, yes, I see your dagger," said Samuel; "but I also see the figure
in that balcony, watching you."

The dealer, white with terror, looked up, and saw a man who had
witnessed the whole scene. "Oh!" said he, affecting to laugh; "you get
all you want out of me: here is another crown. And may the devil take
you," he added to himself.

"Thanks, my good friend," said Samuel, and he made off.

The dealer began to take up his wares and was also going, when the
bourgeois opposite cried out:

"It seems, monsieur, that you buy armor."

"No, monsieur," replied the unlucky dealer; "this was a mere chance."

"A chance that suits me."

"In what respect, monsieur?"

"I have a heap of old things that I want to get rid of."

"I have as much as I can carry."

"But let me show them to you."

"It is useless; I have no more money."

"Never mind, I will give you credit; you look like an honest man."

"Thank you; but I cannot wait."

"It is odd how I seem to know you."

"Know me!" cried the dealer, trembling.

"Look at this helmet," said the bourgeois, showing it from the window.

"You say you know me?" asked the dealer.

"I thought so. Are you not--" he seemed seeking for the name. "Are you
not Nicholas--"

The dealer looked frightened.

"Nicholas Trouchon, ironmonger, Rue de la Cossonnerie?"

"No, no!" cried the man, breathing more freely again.

"Never mind; will you buy all my armor, cuirass, sword, and all?"

"It is a forbidden commerce."

"I know that; he whom you dealt with just now called it out loud
enough."

"You heard!"

"Yes, all; and you were liberal. But be easy, I will not be hard upon
you; I have been a trader myself."

"What did you sell?"

"Never mind; I have made my fortune."--"I congratulate you."

"Well, will you buy all my armor?"

"No, I only want the cuirass."

"Do you only buy cuirasses?"

"Yes."

"That is odd, for if you buy and sell by weight, one sort of iron is as
good as another."

"That is true, but I have preferences."

"Well, then, buy only the cuirass, or rather--now I think again--buy
nothing at all."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that in these times every one wants his arms."

"What! in perfect peace?"

"My good friend, if we were in perfect peace, you would not buy so many
cuirasses, and so secretly, too. But really, the longer I look at you,
the more I think I know your face. You are not Nicholas Trouchon, but
still I know you."

"Silence!"

"And if you buy cuirasses--"

"Well!"

"I am sure it is for a work agreeable to God."

"Hold your tongue!"

"You enchant me!" cried the bourgeois, stretching out a long arm over
the balcony and seizing the hand of the dealer.

"Then who the devil are you?" cried he, who felt his hand held as if in
a vise.

"I am Robert Briquet, the terror of schismatics, the friend of the
Union, and a fierce Catholic; and you are not Nicholas Gimbelot, the
currier."

"No, no! good-by."

"What! are you going?"

"Yes!" and he ran off.

But Robert Briquet was not a man to be foiled; he jumped from his
balcony and ran after him.

"You are mad!" said he. "If I were your enemy, I have but to cry out,
and the watch is in the next street; but you are my friend, and now I
know your name. You are Nicholas Poulain, lieutenant to the provost of
Paris. I knew it was Nicholas something."

"I am lost!" murmured the man.

"No; you are saved. I will do more for the good cause than ever you
would; you have found a brother. Take one cuirass, and I will take
another; I give you my gloves and the rest of my armor for nothing. Come
on, and Vive l'Union!"

"You accompany me?"

"I will help you to carry these cuirasses which are to conquer the
Philistines. Go on, I follow."

A spark of suspicion lingered in the soul of the lieutenant, but he
thought; "If he wished me ill, he would not have acknowledged he knew
me. Come on then!" he added aloud, "if you will."

"To life or death!" cried Briquet, and he continued to talk in this
strain till they arrived near the Hotel Guise, where Nicholas Poulain
stopped.

"I fancied it would be here," thought Briquet.

"Now," said Nicholas, with a tragic air, "there is still time to retire
before entering the lion's den."

"Bah! I have entered many. _Et non intermuit medulla mea!_" exclaimed
Briquet; "but pardon me, perhaps you do not understand Latin?"

"Do you?"--"As you see."

"What a catch?" thought Poulain, "learned, strong, bold, and rich!" Then
he added aloud, "Well! let us enter," and he conducted Briquet to the
door of the hotel. The court was full of guards and men wrapped in
cloaks, and eight horses, saddled and bridled, waited in a corner; but
there was not a light to be seen. Poulain whispered his name to the
porter, and added, "I bring a good companion."--"Pass on."

"Take these to the magazine," said Poulain, handing the cuirasses to a
soldier. "Now I will present you," said he to Briquet.

"No, I am very timid. When I have done some work, I will present
myself."

"As you please. Then wait here for me."--"What are we waiting for?"
asked a voice.

"For the master," replied another.

At this moment, a tall man entered. "Gentlemen," said he, "I come in his
name."

"Ah! it is M. de Mayneville," said Poulain.

"Ah, really!" said Briquet, making a hideous grimace, which quite
altered him.

"Let us go, gentlemen," said M. de Mayneville, and he descended a
staircase leading to a vault. All the others followed, and Briquet
brought up the rear, murmuring: "But the page! where the devil is the
page?"




CHAPTER XI

STILL THE LEAGUE.


At the moment when Robert Briquet was about to enter, he saw Poulain
waiting for him.

"Pardon," said he, "but my friends do not know you, and decline to
admit you to their councils till they know more of you."

"It is just, and I retire, happy to have seen so many brave defenders of
the Holy Union."

"Shall I re-conduct you?"

"No, I thank you, I will not trouble you."

"But perhaps they will not open for you; yet I am wanted."

"Have you not a password?"

"Yes."

"Then give it to me. I am a friend, you know."

"True. It is 'Parma and Lorraine!'"

"And they will open?"

"Yes."

"Thanks; now return to your friends."

Briquet took some steps as if to go out, and then stopped to explore the
locality. The result of his observations was, that the vault ran
parallel to the exterior wall, and terminated in a hall destined for the
mysterious council from which he had been excluded. What confirmed him
in this supposition was that he saw a light at a barred window, pierced
in the wall, and guarded by a sort of wooden pipe, such as they placed
at the windows of convents and prisons to intercept the view from
without, while the air was still admitted. Briquet imagined this to be
the window of the hall, and thought that if he could gain this place he
could see all. He looked round him; the court had many soldiers and
servants in it, but it was large, and the night was dark; besides, they
were not looking his way, and the porter was busy, preparing his bed for
the night.

Briquet rapidly climbed on to the cornice which ran toward the window in
question, and ran along the wall like a monkey, holding on with his
hands and feet to the ornaments of the sculpture. Had the soldiers seen
in the dark this figure gliding along the wall without apparent support,
they would not have failed to cry, "Magic!" but they did not see him. In
four bounds he reached the window, and established himself between the
bars and the pipe, so that from the inside he was concealed by the one,
and from the outside by the other.

He then saw a great hall, lighted by a torch, and filled with armor of
all sorts. There were enough pikes, swords, halberds, and muskets to arm
four regiments. He gave less attention, however, to the arms than to the
people engaged in distributing them, and his piercing eyes sought
eagerly to distinguish their faces.

"Oh! oh!" thought he, "there is M. Cruce, little Brigard and Leclerc,
who dares to call himself Bussy. Peste! the bourgeoisie is grandly
represented; but the nobility--ah! M. de Mayneville presses the hand of
Nicholas Poulain; what a touching fraternity! An orator, too!" continued
he, as M. de Mayneville prepared to harangue the assembly.

Briquet could not hear a word, but he thought that he did not make much
impression on his audience, for one shrugged his shoulders, and another
turned his back. But at last they approached, seized his hand, and threw
up their hats in the air. But though Briquet could not hear, we must
inform our readers of what passed.

First, Cruce, Marteau, and Bussy had complained of the inaction of the
Duc de Guise.

Marteau was spokesman, and said, "M. de Mayneville, you come on the part
of M. le Duc de Guise, and we accept you as his ambassador; but the
presence of the duke himself is indispensable. After the death of his
glorious father, he, when only eighteen years of age, made all good
Frenchmen join this project of the Union, and enrolled us under this
banner. We have risked our lives, and sacrificed our fortunes, for the
triumph of this sacred cause, according to our oaths, and yet, in spite
of our sacrifices, nothing progresses--nothing is decided. Take care, M.
de Mayneville, Paris will grow tired, and then what will you do?"

This speech was applauded by all the leaguers.

M. de Mayneville replied, "Gentlemen, if nothing is decided, it is
because nothing is ripe. Consider our situation; M. le Duc and his
brother the cardinal are at Nancy--the one is organizing an army to keep
in check the Huguenots of Flanders, whom M. d'Anjou wishes to oppose to
us, the other is expediting courier after courier to the clergy of
France and to the pope, to induce them to adopt the Union. The Duc de
Gruise knows, what you do not, that the old alliance between the Duc
d'Anjou and the Bearnais is ready to be renewed, and he wishes, before
coming to Paris, to be in a position to crush both heresy and
usurpation."

"They are everywhere where they are not wanted," said Bussy. "Where is
Madame de Montpensier, for instance?"

"She entered Paris this morning."

"No one has seen her."

"Yes, monsieur."

"Who was it?"

"Salcede."

"Oh! oh!" cried all.

"But where is she?" cried Bussy. "Has she disappeared? how did you know
she was here?"

"Because I accompanied her to the Porte St. Antoine."

"I heard that they had shut the gates."

"Yes, they had."

"Then, how did she pass."

"In her own fashion. Something took place at the gates of Paris this
morning, gentlemen, of which you appear to be ignorant. The orders were
to open only to those who brought a card of admission--signed by whom I
know not. Immediately before us five or six men, some of whom were
poorly clothed, passed with these cards, before our eyes. Now, who were
those men? What were the cards? Reply, gentlemen of Paris, who promised
to learn everything concerning your city."

Thus Mayneville, from the accused, became the accuser, which is the
great art of an orator.

"Cards and exceptional admissions!" cried Nicholas Poulain, "what can
that mean?"

"If you do not know, who live here, how should I know, who live in
Lorraine?"

"How did these people come?"

"Some on foot, some on horseback; some alone, and some with lackeys."

"Were they soldiers?"

"There were but two swords among the six; I think they were Gascons.
This concerns you, M. Poulain, to find out. But to return to the League.
Salcede, who had betrayed us, and would have done so again, not only did
not speak, but retracted on the scaffold--thanks to the duchess, who, in
the suite of one of these card-bearers, had the courage to penetrate the
crowd even to the place of execution, and made herself known to Salcede,
at the risk of being pointed out. At this sight Salcede stopped his
confession, and an instant after, the executioner stopped his
repentance. Thus, gentlemen, you have nothing to fear as to our
enterprise in Flanders; this secret is buried in the tomb."

It was this last speech which had so pleased all the conspirators. Their
joy seemed to annoy Briquet; he slipped down from his place, and
returning to the court, said to the porter, "Parma and Lorraine." The
gate was opened, and he left.

History tells us what passed afterward. M. de Mayneville brought from
the Guises the plan of an insurrection which consisted of nothing less
than to murder all the principal people of the city who were known to be
in favor with the king, and then to go through the streets crying, "Vive
la Messe! death to our enemies!" In fact, to enact a second St.
Bartholomew; in which, however, all hostile Catholics were to be
confounded with the Protestants.




CHAPTER XII.

THE CHAMBER OF HIS MAJESTY HENRI III.


In a great room at the Louvre sat Henri, pale and unquiet. Since his
favorites, Schomberg, Quelus and Maugiron had been killed in a duel, St.
Megrin had been assassinated by M. de Mayenne, and the wounds left by
their deaths were still fresh and bleeding. The affection he bore his
new favorites was very different from what he had felt for the old. He
had overwhelmed D'Epernon with benefits, but he only loved him by fits
and starts, and at certain times he even hated him, and accused him of
cowardice and avarice.

D'Epernon knew how to hide his ambition, which was indeed vague in its
aspirations; but his cupidity governed him completely. When he was rich,
he was laughing and good-tempered; but when he was in want of money, he
used to shut himself up in one of his castles, where, frowning and sad,
he bemoaned his fate, until he had drawn from the weakness of the king
some new gift.

Joyeuse was very different. He loved the king, who, in turn, had for him
almost a fatherly affection. Young and impulsive, he was, perhaps,
somewhat egotistical, and cared for little but to be happy. Handsome,
brave and rich, Nature had done so much for him that Henri often
regretted that she had left so little for him to add. The king knew his
men well, for he was remarkably clear-sighted: and though often
betrayed, was never deceived. But ennui was the curse of his life; he
was ennuye now, and was wondering if any one would come and amuse him,
when M. le Duc d'Epernon was announced. Henri was delighted.

"Ah! good-evening, duke; I am enchanted to see you. Why were you not
present at the execution of Salcede?--I told you there would be room in
my box."

"Sire, I was unable to avail myself of your majesty's kindness."

"Unable?"

"Yes, sire; I was busy."

"One would think that you were my minister, coming to announce, with a
long face, that some subsidy had not been paid."

"Ma foi! your majesty is right; the subsidy has not been paid, and I am
penniless. But it was not that which occupied me."

"What then?"

"Your majesty knows what passed at the execution of Salcede?"

"Parbleu! I was there."

"They tried to carry off the criminal."

"I did not see that."

"It is the rumor all through the city, however."

"A groundless one."

"I believe your majesty is wrong."

"On what do you found your belief?"

"Because Salcede denied before the people what he had confessed to the
judges."

"Ah! you know that, already."

"I try to know all that interests your majesty."

"Thanks; but what do you conclude from all this?"

"That a man who dies like Salcede was a good servant, sire."

"Well?"

"And the master who has such followers is fortunate."

"You mean to say that I have none such; or, rather, that I no longer
have them. You are right, if that be what you mean."

"I did not mean that; your majesty would find, I am sure, were there
occasion, followers as devoted as Salcede."

"Well, duke, do not look gloomy; I am sad enough already. Do be gay."

"Gayety cannot be forced, sire."

The king struck the table angrily. "You are a bad friend," said he; "I
lost all, when I lost my former ones."

"May I dare to say to your majesty that you hardly encourage the new
ones."

The king looked at him with an expression which he well understood.

"Ah! your majesty reproaches me with your benefits," said he, "but I do
not reproach you with my devotion."

"Lavalette," cried Henri, "you make me sad; you who are so clever, and
could so easily make me joyful. It is not your nature to fight
continually, like my old favorites; but you are facetious and amusing,
and give good counsel. You know all my affairs, like that other more
humble friend, with whom I never experienced a moment's ennui."

"Of whom does your majesty speak?"

"Of my poor jester, Chicot. Alas! where is he?"

D'Epernon rose, piqued. "Your majesty's souvenirs, to-day, are not very
amusing for other people," said he.

"Why so?"

"Your majesty, without intending it, perhaps, compared me to Chicot,
which is not very flattering."

"You are wrong, D'Epernon; I could only compare to Chicot a man who
loves me, and whom I love."

"It was not to resemble Chicot, I suppose, that your majesty made me a
duke?"

"Chicot loved me, and I miss him; that is all I can say. Oh! when I
think that in the same place where you now are have been all those young
men, handsome, brave, and faithful--that there, on that very chair on
which you have placed your hat, Chicot has slept more than a hundred
times--"

"Perhaps that was very amusing," interrupted the duke, "but certainly
not very respectful."

"Alas! he has now neither mind nor body."--"What became of him?"

"He died, like all who loved me."

"Well, sire, I think he did well to die; he was growing old, and I have
heard that sobriety was not one of his virtues. Of what did he
die--indigestion?"

"Of grief."

"Oh! he told you so, to make you laugh once more."

"You are wrong; he would not sadden me with the news of his illness. He
knew how I regretted my friends--he, who had so often seen me weep for
them."

"Then it was his shade that came to tell you?"

"No; I did not even see his shade. It was his friend, the worthy prior
Gorenflot, who wrote me this sad news."

"I see that if he lived your majesty would make him chancellor."

"I beg, duke, that you will not laugh at those who loved me, and whom I
loved."

"Oh! sire, I do not desire to laugh, but just now you reproached me with
want of gayety, parfandious!"

"Well, now I am in the mood to hear bad news, if you have any to tell.
Luckily I have strength to bear it, or I should be dead ten times a
day."

"Which would not displease certain people of our acquaintance."

"Oh! against them I have the arms of my Swiss."

"I could find you a better guard than that."

"You?"--"Yes, sire."

"What is it?"

"Will your majesty be so good as to accompany me to the old buildings of
the Louvre?"

"On the site of the Rue de l'Astruce?"

"Precisely."

"What shall I see there?"

"Oh! come first."

"It is a long way, duke."

"We can go in five minutes through the galleries."

"D'Epernon--"

"Well, sire?"

"If what you are about to show me be not worth seeing, take care."

"I answer for it, sire."

"Come, then," said the king, rising.

The duke took his cloak, presented the king's sword to him, then, taking
a light, preceded his majesty.




CHAPTER XIII.

THE DORMITORY.


In less than five minutes they arrived at their destination. The duke
took out a key, and, after crossing a court, opened an arched door, the
bottom of which was overgrown with long grass. They went along a dark
corridor, and then up a staircase to a room, of which D'Epernon had also
the key. He opened the door, and showed the king forty-five beds, and in
each of them a sleeper.

The king looked at all this with a troubled curiosity. "Well," said he,
"who are these people?"

"People who sleep to-night, but will not do so to-morrow night."

"Why not?"

"That your majesty may sleep in peace."

"Explain yourself. Are these your friends?"

"Chosen by me, sire; intrepid guards, who will not quit your majesty,
and who, gentlemen all, will be able to go whereever your majesty goes,
and will let no one approach you."

"And you thought of this, D'Epernon?"

"I, alone, sire."

"We shall be laughed at."

"No, we shall be feared."

"But they will ruin me?"

"How can a king be ruined?"

"I cannot pay my Swiss!"

"Look at these men, sire; do you think they would be very expensive to
keep?"

"But they could not always live like this, they would be stifled. And
look at their doublets!"

"Oh! I confess they are not all very sumptuously clothed, but if they
had been born dukes and peers--"

"Yes, I understand; they would have cost me more?"--"Just so."

"Well, how much will they cost? That will, perhaps, decide me, for, in
truth, D'Epernon, they do not look very inviting."

"Sire, I know they are rather thin and burned by our southern sun, but I
was so when I came to Paris. They will fatten and whiten like me."

"How they snore!"

"Sire, you must not judge them to-night; they have supped well."

"Stay, there is one speaking in his sleep; let us listen."

Indeed, one of the gentlemen called out, "If you are a woman, fly!"

The king approached him softly. "Ah! ah!" said he, "he is a gallant."

"What do you think of him, sire?"

"His face pleases me, and he has white hands and a well-kept beard."

[Illustration: "HIS FACE PLEASES ME, AND HE HAS WHITE HANDS AND A
WELL-KEPT BEARD."]