fumer; "neither the king of Navarre nor his party are any longer to be feared now!"

And he turned his back on Marguerite.

"Ah, monsieur de Tavannes!" cried Marguerite, word, I beseech you!"

Tavannes stopped.

"Where is Henry of Navarre?"

one

"Ma foi!" he replied, in a loud voice, "I believe he is somewhere in the city with the messieurs d'Alençon and de Condé."

And then he added, in a tone so low that the queen alone could hear

“Your majesty, if you would see him-to be in whose place I would give my life-go to the king's armory."

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Thanks, Tavannes-thanks!" said Marguerite; “I will go there."

And she went on her way thither, murmuring—

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Oh, after all I promised him—after the way in which he behaved to me when that ingrate, Henri de Guise, was concealed in the closet-I cannot let him perish!"

And she knocked at the door of the king's apartments; but they were begirt within by two companies of guards.

"No one is admitted to the king," said the officer, coming forward.

"But I" said Marguerite.

"The order is general."

"I, the queen of Navarre!-I, his sister!"

"I dare make no exception, madame."

And the officer closed the door.

"He is lost!" exclaimed Marguerite, alarmed at the sight of all the sinister countenances she had seen. "Yes, yes! I comprehend all. I have been used as a bait. I am the snare which has entrapped the huguenots: but I will enter, if I should be killed in the attempt!"

And Marguerite ran like a mad creature through the corridors and galleries, when suddenly, whilst passing by a small door, she heard a low chanting, almost as melancholy as it was monotonous. It was a Calvinistic psalm, sung by a trembling voice in an adjacent chamber.

"The nurse of my brother the king-the good Madelon

it is she!" exclaimed Marguerite. "God of the Christians, aid me now!"

And, full of hope, Marguerite knocked at the little door.

Soon after the counsel which Marguerite had conveyed to him, after his conversation with René, and after quitting the queen mother's chamber, poor Phoebé, like a good genius, opposing, Henry of Navarre had met some worthy catholic gentlemen, who, under a pretext of doing him honour, had escorted him to his apartments, where a score of huguenots awaited him, who had rallied round the young prince, and, having once rallied, would not leave him-so strongly, for some hours, had the presentiment of that night weighed on the Louvre. They had remained there, without any one attempting to disturb them. At last, at the first stroke of the bell of St.-Germain-l'Auxerrois, which resounded through all hearts like a funeral knell, Tavannes entered, and, in the midst of a death-like silence, announced that king Charles IX. desired to speak to Henry.

It was useless to attempt resistance, and no one thought of it. They had heard the ceilings, galleries, and corridors crack beneath the feet of the assembled soldiers, who were in the court-yards, as well as in the apartments, to the number of two thousand. Henry, after having taken leave of his friends, whom he might never again see, followed Tavannes, who led him to a small gallery contiguous to the king's apartments, where he left him alone, unarmed, and a prey to mistrust.

The king of Navarre counted here alone, minute by minute, two mortal hours; listening, with increasing alarm, to the sound of the tocsin and the discharge of fire-arms; seeing through a small window, by the light of the flames and flambeaux, the victims and their assassins pass; understanding nothing of these shrieks of murder-these cries of distressnot even suspecting, in spite of his knowledge of Charles IX., the queen-mother, and the duke de Guise, the horrible drama at this moment enacting.

Henry had not physical courage, but he had better than that he had moral fortitude. Fearing danger, he yet smiled at, and faced it; but it was danger in the field of battle-danger in the open air-danger in the eyes of all,

and attended by the noisy harmony of trumpets and the loud and vibrating beat of drums,-but now he was without arms, shut up, immured in obscurity which was scarcely sufficient to enable him to see the enemy who might glide towards him, and the weapon that might be raised to strike him.

These two hours were, perhaps, the most agonizing of his life.

In the hottest of the tumult, and as Henry was beginning to comprehend that, in all probability, this was some organized massacre, a captain came to him, desiring the prince to follow him to the king. As they approached, the door opened, and closed when they entered. The captain then led Henry to the king, who was in his armoury. When they entered, the king was seated in an arm-chair, his two hands placed on the two arms of the seat, and his head falling on his bosom. As they entered, Charles looked up, and on his brow Henry observed the perspiration dropping from it like large beads. "Good evening, Harry," said the king, roughly. Chastre, leave us.'

"La

The captain retired, and a profound silence ensued. Henry looked around him with uneasiness, and saw that he was alone with the king.

Charles suddenly arose.

"Mordieu!" said he, passing his hands through his light brown hair, and wiping his brow at the same time, “you are glad to be with me, are not you, Harry ?”

Certainly, sire,” replied the king of Navarre, "I am always happy to be with your majesty."

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Happier than if you were down there, eh?" continued Charles, following his own thoughts, rather than replying to Henry's compliment.

"I do not understand, sire," replied Henry.

"Look out, then, and you will soon understand."

And with a quick gesture, Charles moved, or rather sprung towards the window, and drawing his brother-in-law towards him, who became more and more alarmed, he pointed to him the horrible outlines of the assassins, who, on the deck of a boat, were cutting the throats or drowning the victims brought them at every moment.

"In the name of Heaven!" cried Henry, "what is going on to-night?"

"To-night, sir," replied Charles IX., "they are ridding me of all the huguenots. Look down there, over the Hotel de Bourbon, at the smoke and flames: they are the smoke and flames of the admiral's house, which has been fired. Do you see that body, which these good catholics are drawing on a torn mattress-it is the corpse of the admiral's son-in-lawthe carcass of your friend, Teligny."

“What means this?" cried the king of Navarre, seeking vainly by his side for the hilt of his dagger, and trembling equally with shame and anger; for he felt that he was, at the same time, laughed at and menaced.

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It means," cried Charles IX., furious, and turning pale with intense rage, "that I will no longer have any huguenots Do you hear me, Henry?-Am I king? am I

about me.

master ?"

"Your majesty-"

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My majesty kills and massacres at this moment all that is not catholic, at my pleasure. Are you catholic?" exclaimed Charles, whose anger rose like an excited sea.

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Sire," replied Henry, "do you remember your own words, What matters the religion of those who serve me well!"

"Ah! ah! ah!" cried Charles, bursting into a ferocious laugh—"you ask me if I remember my words, Henry! Verba volant,' as my sister Margot says; and had not all those"--and he pointed to the city with his finger-" served me well, also? Were they not brave in battle, wise in council, deeply devoted? They were all useful subjectsbut they were huguenots, and I want none but catholics." Henry remained silent.

"Well! do you understand me now, Harry ?" asked Charles.

"I understand, sire." "Well ?"

“Well, sire! I do not see why the king of Navarre should not do what so many gentlemen and poor folk have done. For if they all die, poor unfortunates, it is because the same terms have been proposed to them which your majesty proposes to me, and they have refused, as I refuse."

Charles seized the arm of the young prince, and fixed on

him a look whose vacancy suddenly changed into a fierce and savage scowl.

"What!" he said, "do you believe that I have taken the trouble to offer the alternative of the mass to those whose throats are being cut down there ?"

"Sire," said Henry, disengaging his arm, "will you not die in the religion of your fathers ?"

"Yes, Mordieu! and thou?"

"Well, sire, I will do the same !" replied Henry.

Charles uttered a cry of fierce rage, and seized with trembling hand his arquebuse placed on the table. Henry, who, leaning against the tapestry, with the perspiration streaming from his brow, was yet, owing to his presence of mind, calm to all appearance, followed with the anxious amaze of a bird fascinated by a serpent every movement of the terrible king.

Charles cocked his arquebuse, and striking his foot with blind rage, cried, as he dazzled Henry's eyes with the polished barrel of the brandished weapon, "Will you accept the mass ?" Henry remained mute.

Charles IX. shook the vaults of the Louvre with the most terrible oath that ever issued from the lips of man, and grew more livid than before.

"Death, mass, or bastille!" he cried, taking aim at the king of Navarre.

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Oh, sire!" exclaimed Henry, "will you kill me- -me, your brother-in-law ?"

Henry thus eluded, by his incomparable presence of mind, which was one of the strongest faculties of his organization, the answer which the king demanded, for doubtless had this reply been in the negative, Henry had been a dead man.

As immediately after the last paroxysms of rage, there is always the commencement of re-action, Charles IX. did not repeat the question he had addressed to the prince of Navarre; and, after a moment's hesitation, during which he uttered a hoarse kind of growl, he turned towards the open window, and aimed at a man who was running along the quai in front.

"I must kill some one!" cried Charles IX., ghastly as a corpse, his eyes injected with blood; and firing, as he spoke, he struck the man who was running.