"I believe," continued Charles, whose eye now changed its glassy look for one that seemed of fire-"I believe that you had a great desire at Moncontour to kill the admiral, who has just left me; I believe you missed your aim, and that then you entered the army of my brother, the duc d'Anjou; I believe that you enlisted into the company of M. de Mouy de St. Phale."

"Oh, sire!"

"A brave gentleman from Picardy."

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Sire, sire!” cried Maurevel, "do not overwhelm me."

"He was a brave soldier," continued Charles, whose features assumed an aspect of almost ferocious cruelty, "who received you as if you had been his son; fed you, lodged you, and clothed you."

Maurevel uttered a despairing sigh.

"You called him your father, and a tender friendship existed between you and the young de Mouy."

Maurevel, still on his knees, bent himself more and more; the king stood immovable, like a statue whose lips only are endowed with vitality.

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By the way," continued the king, "M. de Guise was to give you ten thousand crowns if you killed the admiral-was he not?"

The assassin struck his forehead against the floor.

"One day that your father, the sieur de Mouy, reconnoitred near Chevreux, he let his whip fall, and dismounted to pick it up. You were then alone with him; you took a pistol from your holster, and shot him in the back; then seeing he was dead for you killed him on the spot-you escaped on the horse he had given you. This is your history, I believe?"

And as Maurevel remained mute under this accusation, every circumstance of which was true, the king began to whistle again, with the same precision and melody, the same hunting air.

"Now then, murderer!" said he, "do you know I have a great mind to hang you?"

"Oh, sire!" cried Maurevel.

"Young de Mouy entreated me to do so only yesterday, and I scarcely knew what answer to make him, for his demand was but just."

Maurevel clasped his hands.

"All the more just, since I am, as you say, the father of my people; and that, as I answered you now, I being reconciled to the huguenots, they are as much my children as the catholics."

"Sire," said Maurevel, in despair, "my life is in your hands; do with it what you will."

"You are quite right, and I would not give a halfpenny for it."

"But, sire," asked the assassin, "is there no means of redeeming my crime ?"

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None, that I know of; only in your place-but thank God I am not

"Well, sire, were you in my place"-murmured Maurevel "I think I could extricate myself," said the king.

Maurevel raised himself on one knee and one hand, fixing his eyes upon Charles.

"I am very fond of young de Mouy," said the king; “but, I am equally fond of my cousin of Guise; and if my cousin asked me to spare a man that the other wanted me to hang, I confess I should be embarrassed; but for policy as well as religion's sake I should comply with Guise's request; forde Mouy, although a brave gentleman, is but a petty personage compared with a prince of Lorraine.”

During these words, Maurevel slowly rose, like a man whose life is saved.

"As in your situation it is very important to gain the duke's favour, listen to what he said to me last night." Maurevel drew nearer.

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'Imagine, sire,' said he to me, that every morning, at ten o'clock, my deadliest enemy passes down the Rue Saint Germain l'Auxerrois, on his return from the Louvre. I see him from a barred window in the room of my old preceptor, the canon Pierre Pile, and I pray the devil to open the earth and swallow him in its abysses.'-Now, Maurevel, perhaps if you were the devil, it would please the duke?"

"But, sire," stammered Maurevel, "I cannot make the earth open."

"You made it open, however, wide enough for de Mouy. It was with a pistol that-Have you this famous pistol still ?" "I am a better marksman, sire, with an arquebuss than a pistol," replied Maurevel, now quite re-assured.

"Never mind," said the king; "I am sure M. de Guise will not care how it is done, so it be done."

"But," said Maurevel, "I must have a weapon I can rely on, as, perhaps, I shall have to fire from a long distance."

"I have ten arquebusses in this chamber," replied Charles IX., "with which I hit a crown-piece at a hundred and fifty paces-will you try one ?"

"Most willingly, sire !" cried Maurevel, advancing towards the one that had been that day brought to the king.

"No, not that one," said the king; "I reserve that for myself. Some day I will have a grand hunt, and then I hope to use it. Take any other you like."

Maurevel detached one from a trophy. "And who is this enemy, sire?" asked he.

"How should I know," replied Charles, with a contemptuous look.

"I must ask M. de Guise, then," faltered Maurevel.

The king shrugged his shoulders.

"Do not ask," said he; “for M. de Guise will not answer. People do not generally answer such questions; it is for those who do not wish to be hanged to guess."

"But how shall I know him ?"

"I tell you he passes the canon's house every morning at ten o'clock."

"So many pass, would your majesty deign to give me any certain sign?"

"Oh, to-morrow he will carry a red morocco portfolio, under his arm."

"That is sufficient, sire."

"You have still the horse M. de Mouy gave you, have you not?"

"Sire, I have a horse that is fleeter than any other in France."

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Oh, I am not in the least anxious about you; only it is as well to let you know there is a back-door."

"Thanks, sire; pray Heaven for me!"

"Oh, pray to the devil rather; for by his aid only can you escape a halter."

Adieu, sire."

"Adieu! By the way, M. de Maurevel, remember, that if I

hear of you before ten to-morrow, or do not hear of afterwards, there is an oubliette at the Louvre."

you

And Charles began to whistle, with more than usual precision, his favourite air.

CHAPTER IV,

THE EVENING of the 24th of august, 1572.

OUR readers have not forgotten that in the previous chapter Henry was anxiously expecting the arrival of a gentleman named De la Mole.

This young gentleman, as the admiral had anticipated, entered Paris by the gate of Saint Marcel, the evening of the 24th of August, 1572; and bestowing a contemptuous glance on the numerous hostelries that displayed their picturesque signs on either side of him, he rode on into the heart of the city, and after having crossed the Place Maubert, Le PetitPont, the Pont-Notre Dame, and along the quays, he stopped at the end of the Rue de l'Arbre-Sec.

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The named pleased him, no doubt, for he entered the street, and finding on his left a large plate of iron swinging, creaking on its hinges, he stopped, and read these words, La belle Etoile," written on a scroll beneath the sign, which was a most attractive one for a traveller, as it represented a fowl roasting in the midst of a black sky, whilst a man in a red cloak held out his hands and his purse towards it.

"Here," said the gentleman to himself, "is an inn that promises well, and the landlord must be a most ingenious fellow. I have always heard that the Rue de l'Arbre-Sec was near the Louvre; and provided that the interior answers to the exterior, I shall be admirably lodged."

Whilst this monologue was going on, another person entered the other end of the street, and stopped also to admire the sign of La belle Etoile.

The gentleman whom we already know, at least, by name, rode a white horse, and wore a black doublet ornamented

with jet; his cloak was of violet velvet, his boots were of black leather, and the hilts of his sword and dagger were of steel, beautifully worked; his age was from twenty-four to twenty-five, his complexion dark, his eyes blue; a small moustache shaded a beautifully-cut mouth, full of pearly teeth, that seemed, whenever he showed them, to light up his whole face with a smile of melancholy sweetness.

Nothing could form a greater contrast with him than the second traveller. Beneath his slouched hat appeared a profusion of hair, rather red than brown; large grey eyes that on the slightest occasion sparkled so fiercely, that they seemed black; a fair complexion, a light moustache, and splendid teeth, completed his description; and he was, with his white skin and fine form, what is generally termed a handsome cavalier, and during the last hour, which he had employed in staring up at all the windows, the ladies had honoured him with no small share of their attention.

He it was who first addressed the other gentleman, who was with himself looking at the sign of La belle Etoile.

"Mordi! monsieur," said he, with the accent that characterizes the natives of Piedmont-" we are close to the Louvre, are we not? At all events, I think your choice is the same as mine, and I am highly flattered by it."

"Monsieur," replied the other, with a provincial accent that rivalled that of his companion, "I believe this inn is near the Louvre, but I have not yet made up my mind to enter it."

"You are undecided; the house is tempting, nevertheless. You must allow the sign is very inviting."

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Very and it is for that very reason I mistrust it, for Paris is full of sharpers, and you may be just as well tricked by a sign as by anything else."

"Mordi!" replied the Piedmontese, "I don't care a fig for their tricks; and if the host does not serve me a chicken as well roasted as the one on his sign, I will put him on the spit and roast him instead. Come, let us go in."

"You have decided me," said the Provençal, laughing; "precede me, I beg."

Impossible, monsieur-I could not think of it; for I am only your most obedient servant, the count Annibal de Coconnas."