Doubtless, this conviction gave him strength; for after having sounded the walls and lifted the tapestry, he took the book from under his cloak, placed it on the table, then, with a hesitation that betrayed his fears, opened the book at an engraving.

The instant he had done so, he drew off his glove and cast it into the fire: the leather crackled, burned, and was soon reduced to ashes.

D'Alençon waited until he had seen it consumed, and then hastily returned to his own apartment.

As he entered, he heard steps on the winding stair, and not doubting but that it was Henry, he closed his door.

Then he looked out of his window into the court below. Henry was not there, and this strengthened François' belief that it was he whom he had just heard.

The duke sat down, and took up a book: it was the History of France, a work dedicated to Charles IX.

But the duke could not fix his attention on it; it seemed to him he could see through the walls. His eyes appeared to plunge into the chamber of Henry, spite of the obstacles that separated them.

In order to drive away the terrible object before his mind's eye, the duke vainly looked at his arms, his ornaments, his books; every detail of the engraving that he had seen but for a moment was before him still: it was a gentleman on horseback, recalling his falcon, in a flat landscape.

Then it was not the book he saw, but the king of Navarre reading it, and wetting his thumb in order to turn over the pages. At this sight, fictitious and imaginary as it was, d'Alençon staggered against a table, and covered his eyes with his hands, as if to hide the horrible vision.

Suddenly d'Alençon saw Henry in the court; he stopped a few moments to speak to the men who were loading two mules, ostensibly with his provisions for the chase, but really with the money and other things he wished to take with him; then having given his orders, he advanced towards the door.

D'Alençon stood motionless; it was not Henry, then, he had heard mount the stairs. He opened his door and listened; this time there was no mistake-it was Henry; d'Alençon recognised his step, even to the peculiar jingle of his spurs. Henry's door opened, and then closed.

6

"Bon!" said d'Alençon; "he has passed through the first apartment, he has entered his bedchamber, he has looked if his sword, his purse, and his poniard are there; then he has seen the book open on the table. What is this book?' he asks himself; 'where has it come from?—who has brought it?' Then seeing the engraving, he tries to read it, and turns over the leaves."

A cold damp passed over François.

"Will he call for help?" said he. "Is the poison sudden? No! for my mother said he would die of consumption."

Ten minutes passed in these horrible reflections; d'Alençon could support it no longer, he rose, and passed through his chamber which was already filled with gentlemen.

"Good day, gentlemen," said he, "I am going to the king."

And to distract his attention, to prepare an alibi, perhaps, d'Alençon descended to his brother's apartments. Why, he knew not-what had he to say?

Nothing! it was not Charles he sought-it was Henry he fled from.

François traversed successively the saloon and the sleepingroom, without meeting any one; he then thought Charles was in his armoury, and he opened the door.

Charles was seated at a table in an arm-chair of carved oak; his back was turned to the door by which François had entered.

"Pardieu!" cried the king, "what an admirable book!-I did not think there was such a work in France."

D'Alençon listened.

"Devil take the leaves!" said Charles, as wetting his thumb he turned them.

"It seems as if they had purposely stuck the leaves together, to conceal the marvels they contain."

D'Alençon bounded forward.

The book Charles was reading was the same that d'Alenfon had taken into Henry's room.

A

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cry burst from his lips.

Ah, it is you, d'Alençon!" said the king; "you are just in time to see the most admirable work on venerie in the world."

D'Alençon's first idea was to snatch the book from his brother, but an infernal thought restrained him.

"Sire," asked he, "how did this book come into your possession?"

"Oh, I went into Harry's room to see if he was ready, and found this treasure, which I brought down with me to read.” And the king again moistened his finger, and again turned over the page.

"Sire," faltered d'Alençon, whose hair stood on end"sire, I come to tell you

"Let me finish this chapter, François, and then tell me what you please. I have read or rather devoured fifty pages."

"My brother has tasted the poison five-and-twenty times," thought d'Alencon-"he is a dead man!”

François wiped the cold dew from his brow, and waited in silence, as the king bade him, until he had finished the chapter.

CHAPTER L.

THE HAWKING PARTY.

CHARLES read on: he seemed, indeed, to devour the pages; and each page, as we have said, was gummed to the other.

D'Alençon gazed wildly on this terrible spectacle.

"Oh," murmured he, "what will happen now? Shall I go into exile and seek a visionary throne, whilst Henry, on the first intelligence of Charles's illness, will return to some fortress near Paris, whence he may come hither in an hour or two; so that before d'Anjou even hears of Charles's death the whole dynasty will be changed."

Instantly his plan with regard to Henry altered. It was Charles who had read the poisoned book: Henry must stay. He was less to be dreaded in the Bastille, or a prisoner at Vincennes, than free, and at the head of thirty thousand

men.

The duke waited until Charles finished his chapter, and then

"Brother," said he, "I waited because you ordered me; but I have something of the greatest importance to say to you."

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Ah, the devil take you!" returned Charles, whose pale cheeks glowed with unusual fire. If you come and worry me, I'll get rid of you as I have of the king of Poland." "It is not on that subject I would speak to you. Your majesty has touched me in my most sensitive point, that of my love for you as a brother, and my devotion as your subject; and I come to prove to you I am no traitor."

"Well, well," said Charles, crossing his legs, and throwing himself back on his chair; 66 some fresh report-some new nightmare."

"No, sire; a certainty-a plot, of which I know all the details.

"A plot! let us hear this wonderful plot."

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Sire," said François, "whilst your majesty hawks in the plain of Vesinet, the king of Navarre will fly into the forest of St. Germain's, where a troop of his friends await him, and will escape with him."

"I expected this!" cried Charles; "a fresh calumny against my poor Harry! When will you leave him alone?”

I

"Your majesty need not wait long to know whether what say be true or false."

"Why not?"

"Because this evening he will be Charles rose.

gone."

"Listen," said he: "I will once more seem to believe you; but mind, it is for the last time. Without there!-summon the king of Navarre."

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A soldier was about to obey, when François stopped him. "That is a bad way to learn the truth," said he. Henry will deny it give a signal, all his accomplices will conceal themselves, and my mother and myself will be accused of calumny."

Charles opened the window, for the blood was rushing into his head.

Then turning to d'Alençon

"What would you do, then?" asked he.

"Sire," said d'Alençon-"I would surround the wood with three detachments of light horse, who, at a certain hour,

should beat the forest, and drive every one in it to the Pavilion of François the First, which I would, as if casually, have appointed as the place for dining at. Then when Henry left you, I would follow him to the rendezvous, and capture him and his accomplices."

"A good idea enough!" returned Charles. “Call the captain of my guards.”

D'Alençon drew from his doublet a silver whistle, fastened to a chain of gold, and whistled.

De Nancey appeared.

Charles gave him some orders, in an under tone.

Meanwhile Acteon, the boar-hound, had dragged a book off the table and begun to tear it.

Charles turned round and swore a terrible oath. The book was the precious Treatise on Venerie, of which there existed but three copies in the world.

The chastisement was proportionate to the offence. Charles seized a whip and lashed the dog soundly: Acteon yelled, and disappeared under a table covered with a large green cloth.

The king picked up the book, and saw with joy that but one leaf was wanting, and that leaf, not a page of text, but an engraving.

He locked it up carefully in a cupboard, to d'Alençon's great regret; who, now that it had fulfilled its fearful task, would fain have seen it out of Charles's hands.

Six o'clock struck, and the king descended.

He first closed the door of his armoury, locked it, and put the key in his pocket, d'Alençon earnestly watching each movement; on his way down stairs, he stopped, and passed his hand over his eyes.

"I do not know what is the matter with me," observed he, "but I feel very weak."

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air."

Perhaps," faltered d'Alençon-"there is a storm in tne

"A storm in March! you are mad," said Charles. "No, no; I feel a dizziness, my skin is dry, I am over-fatigued; that's all."

The fresh air, the cries of the huntsmen, and the noise of the horses and hounds, produced their ordinary effect upon him; he breathed freely, and felt exhilirant.