 St. Bartholomew's Eve by G. A. Henty. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Read by Anna Christensen. CHAPTER XIX. IN A NET. After their return from hunting, they remained for another fortnight at Beirn, and then started the Countess and François to return home, and Philip to pay a visit to the Count de Valacourt at his chateau in Dauphany, in accordance with the promise he had given him to visit him on his return to France. Here he remained for a month. The Count treated him with the warmest hospitality, and introduced him to all his friends as the savior of his daughter. Clare had grown much since he had seen her, when he had ridden over with her father to L'Andre a year before. She was now nearly sixteen, and was fast growing into womanhood. Philip was already acquainted with many of the nobles and gentry of Dauphany, who had joined the admiral's army, and after leaving Valacourt, he stayed for a short time at several of their chateaux, and it was autumn before he joined François de la Ville. The inhabited portion of the chateaux had been enlarged and made more comfortable, for the king was still firm in his decision that peace should be preserved, and showed marked favour to the section of the court that opposed any persecution of the Huguenots. He had further shown his desire for the friendship of the Protestant powers by the negotiations that had been carried on for the marriage of the Duke of Anjou to Queen Elizabeth. I have news for you Philip," François said. The king has invited the admiral to visit him. It has, of course, been a matter of great debate whether Coligny should trust himself at court. Many of his friends strongly dissuading him, but he deems it best in the interest of our religion that he should accept the invitation, and he is going to set out next week for Blois, where the king is now with the court. He will take only a few of his friends with him. He is perfectly aware of the risk he runs, but to those who entreat him not to trust himself at court, he says his going there may be a benefit to the cause, and that his life is as nothing in the scale. However, he has declined the offers that had been made by many gentlemen to accompany him, and only three or four of his personal friends ride with him. No doubt he acts wisely there, Philip said. It would be well-nigh destruction to our cause should anything befall him now, and the fewer of our leaders in Charles' hands the less temptation to the court to seize them. But I do think it possible that good may come of Coligny himself going there. He exercises wonderful influence over all who come in contact with him, and he may be able to counterbalance the intrigues of the Catholic Party and confirm the king and his present good intentions toward us. I saw him but two days ago and offered to ride in his train, Francois said, but he refused decidedly to let me. The friends who accompanied me, he said, have, like myself, well-nigh done their work. The futures for you and those who are young. I cannot dream that the king would do wrong to invited guests, but should all happen, the blow shall fall upon none of those who should be leaders of the next generation. The news of the reception of the Admiral at Valois was anxiously awaited by the Huguenots of the West, and there was great joy when they heard that he had been received most graciously by the king, who had embraced him and protested that he regarded it as one of the happiest days in his life, as he saw in his return to his side the end of trouble and an assurance of future tranquility. Even Catherine de Medici received the Admiral with warmth. The king presented him from his private purse with a large sum of a hundred thousand levers to make good some of the great losses he had suffered in the war. He also ordered that he should receive for a year the revenues of his brother, the Cardinal, who had lately died and appointed him guardian of one of the greatest states during the minority of its heir, a post which brought with it considerable profits. At Colligny's suggestion, Charles wrote to the Duke of Savoy, interceding for the well-dunctions, who were being persecuted cruelly for having assisted the Huguenots of France. So angered were the guises by the favour with which the king treated the Admiral, that they were tired from the court, and the king was less left entirely to the influence of monforensie and colligny. The ambassador of Spain, who was further angered by Charles' granting interviews to Louis of Nassau and by his holding out hopes to the Dutch of assistance in their struggle against Elva, also left France in deep anger and with threats of war. The result was naturally to cause a better state of feeling throughout France. Persecutions everywhere ceased, and the Huguenots for their first time for many years were able to live in peace and without fear of their neighbours. The negotiations for the marriage between the prince of Navarre and Marguerite de Valois continued, the prince was now eighteen-and-a-half and the princess twenty. The idea of a marriage between them was of old standing, for it had been proposed by Henry II fifteen years before, but at the outbreak of the Huguenot troubles it had been dropped. Marshal Barot was sent by the king with her royal proposals to the queen of Navarre, who was now at La Rochelle. The queen expressed her gratitude with the honour offered to her son, but prayed for time before giving a decided answer in order that she might consult the ministers of her religion as to whether such a marriage might be entered into by one of the reformed religion. The news of the proposed marriage and also of the negotiations had been opened for a marriage between Elizabeth of England and the Duke de la Coole, created the greatest alarm throughout the Catholic world. A legate was sent to Charles by the Pope to protest against it. Sebastian, king of Portugal, who had refused the hand of Marguerite when it had been before offered to him, re-opened negotiations for it, while Philip of Spain did all in his power to throw obstacles in the way of the match. The ministers of the reformed religion, consulted by the queen, considered that the marriage of Henry to Marguerite would be a vast benefit to the Huguenot cause, and declared that a mixed marriage was lawful. The English ambassador gave his strongest support to it, and the Queen of Navarre now entered upon the negotiations in earnest, and went to Bluoy for the purpose. The differences were entirely religious ones. The court insisting that Henry, while living at Paris with his wife, should consent to be deprived of all means of worshiping according to his own religion, while Marguerite, while living in Beirne, should be guaranteed permission to have mass celebrated there. The king would have been ready to wave both conditions, but Catherine, who, after at first favoring the match now through every obstacle in its way, was opposed to any concession. She refused to permit the Queen of Navarre to have any interview with either Charles or Marguerite, in that she also was present, and hesitated at no falsehoods however outrageous in order to thwart the efforts of Jean and her friends. The pious Queen Jean, however, was more troubled by the extreme and open profecacy of the court than by the political difficulties she encountered, and in her letters implored her son to insist upon residing at Beirne with his wife, and on no account to take up as a boat at Paris. However, at last the difficulties were the court abandoned its demand that Marguerite should be allowed to attend mass at Beirne, and the Queen of Navarre, on her part, consented that the marriage would take place in Paris, instead of at Beirne as she had before desired. She then went to Paris to make preparations for the wedding. The great anxiety she had gone through told heavily upon her, and a few days after her arrival at the capital she was seized with a fever, which, in a very short time, terminated her life, not without considerable suspicions being entertained that her illness and death had been caused by poison administered by an agent of Catherine. Jean was indebted to thee, one of the noblest women of her own or any other time. She was deeply religious, ready to incur all dangers for the sake of her faith. Simple in her habits, pure in her life, unconquerable in spirit, calm and confident in defeat and danger, never doubting for a moment that God would give victory to his cause, and capable of communicating her enthusiasm to all around her. A Christian heroine, indeed. Her death was a terrible blow to the reform religion. She died on the 9th of June, and the marriage was, in consequence, deferred until August. The admiral had not been present at Blois during the negotiations for the marriage, for after remaining there for three weeks he had retired to the state of Chateaune, where he occupied himself with the work of restoring his ruined Chateau. The Countess Amille had accompanied the Queen of Navarre to Blois, and also to Paris, and had been with her at the time she died. She had sent a message to Francois and Philip to join her there when she left Blois, accompanying her letter with a safe conduct signed by the King. It was a severe blow to both of them, not only from the effect it would have upon the Huguenot cause, but from the affection they had personally felt from her. The King being grievously harassed by the opposite councils he received, and his doubts as to which of his advisors were honest, wrote to Coligny begging him to come and aid him with his counsel and support. The admiral received many letters imploring him not to go to Paris, where, even if the friendship of the King continued, he would be exposed to the danger of poison to which it was generally believed his brothers and the Queen of Navarre had succumbed. But although fully aware of the danger of the step, he did not hesitate. To one of his counselors, he wrote fearlessly. As a royal officer, I cannot in honor refuse to comply with the summons of the King, but will commit myself to the providence of him who holds in his hands the heart of kings and princes, and has numbered my years, nay, the very hairs of my head. One reason of the King's desire for the councils of the admiral was that he had determined to carry out his advice, and that of Louis of Nassau, to assist the Protestants of Holland and to embark in a struggle against the dangerous predominance of Spain. As a first step, he had already permitted Louis of Nassau to recruit secretly in France 500 horse and 1,000 infantry from among his Huguenot friends, and to advance with them into the Netherlands. And with these, Louis had on the 24th of May captured Moun, the capital of Hennelt. The Huguenot leaders did their best to persuade Charles to follow up this stroke by declaring war against Spain. And the King would have done so had it not been that Elizabeth of England, who had before urged him to this course, promising him to be more aid, now drew back with her usual vacillation, wishing nothing better than to see France and Spain engaged in hostilities from which she could, without trouble or expense, gain advantage. Meanwhile, Catherine, and Jew, and the Guise faction, all did their best to counteract the influence of the Huguenots. Elizabeth's crafty and hesitating policy was largely responsible for the terrible events that followed. Charles saw that she had been fooling him, both in reference to his course towards Spain, and in her negotiations for a marriage with one or other of his brothers. These matters were taken advantage of by his Catholic advisers, and disposed him to doubt the wisdom of his having placed himself in the hands of the Huguenots. While Elizabeth was hesitating, a blow came that confirmed the King and his doubts as to the prudence of the course he had taken. El Vélez Siege de Moun, a Huguenot force of some 3,000 men, led by the Chur de Genly, marched to its relief, but was surprised and early rooted within a short distance of the town. 1,200 were killed on the field of battle. Some 19 Huguenots were slain by the peasantry, barely a hundred, Richemont. Cologny, who was preparing a much larger force for the assistance of Louis of Nassau, still strove to induce the King to throw himself heart and soul into the struggle against Spain, and even warned him that he would never be a true King until he could free himself from his mother's control and the influence of his brother and Jew. The Queen Mother, who had spies everywhere, was not long in learning that Cologny had given this advice, and her hatred against him was proportionally increased. She had once went in tears to Charles, and pointed out to him that it was to her counsel and aid alone that he had owed his success against the Huguenots, that they were now obtaining all the advantages for which they fought in vain, and that he was endangering the safety of his throne by angering Spain, who lying only on the empty promises of the faithless Queen of England. Charles, always weak and irresolute, succumbed at once to her tears and entreaties, and gave himself up altogether to her pernicious counsels. After the death of the Queen of Navarre, they count as travel back to L'Eville, escorted by her son and Philip. The young men may no stay there, but return it once to Paris, where, now that Cologny was in the King's councils, there was no ground for fear, and the approaching neptials of the young King of Navarre will be attended by large numbers of his adherents. They took a lodging near that occupied by the admiral. Dila Nui was not at court, he being shut up and mourned, having accompanied Louis of Nassau in his expedition. The court was in deep mourning for the Queen of Navarre, and there would be no public gayities until the wedding. Among the Huguenot lords who had come to Paris were the Count de la Cour and his daughter, who was now 17, and had several suitors for a hand among the young Huguenot nobles. François and Philip were both presented to the King by the admiral. Charles received them graciously, and learning that they had been stopping at Beirn with the Prince of Navarre, presented them to his sister Marguerite. These gentlemen Marguerite are friends of the King of Navarre, and will be able to tell you more about him than these grey politicians can do. The Princess, who was one of the most beautiful women of her time, asked them many questions about her future husband, of whom she had seen so little since his childhood, and about the place where she was to live. And after that time when they went to court with the admiral, who on such occasions was always accompanied by a number of Huguenot gentlemen, the young Princess always showed them more friendliness. As the time for the marriage approached, the King became more and more estranged from the admiral. Queen Elizabeth, while professing her friendship for the Netherlands, had forbidden English volunteers to sail to the assistance of their Dutch, and had written to Elva offering in token of her friendship to hand over flushing to the Spaniards. This proof of her duplicity, and of the impossibility of trusting her as an ally, was made the most of by Catherine, and she easily persuaded the weak-minded King that hostilities with the Spaniards would be fatal to him. And that, should he yield to the admirals and treaties, he would fall wholly into the power of the Huguenots. The change in the King's deportment was so visible that the Catholics did not conceal their exultation, while feeling of uneasiness spread among some of the Huguenot gentlemen at Paris. What are you doing, Puri? Philip said one day when he found his servant occupied in cleaning out the two pairs of heavy pistols they had carried in their holsters. I am getting them ready for action, master. I always thought that the Huguenots were fools who put their heads into this cage, and the more I see of it, the less I like it. There can be no reason for uneasiness, Puri. The King himself has over and over declared his determination to maintain the truce, and even did he harbor ill designs against us. He would not mar a sister's marriage by fresh steps against the Huguenots. What may follow after we have all left Paris, I cannot say. Well, sir, I hope it may be all right. But since I got a sight of the King's face the other day, I have no faith in him. He looks like one word until well now out of his senses, and no wonder. These weak men, when they become desperate, are capable of the most terrible actions. A month since he would have hung up his mother and Anju had they ventured to oppose him, and there is no saying now upon whom his wrath may fall. And he writes, sir, with your permission I mean to be prepared for the worst, and the first work is to clean these pistols. There can be no harm in that anyhow, Puri, but I have no shadow of fear of any trouble occurring. The one thing I am afraid of is that the King will keep Coligny near him, so that if war should break out again we shall not have him for our general, with the Queen of Navarre dead, the Admiral of Prisoner here, and Dila Nui a captive in the hands of Elva. We should fight under terrible disadvantages, especially as La Rochelle, La Charité, and Montaubon have received royal governors in accordance with the conditions of the peace. Well, we shall see, master. I shall feel more comfortable if I have got ready for the worst. Although Philip laughed at the fears of Puri, he was yet impressed by what he had said, for he had come to rely very much upon the shrewdness of observation of his follower. When, however, he went that evening to the county by the core, he saw that there was no tinge of such feeling in the minds of the Huguenots present. The only face that had an unusual look was that of Claire. Apparently she was gayer than usual, and laughed and talked more than was her want. But Philip saw that this move was not a natural one, and felt sure that something had happened. Presently, when he passed near her, she made room for him on the setee beside her. You have not heard the news, Mongeur Philip? No, mademoiselle. I have heard no particular news. I am glad of it. I would rather tell you myself. My father, today, laid his commands on me to marry the Shure de Pascal. Philip could not trust himself to speak. He had never acknowledged to himself that he loved Claire de Velikor, and had over and over again endeavored to impress upon his mind the fact that it would be ridiculous for him even to think of her, but that our father would never dream of giving her a rich heiress, and the last one of the proudest families of Dauphiny, to a simple English gentleman. As he did not speak, the girl went on after a pause. It is not my wish, Mongeur Philip, but French girls do not choose for themselves. My father stayed his wishes to me three months ago in Dauphiny, and then asked him for a little time, and now he has told me that it is to be. He is wise and good, and had nothing to say against the Shure de Pascal, who, as you know, is our near neighbor, a brave gentleman, and one who I have known since my childhood. It is only that I do not love him. I told my father so, but he says that it is not to be expected that a young maid should love until after marriage. And you have promised? Yes, I have promised, she said simply. It is the duty of a daughter to obey her father, especially when that father is as good and kind as one has always been to me. There, he is beckoning to me, and rising she crossed the room. Philip, a few minutes later, took his departure quietly. François de la Velikor came in an hour afterwards to their lodgings. Well, Philip, I did not see you leave the counts. Did you hear the news before you left? The count announced it shortly after you had gone. His daughter told me herself. I am sorry, Philip. I had thought, perhaps. But it is of no use talking of that now. Not the least in the world, François. It is natural that our father should wish her to marry a noble of his own province. She has consented, and there is no more to be said. When is Henry to arrive? We are all to write out to meet him and to follow him into Paris. I hope that it will all pass off well. Why, of course it will. What is to be evented? The wedding will be the grandest ever known in Paris. I heard that Henry brings with him seven hundred, you good un-gentlemen, and a hundred of us here will join him under the admiral. It will be a brave sight. I wish it was all over. Why, it is not often you are in low spirits, Philip. Is it the news that has upset you, or have you heard something else? No, but Paris has been croaking and prophesying evil, and although I in no way agree with him, it has still made me uneasy. Why, what is there to fear? Not the mob of Paris. Surely they would never venture to brave the king's anger by marring the nuptials by disorder, and if they did, be things that eight hundred of us, with colony at our head, could cut our way through the mob of Paris from one end of the city to the other. The entrance of the kingdom of Arr into Paris was indeed an imposing sight. Colony with his train had joined him outside the town, and the admiral wrote on one side of the young king, and the prince of Conde on the other. With them were the dukes of Anjou and Ellen Coole, who had ridden out with a gay-trained nobles to welcome Henry in the king's name, and to escort him into the city. The human aunts were still in mourning for the late queen, but the sumptuous materials of their dress set off by their gold chains and ornaments made a brave show even by the sight of the gay costumes of the prince's party. The betrothal took place at the Louvre on the seventeenth of August and was followed by a supper and a ball. After the conclusion of the festivities, Marguerite was, in accordance with the custom of the princesses of the blood, escorted by her brothers in a large retinue to the vicious palace adjoining the cathedral, to pass the night before her wedding there. The ceremony upon the following day was a most gorgeous one. The king, his two brothers, Henry of Navarre and Conde, were all dressed alike in light yellow satin embroidered with silver and enriched with precious stones. Marguerite was in a violet velvet dress embroidered with fleur de ly, and she wore on her head a crown glittering with gems. The queen and the queen mother were dressed in cloth of gold, upon a lofty platform in front of the cathedral of Notre Dame. Henry of Navarre, with his train of Protestant lords, awaited the coming of the bride, who was escorted by the king and all the members of his court. The ceremony was performed in sight of an enormous concourse of people by the cardinal Bourbon, who used a form that had been previously agreed upon by both parties. Henry then led his bride into the cathedral, and afterwards with his Protestant companions, retired to the Episcopal Palace while Mass was being said. When this was over the whole party sat down to dinner in the Episcopal Palace. In the evening entertainment was given in the Louvre to the notabilities of Paris, and after supper there was a Mass of the most lavish magnificence. On Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday there was a continuation of pageants and entertainments. During these festivities the king had shown marked courtesy to the admiral and the Huguenot lords, and it seemed as if he had again emancipated himself from his mother's influence, and the hopes of the Protestants that he would shortly declare war with Spain were raised to the highest point. All of the question was greatly debated at the time, and the belief that the Massacre of the Protestants was deliberately planned long before him by the king and queen mother is still generally entertained. The balance of evidence is strongly the other way. What dark thoughts may have passed to the scheming brain of Catherine de Medici, none can say. But it would certainly appear that it was not until after the marriage of Henri and Marguerite that they took form. She was driven to bay. She saw that in the event of a war with Spain the Huguenots would become all powerful in France. Already the influence of the admiral was greater than her own, and it had become a battle of life and death with her. For calling me, in his fearless desire to do what was right, and that the service of France was imprudent enough over and over again to warn the king against the evil influence of the queen mother and the Duke of Anjou, and Charles in his spits of temper did not hesitate to divulge these councils. The Duke of Anjou and his mother therefore came to the conclusion that colony must be put out of the way. The Duke afterwards did not scruple to evaluate share and the preparations for the Massacre of Saint Bartholomew. The Duchess of Nemours, her son Henry of Guise, and her brother-in-law the Duke de Omolet, were taken into their councils, and the plane was speedily settled. Few as were the conspirators taken into the confidence of the queen mother. Mysterious rumors of danger reached the ears of the Huguenots. Some of these taking the alarm left Paris and made for their estates. But by far the greater portion refused to believe that there can be danger to those whom the king had invited to be present upon such an occasion. In another week, Coligny would be leaving, having, as he hoped, bought the king entirely round to his views, and the vast majority of the Huguenot gentlemen resolved to stay until he left. Paris grew more and more serious. Francois had left the lodgings, being one of the Huguenot gentlemen whom Henry of Navarre had chosen to lodge with him at the Louvre. You are getting quite unbearable, Paris, with your long face and your grim looks. Philip said to him on the Friday morning, half in joke and half in earnest, Why, man, in another week we shall be out of Paris and on our way south. I hoped so, Mondre Philip, with all my heart I hoped so. But I feel just as I used to do when I was a boy living in the woods, and I saw a thundercloud working up overhead. I cannot tell you why I feel so. It is something in the air. I wish, sir, oh so much, that you would leave at once. That I cannot do, Paris. I have no estates that demand my attention, no excuse whatever for going. I came here with my cousin, and I shall leave with him. Who else, sir, if it must be, it must. But what is it you fear, Paris? When one is in a town, sir, with Catherine de Montiqui, and her son Anjou, and the Gises, there is always something to fear. Gises, the idol of the mob of Paris, who have already shown themselves ready to attack the Huguenots. He has but to hold up his finger, and they will be swarming on us like bees. But there are troops in the town, Paris, and the king would punish Paris heavily where to insult his guests. The king is a weather cock, and goes whichever way the wind blows, Mondreur. Today is with the admiral, tomorrow he may be with the Gises. At any rate, I have taken my precautions. I quite understand that if the danger is foreseen, you will all rally around the admiral and try to fight your way out of Paris. But if it comes suddenly, there will be no time for this. At any hour the mob make him surging up the street shouting, as they have often shouted before, death to the Huguenots. The then Mondreur fighting would not avail you. You would be unable to join your friends, and you would have to think first of your own life. I have been examining the house, and I find that from an upper window one can gain the roof. I got out yesterday evening after it was dark, and found that I could easily make my way along. The tenth house from here is the one where the Count developed core lodges, and it is easier to gain access to it by a window in the roof. There will be some of your friends there at any rate, or we can pass down through any of the intervening houses. In the three before we reach that account, Huguenots are lodged. The others belong to Catholics, but it might be possible to pass down through them and go to the street and observe. I have bought for myself some rags which are worn by the lowest of the mob. And for you, a monk's gown and hood, these I have placed securely against the chimney on our roof. I have also, Mondreur. And Paris' eyes twinkled, about the dress of a woman of the lower class, thinking that there might be some lady you might be desirous of saving. You frighten me, Paris, with your roofs and your disguises. Philip said, looking with wonder to swallow her. Why, man, this is the nightmare of your own imagination. It may be so, master. If it is, no harm is done. I laid out a few crowns uselessly, and there was an end of it. But if it should not be a nightmare, but are a real positive danger, you would at least be prepared for it. And those few crowns may be the saving of our lives. Philip walked up and down for some time. At any rate, Paris, you have acted wisely. As you say, the cost is as nothing, and though my reasons were volt against a belief in this nightmare of yours, I am not such a fool as to refuse to pay any attention to it. I know that you are no coward, and certainly not one to indulge in wild fancies. Let us go a step farther. Suppose that all this should turn out true, and that you, I, and some lady are in disguise in the midst of a howling mob shouting, Death to the Huguenots! What should we do next? Where should we go? It seems to me that your disguise, for me, is a badly chosen one. As a monk, how could I keep with you as a beggar, still less with a woman? When I bought the monk's robe, I had not thought of a woman, monjour. That was an afterthought. But what you say is just. I must get you another disguise. You shall be dressed as a butcher or a smith. Let it be a smith by all means, Paris. Besides, it would be safer. I would smear my face with dirt. I should get plenty on my hands from climbing over the roofs. Let us suppose ourselves, then, in the mob. What should we do next? That would all depend, sir, whether the soldiers follow the geese and take part with the mob when they're rising. If so, Paris would be in a terminal from end to end, and the gates closed. I thought it all over again and again. And while your worship has been attending the entertainment, I have been walking about Paris. If it is at night, I should say we had best make our way for the river. Take a boat and drift down, or else make for the walls and lower ourselves by a rope from them. If it is in the day, we could not do that. And I have found a hovel, at present untenanted, close to the walls, and we can wait there until night. You will end by making me believe this, Paris. Philip said angrily as he walked up and down the room with impatient steps. If you had a shadow of foundation for what you say, even a rumor that you had picked up in the street, I would go straight to the admiral. But how could I go and say, my servant, who is a faithful fellow, has taken it into his head that there is a danger from attack on us by the mob. What think you the admiral would say to that? He would say that it was next door to treason to imagine such things. And that if men were to act upon such fancies as these, they would be fit only for hospitals for the insane. Moreover, he would say that even if you had evidence, even if you had something to show that treacherous meant, he would still, in the interest of France, stay at his post of duty. At this moment the door opened and Francois de la Ville entered hurriedly. What is the matter, Francois? Philip exclaimed, seeing that his cousin looked pale and agitated. Have you not heard the news? I have heard nothing. I have not been out this morning. The admiral has been shot. Philip uttered an exclamation of horror. Not killed, Francois. Not killed, I trust. No, two balls were fired. One took off a finger of his right hand, and another has lodged in his left arm. He had just left the king, who was playing at tennis, and was walking home with two or three gentlemen, when an archibus was fired from a house not far from his own. Two of the gentlemen with him assisted his home, while some of the others burst in the door of the house. They were too late. Only a woman and a man servant were found there. The assassin had fled by the back of the house, where a horse was standing and waiting. It is said that the house belongs to the old Duchess of Guise. It is half an hour since the news reached the palace, and you may imagine the consternation in it excited. The king has shut himself up in his room. Navarre and Condé are in deep grief, but they both regard the admiral almost as a father. As for the rest of us, we are furious. There was a report that the man who was seen galloping away from the house, from which the shop was fired, was that villain Maravelle, who so treacherously shot Demoy, and was rewarded by the king for the deed. It is also said that a groom in the livery of Guise was holding the horse when the assassin issued out. Navarre and Condé have gone to call of knee. The king's surgeon is dressing his wounds. I must go back to the Louvre, François said, and take my place by the king in Navarre. He is going to see the king, and to demand permission to leave Paris at once. Condé and La Roche-Fecolle are going to see the king as soon as they return from the admirals, for the same purpose, as it is evident their lives are not safe here. Philip made his way to the admiral's house in the rue de Bethesie. Numbers of Huguenot gentlemen were hurrying in that direction, all like himself, armed, and deeply moved with grief and indignation, for Colligny was regarded with deep affection as well as reverence by his followers. Each as he overtook others eagerly inquired the news, for as yet most of them had learned nothing beyond vague rumors of the affair. Philip's account of it increased their indignation, so it was no act of a mere fanatic, but the work of the Guises, and probably of Catherine and Anjou. In a short time between two and three hundred gentlemen were gathered in the courtyard and antechamber of Colligny's house. Some walked up and down silent in stern. Others gathered in groups and passionately discussed the matter. This was an attack not only upon the admiral, but upon the Huguenots in general. It was the work of the Guises, ever the deadliest foe of the reformed faith. The author of every measure taken against them, the cause of all the blood that had been shed in the civil wars. One thing was certain, all must leave Paris and prepare for a renewal of the war. But it was equally certain they could not leave until the admiral was fit to be moved. Truly he is a saint, said one of the gentlemen who had come down from the room where Colligny was lying. He suffered atrociously at the hands of the surgeon, for he had come without his instruments and amputated Colligny's fingers with a dagger so blunt that it was only on the third attempt that he succeeded. Merlin, his minister, was by his side, with several of his most intimate friends. We were in tears at the sight of our noble chief, thus traitorously struck down. He turned to us and said calmly, My friends, why do you weep? As for me, I deem myself happy at having thus received wounds for the sake of God. Then he said that he most sincerely forgave the man who wounded him and those who had instigated him to make the attack. Knowing for certain that it was beyond their power to hurt him, for even till they kill him, death would be a certain passage to life. An hour later, Francois arrived. The prince has seen the king, Philip. He is furious and has sworn that he will inflict the most signal punishment upon the authors and instigators of the crime. Colligny has received the wound, but the king himself most felt the smart. The king of Novar told me he was sure that Charles was deeply in earnest. He feels it in a threefold sense. First, because it is the renewal of the troubles that he had hoped to put an end to. In the second place, because Colligny is his guest. And lastly, because he has the greatest respect and confidence in him, not only believing in his wisdom, but knowing that his counsel is always sincere and disinterested, he is coming to visit the admiral himself this afternoon, Philip. It is no use our staying here. There is nothing to be done and no prospect of seeing the admiral. As they move toward the entrance to the courtyard, they count de Valochor join them. I have just left the admiral, he said. He is easier and the king's surgeon is of opinion that he will recover from his wounds and possibly may be fit to travel in a litter in another week. That is good news indeed, Francois said. For the sooner we are all out of Paris, the better. There is no doubt of that. They count agreed. But as all say that the king is furious at this attack upon the admiral, I do not think that Jesus dares strike it in their blow for some time. Still, I shall be glad indeed when we can set forth. It is certain we cannot leave the admiral here. The villains who made the attempt will be furious at its failure, and next time they may use the weapon to which they are most accustomed. Poison. Even if the king himself begged him to stay at the Louvre until cured, Catherine de Medici is there, and I would not trust him under the same rift for her for all my estates. We have been talking it over, and all agree that we must wait until he can be moved. In constant as Charles is, there is no fear of a change in his friendly intentions now. He has already closed all the gates of Paris saved to, and everyone who goes in or out is closely questioned and has to show his papers. By this time they had arrived at the door of the counts dwelling. Come in, he said. My daughter is terribly upset at this attack upon the admiral, for whom she is a profound reference, and were she a Catholic? Would, I doubt not, make him our patron saint. How is he, Father? Claire asked eagerly as they entered the room. He is better, Claire, for the king's physician thinks he has every chance of recovering. God be praised, she said earnestly. It would indeed have been a terrible day for us all had the assassin taken his life, and it would have seemed a mark of heaven's anger at this marriage of the Protestant king with a Catholic princess. What says King Charles? He is as angry as any of us, and to close with the assassin and those who abetted him shall be punished in the severest manner. He has visited the admiral and expressed his grief and indignation to him. I shall be glad to get back in Dauphiné, Father. This city with its wickedness and its violence is hateful to me. We shall soon go, dear. The doctor hoped that in a week the admiral would be well enough to be moved in a litter, and we shall all accompany him. A week is a long time, Father. So much may happen in a week. There is no fear of anything happening, Claire. You must not let the side of business affect your nerves. The anger of the king is so great that you may be sure none will attempt to repeat the stroke. What thank you, Bonjour de la vieux. I agree with you altogether, Count. And you, Bonjour Philip? I see no cause for a fear count, and yet I feel sure that it would be well to take every precaution. I acknowledge that I have no grounds but ever for my fear. I have been infected by my lackey, who is generally the lightest-hearted and most reckless fellow, but who has now turned croaker and fears of sudden rising of the mob of Paris, instigated there, too, but the guises. Has he heard anything to favour such an idea? Or was it merely born of today's outrage? No. I think he has heard nothing specific, though he may have caught up vague threats and wanderings to the streets. Why, that is not like you, they count, said smiling, who have been through so many fights and dangerous adventures to be alarmed at a shadow. No, Count. And you do not think that I am given any more than is my lackey to somber thoughts, but I own that he has infected me and I would that some precautions could be taken. Precautions of what kind, Bonjour Philip? I have not thought them out, Philip said, but were I the next and ranked to the admiral? I would enjoin that a third of our number should be under arms night and day, and should at night patrol our quarters. Secondly, that a rallying play should be appointed, say at the admirals, to which all should mount and ride directly an alarm is given. The first part could hardly be managed here, the Count said gravely. It would seem that we doubted the royal assurances of good faith in his promises of protection. We have enemies enough about the King's ear, and such a proceeding would be sure to be misrepresented to him. You know how wayward are his moods, and that it would need but a slight thing to excite his irritation and undo all the good that the admiral has effected. Two or three other Huguenot gentlemen now entered, and a general conversation on the state of affairs took place. Philip was standing a little apart from the others, when Claire came up. You really believe in danger, Montje-Philippe? Frankly I do, mademoiselle. The population hate us. There have been Huguenot massacres over and over again in Paris. The geysers are doubtless the instigators of this attack upon the admiral. They are the idols of the Paris mob, and if they gave the word it would at once rise against us. As I told your father, I have no real reason for an easiness, but nevertheless I am uneasy. Then the danger must be real, the girl said simply. Have you any advice to give me? Only this, you have but a week to stay here in Paris. During that time make excuses so as not to stir abroad in the streets more than you can help. And in the second place I would say, lie down in your clothes at night, so as to be in readiness to rise instantly. I will do that. There is nothing else? Nothing that I can think of. I hope and trust that the emergency will not come, but at any rate, until it does come, we can do no more. A few minutes later Philip and his cousin took their leave. The former went back to his lodgings, the latter to the Louvre. Philip was surprised at not finding Paris, and set up later than usual expecting his return, but it was not till he was rising the next morning that the man made his appearance. Why, where have you been all night? Philip asked angrily. This is not the time for pleasure. I have been outside the walls, master. What in the world did you go there for, Paris? Well, sir, I was here when Manjour de Léville brought in the news of the shooting of the admiral. This seemed to me to bear out all that I have said to you. You hurried away without my having time to speak to you, so I took it upon myself to act. In what way, Paris? I went straight to the stable, sir, and took one of your honor's chargers and my horse, and, riding one and leading the other, passed through the gate before the orders came about closing them. I rode them to a village six miles away, and put them up at a small inn there, and left them in the landlord's charge. I told the stable-boy that he should have a crown for himself. If I may return, I found the horses in as good condition as I left them. Then I walked back to Paris and found a crowd of people unable to enter, and learned that the gates had been closed by the king's order. I went off to St. Denis, and there about a long rope and an iron hook, and at two in the morning, when I thought that any sentries there might be on the walls would be drowsy, came back again to Paris, threw out my hook, and climbed into one of the bastions near the hut we had marked. There I slept until the morning, and now you see me. I have taken out the horses so that, should you be able to fly, there will be means of escape. One charger will suffice for your once here, and to ride away upon if you go out with a Huguenot company, or by force of arms. As for me, I would make my way out on foot, get the horses, and rejoin you. It was a good idea, Paris, and promptly carried out. But no one here has much thought of danger, and I feel ashamed of myself at being the only one to feel uneasy. A wise man is uneasy while the fool sleeps. Paris said, If the Prince of Condé had been uneasy the night before Jean-Noix, he would not have lost his life, and we should not have lost a battle. No harm has been done. If danger does come, we at least have prepared for it. However, surely we may count upon victory. A good general always lays his plans in case of defeat. At any rate, we are prepared for everything. Paris mettered something to himself. What did you say, Paris? I was only thinking, Master, that I should feel pretty confident of our getting away with our only our two selves to think about. What with our disguises, and what with your honor's strong arm, and what I can do to back you, and what with our being on our guard? It would be hard if we did not make our way safe off. But I foresee that, should there be trouble, it is none of your own safety you will be thinking. Madame Musel developed course engaged to the Sur de Pascal, Philip said gravely. So I heard from one of the Count's luckies, that there was many a slip between the cup and the lip, and in such days as these there was many an engagement that never becomes a marriage. I guessed how it would be that night after you had saved Madame Musel Claire's life, and I thought so still more when we were staying at Valacour. Then your thoughts ran too fast, Paris. Madame Musel du Valacour is a great heiress, and the Count should, of course, give her a marriage to one of his own rank. Paris shook his shoulders, almost imperceptibly. Your honor's doubtless right, he said humbly, and therefore, seeing that she has our father, and Montjour du Pascal to protect her, we need not trouble more about its articles of attire stowed away on the roof above, but she'll be able to concern herself solely with her own safety, which puts a much better compulsion on the matter. The whole matter is ridiculous, Paris, and I am a fool to have listened to you. There, go and see about breakfast, or I shall lose my patience with you altogether. There were several consultations during the day between the leading cougarnauts. There was no apparent ground for suspicion that the attack upon the admiral had been part of a general plot, that it was but the outcome of the animosity of the guises in the Queen Mother, against a man who had long withstood them, who was now higher than themselves in the King's confidence, and who had persuaded him to undertake an enterprise that would range France on the side of the Protestant powers. The balance of evidence is all in favor of the truth of this opposition, and to the effect that it was only upon the failure of their scheme against the admiral that the conspirators determined upon a general massacre of the cougarnauts. They worked upon the weak King's mind until they persuaded him that Cullogne was at the head of a plot against himself, and that nothing short of his death, and those of his followers, could procure peace and quiet for France. At last, in a sudden rage of fury, Charles not only ranged himself on their side, but astonished Catherine and Jew and their companions by going even farther than they had done, and declaring that every cougarnaut should be killed. This sudden change, in his subsequent conduct during the few months that remained to him of life, seemed to point to the effect that this fresh outbreak of trouble shattered his weak brain, and that he was not fairly responsible for the events that followed, the guilt of which rushed wholly upon Catherine de Medici, Henry of Anjou, and the leaders of the part of the Gises. Philip spent a considerable portion of the day at the Louvre with Henry of Navarre, François de la Ville, and a few of the young King's closest followers. There was no shadow of disquiet in the minds of any of them. The doctors reported that the Admiral's state was favorable, and although all would have been glad to be on their way south, they regarded the detention of a few days as a matter of little importance. Listening to their talk about the court entertainments and pleasures, Philip quite shook off his uneasiness, and was angry with himself for having listened to Paris' prognostications of evil. All these jugonaut lords know France and the Parisians better than I do, he said to himself. No thought of danger occurs to them. It is not even not necessary that a few of them should take up their abode at the Admiral's. They have every faith in the King's protestations and pledges for their safety. Philip dined at the Louvre, and it was ten o'clock before he returned to his lodging. He was an excellent spirit, and saluted Paris with a laughing inquiry. Well, Board of Ilomen, what fresh ploddings have you discovered? You will not believe me, master, when I tell you. Oh, then, is there something new? Philip said, seating himself on a couch. Let me hear all about it, Paris, and I will try not to laugh. Will you descend with me to the door, Montre-Philip? Assuredly I will, if it will please you, though what you are going to show me there I cannot imagine. Paris led the way downstairs and out through the door. Do you see that, sir? Yes, I see that, Paris. What do you take it to be, sir? Well, it is not too dark to see what it is, Paris. It is a small white cross that some urchin has chalked on the door. Will you please to walk a little farther, sir? There is a cross on this door. There is none here, neither on the next. Here you see another, and then a door without one. Now, sir, does that not strike you as curious? Well, I don't know, Paris. A boy might very well chalk some doors as he went along and leave others unmarked. Yes, sir, but there was one very remarkable thing. I have gone on through several streets, and it has always been the same. So far as I can discover by questioning the concierges, at every house in which Huguenots are lodging, there was a white cross on the door. In the houses that are not marked there are no Huguenots. That is strange, certainly, Paris. Philip said, struck alike by the fact, and by the earnestness with which Paris expressed it. Are you quite sure of what you say? I am quite sure, sir. I returned here at nine o'clock and saw this mark on a door. I did not pay much at heed to it, but went upstairs. Then, as I thought it over, I said to myself, Is this a freak of some passerby, or is it some sort of signal? Then I thought I would see whether our house alone was marked, or whether there were crosses on other doors. I went to the houses of several gentlemen of our party, and on each of their doors was a white cross. Then I looked farther and found that other houses were unmarked. Some of these are not, and ask for one or other of your friends. In each case I heard that I was mistaken, for that no Huguenots were lodging there. It is evident, sir, that this is not a thing of chance, but that these crosses are placed there by design. Philip went down the street and satisfied himself that Paris had spoken correctly, and then returned to his lodgings. Pausing, however, before the house of the Count devised a core and erasing the cross upon it. He entered his own door without touching the mark, but Paris, who followed him in, rubbed the sleeve of his doublet across it unnoticed by his master, and then followed him upstairs. Philip seated himself thoughtfully. I like not these marks, Paris. There may be nothing of importance in them. Some fanatic may have taken the trouble to place these crosses upon our doors, cursing us as he did so, but at the same time, that they may have been placed there for some slight purpose, of which I am ignorant. Hither, too, there has been nothing whatever to give any foundation to your fancies. But here is at least something tangible, whatever it may mean. What is your own idea? My own idea is, sir, that they intend to arrest all the admiral's followers, and that the king, while speaking us fair, is really guided by Catherine, and has consented to our plans for the capture of all of the Huguenot lords who have come into this trap. I cannot believe that such an act of black churchery can be contemplated, Paris. All Europe would cry out against the king, who, inviting numbers of his nobles to the marriage of a sister, seize that occasion for imprisoning them. It may not be done by him, sir. It may be the work of the Guise's agents among the mob of Paris, and that they intend to massacre us as they did at Rouen, and a score of other places, and as they have done here in Paris more than once. That is as hard to believe as the other, Paris. My own supposition is by far the most probable, and that it is the work of some fanatic. But at any rate, we will be on the watch tonight. It is too late to do anything else, and where I take a round to our friends, they would mock at me for paying any attention to such a trifle as a chalk marker and a door. I own that I think it's serious. Because I have come, in spite of my reason, to believe somewhat in your forebodings, but no one else seems to entertain any such fears. Opening the casement, Philip seated himself there. Do you lie down, Paris? At two o'clock I will call you, and you shall take my place. Paris went out, but before lying down he again went quietly downstairs, and with a wet cloth entirely erased the mark from the door, and then placing his sword in his pistols ready at hand, lay down upon his pallet. At one o'clock Philip aroused him. There is something unusual going on here, Paris. I can see a light in the sky as of many torches, and can hear a confused sound as of the murmur of men. I will sally out and see what it is. Placing his pistols in his belt and taking his sword he wrapped himself in his cloak, and followed by Paris, also armed, went down into the street. As he went along he overtook two men. As he passed under a lamp one of them exclaimed, Is that you, Moise-Refletcher? He turned. It was assure de Pascal. It is I, Moise-Refletcher de Pascal. I was going out to learn the meaning of those lights over there. That is just what I am doing myself. As the night is hot I could not sleep, so I threw open my windows and saw those lights, which were, as it appeared to me, somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Admiral's house, and I thought it was well to see what they meant. As they went along they came upon men with lighted torches, and saw that in several of the streets groups of men with torches were silently standing. What is taking place? The sure de Pascal asked one of the men. There was going to be a night mask and a mock combat at the Louvre. It is strange I heard nothing about it at the Louvre, Philips said as they proceeded on their way. I was with the King of Navarre up to ten o'clock, and had anything been known of it by him or the gentleman with him. I should have been sure to have heard of it. They were joined by two or three other Huguenot gentlemen, roused by the unusual light and talking in the street, and they proceeded together to the Louvre. Large numbers of torches were burning in front of the palace, and a body of soldiers was drawn up there. The man was right, the sure de Pascal said. There was evidently some diversion going on here. As they approached they saw a movement in front, and then three or four men ran towards them. Why, de Vigne? Pascal exclaimed as they first ran up. What is the matter? That I do not know, de Vigne said. I was rious half an hour ago with a light and noise, and came down with de la Rivière, Morepaw, Costa Lowe, and de Vigour, who lodged with me to see what it was about. As we approached the soldiers, they began to jeer at us in a most insolent manner. Naturally we replied, and threatened to report them to their officers, when the insolent barlots drew and ran at us. Morepaw has, as you see, been wounded by a halberd, and as we five could not give battle to that crowd of soldiers we ran for it. I shall lay the matter before la Rochef Ecole, and request him to make a complaint to the king. What can we do now, gentlemen? I see not that we can do anything, de Pascal said. We have heard that these torchlight gatherings are part of a plane for a sham attack on a castle, or something of that sort, for the amusement of the king. Doubtless the soldiers are gathered for that purpose. We cannot arouse la Rochef Ecole at this hour of the night. That is certain. So I see nothing to do but to go home and wait till morning. You do not think, Philip said, that there was any possibility of a general attack upon us being intended. What? An attack got up at the lube under the very eyes of the king, who was our firm friend. You are dreaming, Montgere Fletcher. I have one suspicious fact to go upon, Philip said quietly, and then related the discovery of the crosses upon the doors. The others, however, were absolutely incredulous that any treachery could be intended, and after talking for a short time longer, they returned to their lodgings. What is to be done now, Pury? I should say we better search farther, sir. If there is any harm intended, the mob of parrots will be stirring. Let us go down towards the Hotel de Vieux, that is always the centre of mischief. If all is quiet there, it may be that the story is correct, and that it is really only a court diversion. But that does not explain why this street should be lighted up, me and the admirals. Indeed it does not, Pury. After they had passed another group of men with torches, Pury said, Did you notice, sir, that each of those men had a piece of white stuff bound about his arm, and that it was the same with those we passed before? If there is any mischief intended, we should be more likely to learn what it is, if we were to put on the same badge. The idea is a good one, Pury. And Philip took out his handkerchief, tore it in two, and handed half of it to Pury, fastened the other around his arm. As they went along they met men with torches or lanterns, moving in the same direction as themselves. All wore white handkerchiefs or scarves around their arms. Philip became more and more anxious as they went on, and regretted that he had not returned to his lodgings and renewed his watch there. However, a few minutes walking took them to the Hotel de Vieux. The square in front of the building was faintly illuminated by a few torches here and there, and by large crescents that blazed in front of the Hotel. The light, however, was sufficient to show a dense body of men drawn up in the square, and the ready light to the flames flushed from helmet, lance point, and axe. What think you now, Mr. Philip? There must be eight or ten thousand men here. I should say all the city bands under their captains. As they paused, a citizen officer came up to them. All is ready, Your Excellency. I do not think that I made his absent from his post. The orders remain unchanged, I suppose. Quite unchanged, Philip said briefly, seeing that in the faint light he was mistaken for someone else. And the bells to be the signal for beginning? I believe there has been a change in that respect, Philip said, but you will hear that later on. I am only here to see that all is in readiness. Everything has been done as ordered, Your Excellency. The gates are closed, and will not be open except to one bearing special orders under the King's own seal. The boats have all been removed from the wharves. There will be no escape. Philip repressed a strong impulse to run the man through the body, and only said, Good, your zeal will not be forgotten. Then he turned and walked away. They had gone but a few paces when, in the distance, the report of a pistol was heard. Too late, he exclaimed impassionate regret, compery, and he broke into a rapid run. Several times groups of men came out on by streets at the sound of their rapid footsteps, but Philip exclaimed, Away there, I am on urgent business for Anjou and the geese. The men fell back at once in each case, not deading from the badges on the arms, which they could make out in the darkness, that Philip was bearing some important order. To the admirals first, he said to Marie, It is there they will surely begin. But as they entered the roux de Bethesie, he saw a number of men pouring out from the admiral's house with drawn swords and waving their torches over their heads. By the light Philip could make out Henry of Geese and Henry of Alloy with their attendants and soldiers. We are too late here, peri. The admiral has doubtless been murdered. His confidence in the king's word has undone him. Colligny indeed had refused the author of many partisan gentlemen to spend the night in the house, and even telligny his son-in-law had gone to his own lodging a short distance away. He had with him only his chaplain Merlin, the king's surgeon, three gentlemen, and four or five servants, while in the court below were five of the king of Novara's Swiss guards. The admiral had been awakened by the increasing noise without, but entertained no alarm whatever. Suddenly a loud knocking was heard at the outer gate, and a demand for entrance in the king's name. The admiral directed one of the gentlemen, named Libon, to go down and unbar the gate. As he did so, Cossain, an officer of Anju's household, rushed in, followed by fifty soldiers, and stabbed Libon to the heart. The soldiers had been dispatched by the king himself under pretense of guarding the Huguenots, and twelve hundred archibacers had also been posted under the same pretext in the neighborhood. The faithful Swiss defended the inner door, and when driven back, defended for a time a barricade hastily thrown upon the stairs. One of the Huguenot gentlemen rushed into the admiral's room with the news that the gate had been forced. The admiral calmly replied, I have kept myself for a long time in readiness for death. Save yourselves if you can. It would be hopeless for you to attempt to save my life. In obedience to his orders, all who were with him, save a German interpreter, fled to the roof and made their escape in the darkness. The barricade was raised, and a German named Besme, a follower of the Duke of Gies, was the first to rush into the admiral's room. Collageny was seated in a chair, and Besme struck him two blows with a sword, while those following dispatched him. Gies was waiting in the courtyard below. When he heard that the admiral was killed, he ordered the body to be thrown out of the window. When he recognized that it was indeed the body of the admiral, he gave it a brutal kick, while one of his followers cut off his head, and then Gies called upon the soldiers to follow him, saying, We have begun well. Let us now see to the others, for so the king commands. As Philip turned from the spot, the bell of the church of St. Germain, loggs a roi, peeled forth, and shouts incently rose from all quarters. As he reached the street in which he lodged, Philip saw that it was already half full of armed men, who were shouting, Death to the Huguenots, and were hammering at many of the doors. He fell at once into a walk, and made his way through them unmarlusted. The white badge on his arm seemed to guarantee that he was a friend. He passed his own door, and made for that the Count de Valacour. A combat was going on in front of it, and by the light of the torches, Philip saw D. Pascal defending himself bravely against a host of enemies. Sword in hand, Philip sprang forward. But before he could make his way through the soldiers, a musket shot rang out, and D. Piscall fell dead. Philip drew back. To our own house, Peri, he exclaimed to his lucky, who was keeping close behind him. We can do nothing here, and the door may resist for a few minutes. There was no one in front of the entrance, though at all the doors marked with a white cross, the soldiers were hammering with the butts of their archivists. They slipped in, pushed the bars across, ran upstairs and made their way onto the roof, and climbed along till they reached the window of the house in which D. Valacour lodged, felt their way across the room till they discovered the door, issued out, and as soon as they found the staircase ran down. Already there was a turmoil below, a light streamed out from a door of the Count's apartment on the forced floor. Philip ran in. Claire de Valacour was standing with one hand resting on the table, deadly pale but quiet. She was fully dressed. Where is your father? He has gone down with the servants to hold the stairs. I will join him. Peri will take care of you. He knows what to do. We will follow you, quick, for your own sake and your father's. I cannot go and leave him. You will do him no good by staying, and delay may cost us our lives. You must go at once. If you do not, at the risk of your displeasure, I will carry you. I will go, she said. You saved me before, and I trust you. Trust Peri as you would trust me. Now, Peri, take your hand and hurry here upstairs. The clash of swords mingled with shouts and o's were heard below, and Philip, as he saw Peri turn with Claire de Valacour, ran down. On the next landing, the Count, with four of his serving men, was defending himself against the assault of a crowd of armed men who were pushing up the staircase. Others behind them held torches, while some of those engaged in their fright held a torch in one hand and a sword in the other. Ah, is it you, Mongeau Fletcher? The Count said as Philip placed himself by his side, felling when of the foremost of the assailants as he did so with a sweeping blow. It is I, Count. My house is not attacked, and I have sent off your daughter in charge of my man to gain it along the roofs. We will follow them as soon as we can beat back these villains. The King's troops must arrive shortly. The King's troops are here. This is done by his orders, and all Paris is in arms. The Admiral has already been murdered. The Count gave a cry of fury and threw himself upon his assailants. His companions did the same, and step by step drove them backwards down the stairs. There was a cry below of, shoot them down, and a moment later, three or four archivists flashed out from the hall. The Count, without a word, pitched forward among the soldiers, and two of the retainers also fell. Then the crowd surged up again. Philip fought desperately for a time. Another shot rang out, and he felt a sudden smart across his cheek. He turned and bounded up the stairs, paused a moment at the top, and discharged his two pistols at the leaders of the assailants, pulled shut the door of the Count's chamber, leaving the corridor in darkness, and then sprang up the stairs. When he reached the door, the unused room by which he had entered, he fastened it behind him, got through the window and closed it after him, and then rapidly made his way along the roofs until he reached his own. Closing and fastening the casement he ran down to his room. Clare was standing there with purée by her side. She gave a low cry as he entered alone. My father! God has taken him, Philip said, as he has taken many others to-night. He died painlessly, mademoiselle, by a shot from below. Clare sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands. His will be done. She said in a low but firm voice, as she looked up a minute later. We are all in his hands and can die but once. Will they soon come? I trust not. They may follow along the roof when they cannot find us in any of the rooms, but they will have no clue as to which house we have entered. Then I will remain here and wait for them. Then, mademoiselle, you will sacrifice our lives as well as your own, for assuredly we will not leave you. Thus far we have escaped, and if you will follow my directions we may all escape together. Still, if you wish it, we can die here together. What is to be done? She asked, standing up. Parie handed Philip a bundle. I brought them down as I passed, he said. Here is a disguise, Philip said, handing it to the girl. I pray you to put it on at once. We also have disguises, and will return in them in a few minutes. End of Chapter 20, Recorded December, 2008 St. Bartholin Museum by G. A. Hendy This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Read by Anna Christensen. Chapter 21 Escape This is awful, Parie. Philip said, as he hurriedly assumed the disguise the latter had prepared. The clamour outside was indeed terrible. The bell of St. Germain, the Augs-O-Roy, was still sounding its signal, but mingled with it were a thousand sounds of combat and massacre, the battering of hammers and axes upon doors, the discharges of archibuses and pistols, the shouts of men, and the loud screams of women. Parie glanced out of the window, with the soldiers were mingled a crowd from the slums of Paris, who, sending current from the movements of the citizen troops, had waited in readiness to gather the spoil, and at a riot on the spot as if by magic as soon as the first signal of alarm told them that the work of slaughter had begun. Can we get out behind, thank you, Parie? Philip asked as he joined him. I will see, sir. One could scare Sally out here without being at once seized and questioned. Doubtless a watt was placed in the rear at first, but the soldiers would be likely to make off to join in the massacre and get their share of plunder as soon as the affair began. You will do, sir, as far as the dress goes, but you must smear your face and arms. They are far too white at present, and would be instantly noticed. Philip rubbed his hands, blackened by his passage across the roofs, over his face and arms, and then joined Claire, who started as he entered. I did not know you, she said. Come, are we ready? It was surely better to die at once and to listen to these dreadful sounds. One moment, Parie will return directly. He has gone to see whether the lane behind the house is clear. Once fairly away, our course will be easier. Parie returned almost immediately. The way is clear. Let us go, then, mademoiselle. One moment, please, monsieur. Let us pray before we start. We may have no time there, and standing with upturned faith, she prayed earnestly for protection. Lead us, O God, she concluded, through the strife and turmoil, as though it should lead the holy men of old to the dangers of alliance and the furnace. But if it be thy will that we should die, then do we command our souls to thee, in the sure faith that we are but passing through death and to life? Now I am ready, she said, turning to Philip. You cannot go like this, mademoiselle Claire, Parie said reverently. Avoid good with that disguise beat to you when your face would betray you in the darkest street. You must ruffle your hair and pull that hood over your face so as to hide it as much as possible. The girl walked across to a mirror. I would, I could take my sword, Parie, said Philip. Take it, sir. Strap it boldly round your waist. If anyone remarks on it, laugh and say it was a Huguenot's half an hour ago. I will carry mine stuck under my arm. Use as few words as may be, if you have to speak, and speak them roughly, or they will discover it once that you are no smith. I fear not for ourselves. We can play our parts, fight or run for it. It is that angel I fear for. God will protect her, Parie. Ah, they are knocking at the door, and the woman of the house may be coming down to open it. Not they, sir. You may be sure they are half mad with terror. Not one has shown ourselves since the tumult began. The landlord and his two-thunder doubtless with the city bands. Like enough they have led some of their fellows here. Or why should they attack the door, as it is unmarked? Claire joined them again. They hurried downstairs and then out by the back entrance into a narrow lane. Philip carried a heavy hammer on his shoulder. Parie had a large butcher's knife stuck conspicuously in his girdle. He was bare-headed and had dipped his head in water. His hair fell mad at across his face, which was grimy and black. Day was now breaking, but the light was as yet faint. Keep close to me, Claire. Philip said as they reached the street, which was ablaze with torches. Above all things do not shrink or seem as if you are afraid. I am not afraid. God saved me before from his great apparel, and will save me again if it seems good to him. Keep your eyes fixed on me. Pay no attention to what is going on around you. I will pray, she said simply. Just as they entered the street, the crowd separated, and the Duke of Yeath, followed by several nobles of his party, rode along, shouting, Death to all Huguenots! It is the king's command. It is the command you and others have put into his mouth, Phyllian. Philip muttered to himself. A roar of ferocious assent rose from the crowd, which was comprised of citizen soldiers and the scum of Paris. They danced and yelled, and uttered ferocious jests at the dead bodies lying in the road. Here the work of slaughter was nearly complete. Few of the Huguenots had offered any resistance, although some had fought desperately to the last. Most of them, however, taken by surprise, and seeing resistance useless, had thrown down their arms and either cried for quarter or had submitted themselves calmly to slaughter. Neither age nor sex had availed to save them. Women and children, and even infants, had been slain without mercy. The soldiers, provided with lists of the houses inhabited by Huguenots, were going round to see that none had escaped attack. Many in the crowd were attired in articles of dress that they had gained in the ponder. Ragged beggars were cloaks of velvet or plumed hats. Many had already been drinking heavily. Women mingled in the crowd, as ferocious and merciless as the men. Break me in this door, friend. An officer, with a list in his hand and several soldiers standing beside him, said to Philip. The latter did not hesitate, to do so would have brought destruction on himself and those with him, without averting for more than a minute or two the fate of those within. Placing himself in front of the door, he swung his heavy hammer and brought it down upon the woodwork. A dozen blows and the door began to splinter. The crack of a pistol sounded above, and the officer, standing close to him, fell dead. Four or five shots were fired by the soldiers at the window above. Another two or three blows and the door gave way. Philip went aside, as the soldiers, followed by a crowd, rushed in, and returned to Claire, who was standing by the side of Paris a few paces away. Let us go on, he said. A few yards further they were at the entrance of a lane running north, as Philip turned into it a man caught him by the arm. Where are you going, comrade? There is plenty of work for your hammer yet. I have a job elsewhere, Philip said. It is where I work, comrade. I have killed five of them with my own hand, and I have got their purses, too. Hello! Who is this girl you have with you? And he roughly caught hold of Claire. Philip's pent-up rage on the vent. He sprung upon the man, seized him by the throat, and hurled him with tremendous force against the wall, whence he fell a senseless mass onto the ground. What is it? cried half a dozen men rushing up. A huganot in disguise, Philip said, you will find his bags are full of gold. They threw themselves upon the fallen man, fighting and cursing to be their first to ransack his pockets, while Philip with his two companions moved up the lane unnoticed. Fifty yards farther Claire stumbled and what had fallen had not Philip caught her. Her head had fallen forward, and he felt at once that she was insensible. He placed her on a doorstep and supported her in a sitting position, Paris standing by. A minute later a group of men came hurrying down the street. What is it? one of the group asked as he stopped for a moment. It was only a woman, squeamish. Paris said in a rough voice, she would come with us, thinking she could pick up a trinket or two. But mafoy, it is hot down here, and she turned sick. So we were taking her home. Satisfied by the explanation, the men hurried on. Shall I carry her, Paris? Her weight would be nothing. Better wait a few moments, Major Philip, and see if she comes round. Our story is right enough as long as we stop here, but people might want to know more if they were to meet you carrying a woman. Some minutes passed, and then finding that Claire remained unconscious, Philip lifted her onto his shoulder. We will risk it, Paris, as long as we only meet them coming along in two or threes we can go unsafely, for if they are too inquisitive I can set her down and speedily silence their questioning. If we see a large body coming, we can either turn down a side street, or if there is no turning at hand, consider down again and answer as before. Every step we get farther away from the corridor we have left, the better. He had carried Claire but a few hundred yards when he felt her move. He had once set her down again on the doorstep. In a few minutes she was able to stand, and assisted by Philip, she presently continued her course at a slow pace. Gradually the movement restored her strength, and she said, speaking for their first time, I can walk alone. An hour later they had reached the hut that they had marked out as her place of refuge. Paris went to a corner and drew out from under a heap of rubbish a large bundle. Here is your cloak and mine, he said, and a change of clothes for each of us. We could not wander about the country in the skies. Philip laid the cloaks down to form a sort of couch, and placed the bundle with the rest of the things in his epilogue. Now Madam Moussel, he said, you will be safe here until nightfall. First you must drink a glass of wine and try and eat something. Paris brought some up here two days ago. Then I hope you will lie down. I will watch outside the door. Paris will go down into the town to gather news. I will take something presently. I could eat nothing now. But Paris had already uncorked a bottle, and Philip advised her to drink a little wine. You will need all your strength, for we have a long journey before us. She drank a few drops. Do not go yet, she said. I must speak to you. Philip nodded to Paris, who left the hut. Claire sat on the cloaks for some moments in silence. I had been thinking, Mangeur Philip, she said at last, and it seems to me that it would not be right for me to go with you. I am the promised wife of the sure de Bescal, and that promise is all the more sacred since he to whom I gave it. It's gone. It would not be right for me to go with you. You shall take me to the Louvre, where I will crave the protection of the king and queen of Navarre. Do not think me ungrateful for what you have done for me. Twice now you have saved my life, and you understand me, Philip. I do, he said, and honor your scruple. One of my objects in sending Paris down into the town again is to learn what has taken place at the Louvre. It may be that the Swedish massacre is extended there, and that even the king of Navarre and the Huguenot gentleman with him have shared the fate of the others. Should it not be so, it would be best in every way that what you suggest should be carried out. As for the sure de Bescal, it may be that the blow that has bereft you of your good father may well have fallen upon him also. But many will surely escape as we have done. It cannot be that all our friends, all those who wrote him with the princes, can have been murdered. Some have doubtless escaped, but I feel that the massacre will be almost universal, for it has evidently been carefully planned, and once begun will extend not only to the followers of Navarre, but to all the Protestants within the walls of Paris. Do you know odd concerning the sure de Bescal? Claire asked, looking up. Something in the tone of his voice struck her. I saw him fall, mademoiselle. He had made for the door of your house, doubtless with the intention of joining your father and defending it to the last, but the murderers were already there. He was attacked on the doorstep, and was surrounded and will not spend when I saw him. I tried to reach him through the crowd, but before I could do so he fell. Then, seeing that it would be about throwing away my life, and destroying all chances saving yours, I hurried away to carry out the plan ad before formed, and making my way along the roofs, and so entering your house. Bonjour de Bescal fell, mademoiselle, as a brave soldier, fighting against a host of those, and in defense of yourself and of your father. It was an unfortunate, though noble impulse, that led him there, for I had rubbed out the mark upon your door, that served as a guide for the soldiers, and you and the Count, your father, might have escaped over their roof before any attack was made, had not his presence aroused their suspicions. Claire had hidden her face in her hand as he began to speak, and he had kept on talking in order to give her time to collect her feelings. But as she was now crying unrestrainedly, he went quietly out of the hut and left her to herself, glad that tears had at last come to her relief. An hour later the door opened behind him, and Claire called him in. I am better now, I have been able to cry. It seemed that my heart was frozen, and I was like one in a terrible nightmare. Now I know that it is all true, and that my dear father is dead. As for Manjour de Bescal, I am sorry that a brave soldier has been killed. But that is all. You know that I received him as my affianced husband, simply an obedience to my father's commands, and that my heart had no part in it. God has broken the tie, and for that, even in this time of sorrow, I cannot but feel relief. At this moment there was a knock at the door, then the latch was lifted and Pury entered. What is the news, Pury? It is bad, sir. The King has in truth put himself at the head of the massacre, and even in the lube itself several Huguenot gentlemen have been slain, though I could not learn their names. It is said that some of them were seen in the presence of the young Queen of Navarre, in spite of her treaties and cries. The young King and his cousin Condé are close prisoners, and it is said that they too will be slain unless they embrace the Catholic faith. The massacre is spread to all parts of the town, and the Huguenots are everywhere being dragged from their homes and killed, together with their wives and children. It is said that the bodies of Colligny and other Huguenot leaders have been taken to the lube, and that the King and the Queen Mother and the ladies, as well as the gentlemen of the court, have been down to view them and make just of them. Truly, sir, Paris seems to have gone mad. It is said the orders have been sent to all parts of France to exterminate the Huguenots. This is indeed terrible news. It is now clear that the lube will afford you no protection. In these days no more mercy has shown Timboumin than to men, and at best, or at worst, you could but save your life by renouncing your faith. I had already decided that I would not go to the lube. The death of Montjour de Pascal has altered everything. As is the fianced wife, with the consent of my father, the King would hardly have interfered to have forced me into another marriage. But being now free, he would treat me as a ward of the crown, and would hand me and my estates to one of his favorites. Anything would be better than that. Now, of course, it is out of the question. Estates, I have none. For, with the extermination of our people, their estates will be granted to others. As to that, Madame Moselle, they have been trying to massacre the Huguenots for years, and though doubtless in the towns many may fall, they will not be taken so readily in the country. And may even yet rally and make head again. Still, that does not alter their present circumstances, and I see no other plan but that I had first formed, for you to accompany me and my servant in disguise. The girl stood hesitating, twining her fingers over each other restlessly. It is so strange, so unmaidingly, she murmured. Then Claire, Philip said, taking your hands in his, you must give me the right to protect you. It is strange to speak of love at such a time as this. But you know that I love you. As a rich heiress and altogether above my station, even had you been free I might never have spoken. But now, standing as we do surrounded by dangers, such distinctions are leveled. I love you with all of my heart, and it seems to me that God himself has brought us together. It is truly so, Philip, she said, looking up into his face. Has not caught since you twice to save me? Someday I will tell you of my heart. But not now, dear. Not now. I am alone in the world, save you. I am sure that my father, if he sees us now, must approve. Therefore, Philip, henceforth I am your affianced wife, and I am ready to follow you to the end of the world. Philip stooped down and kissed her gently. Then he dropped her hand, and she stood back a little apart from him. It were best that I called Parian. Even in this lonely quarter someone might pass, and seeing him standing at the door, wonder who he might be. So saying he opened the door and called Parian. Parie, mademoiselle de Velocourt, is now my affianced wife. That is as it should be, master. Mademoiselle, he said, my life will henceforth be at your disposal, as at that of my master. We have many dangers to face, but if anyone can get you through them, he can. Thank you, Parie, the girl said. It is well indeed that we should have with us one so faithful and attached as herself. In the hours that passed before nightfall, Philip related to Claire how Parie's warnings had excited his uneasiness, and how the discovery of the chalk marked on the doors had confirmed him in his conviction that some evil was intended, and explained the steps they had taken for providing for an escape from the city. I had been wondering vaguely, Philip, how it was that you should have appeared so suddenly, and should have a disguise and readiness for me, but how could you have guessed that I would be ready to go with you, and for the first time a slight tinge of colour came into your cheeks. It was scarcely a guess, Claire. It was rather a despairing hope. It seemed to me that amid all this terror and confusion, I might in some way be able to rescue you, and I made the only preparation that seemed possible. I knew that you were aware that I loved you. When you told me of your engagement, I felt that you were saying farewell to me. When I thought of saving you, it was for him and not for myself. For I knew that you would never oppose your father's wishes. I did not dream of such a general calamity as it has been. I thought only of a rising of the mob of Paris, and that perhaps an hour or two in disguise might be sufficient until the king's troops have restored order. It is very wonderful, Claire said earnestly. It seems beyond all doubt that it is God himself who has given me to you, and I will not doubt that. Great is the dangers may seem to be before us. He will lead us safely through them. You will make for La Rochelle? Yes, once there we shall be safe. We may be sure that there, at least, the cruel orders of the king will be wholly disregarded. As we may hope they will be in many other towns in which the Huguenots are numerous. But at La Rochelle certainly. We're all a rest of France in flames. The people would remain, said Vast. But I do not believe that the power of the Huguenots will be broken. It may be that in the northern towns the orders of the king will be carried out. But from thence we have obtained no aid in our former struggles. Our strength in the south will still remain, and the loss of so many leaders and nobles here in Paris will be a heady blow. I hope that the cause of the faith will speedily rally from it, and make head again, just as it did when all seemed lost after the battle of Montcontour. So they talked until nightfall, with Paris sitting discreetly in the corner as far away as possible, apparently sleeping most of the time. As soon as it became perfectly dark the bundle of clothes was taken from the hiding place, and going outside the hut, Philip and Paris put on their ordinary attire. Claire had simply slipped on the dress prepared for her over her own, and had but to lay it aside. After partaking of a meal they made their way to the nearest steps leading to the top of the wall. One under the rope was fastened to the parapet, and the other was tied around Claire, and she was carefully lowered to the ground. Philip and Paris slid down the rope after her, and they at once started to cross the country. After three hours walking they reached the farm where Paris had left the horses. They left Claire a short distance away. As Paris had seen the horses put into the stables he knew exactly where they were. He had, on leaving them there, paid for a weeks' keep, saying that he might come for them in haste, and perhaps at night, and if so he would saddle and take them off without waking the farmer. The horses weaned with pleasure when Philip spoke to them. The saddles and bridles were found hanging on a beam where Paris had placed them, and in two or three minutes the horses were let out ready to start. Philip had arranged his cloak bearing a saddle for Claire to sit upon, and led the horse to the place where she was awaiting them. All was passed off well, he said. No one in the farmhouse seems to have heard a sound. He leapt into the saddle. Claire placed her foot on his and he swung her up behind him, and then they started at a brisk trot. Avoiding all large towns, and stopping only at village inns, they made their way south, making long journeys each day. In the villages there was little of the religious ranker that animated the people in the towns, and after their first two days Philip found that the news of what had occurred at Paris had not as yet spread. Eager questions were asked Paris as to the grand wedding festivities at Paris, and there was everywhere a feeling of satisfaction at a union that seemed a promise to give peace to France. Claire was generally supposed to be Philip's sister, and the hostess always did their best to make the girl with her pale side face as comfortable as possible. Fearing that a watch might have been set at the bridges, they avoided these, crossing either by ferry boats or at fords. The lorry was passed above Orléans, and as that city, Blois, and Tour, all lay on the northern bank, they met with no large towns on their way until they approached Châtelet Roll. They wore to the south to avoid that city and Portierre, and on the eighth day after leading Paris, they reached the Chateau of Gauville, having traveled upwards of 200 miles. As they crossed the drawbridge, Philip's four retainers met them at the gate and greeted him most warmly. Is the Countess in? He asks as he alighted. She is, Bonjour Philip. She has been for some days at La Rochelle and returned yesterday. There are rumors, sir, that at Portierre and New York, the Catholics have again, in spite of the edicts, fallen upon the Huguenots, and though the Countess believes not the tale, we had a guard posted at the gate last night. I'm afraid it is true, Eustace. Take the horses round to the stables and see to them well. They have traveled fast. Taking Claire's hand, he led her up the steps, and just as he entered the hall, the Countess, to whom the news of his approach had been carried, met him. Aunt, I confide this lady to your loving care. It is mademoiselle de Vélocourt, now my affinced wife. I have bad news to tell you, but I pray you lead her first to a chamber, for she is sore-weird and in much grief. François is not dead. The Countess exclaimed in a low voice, pailing to the lips. I trust not, Aunt. I have no reason for believing that he is. I will wait here, Philip, with the Countess's permission. It is better that you should not keep her in suspense even for a moment on my account. I thank you, mademoiselle. The Countess said as she led the girl to a couch. This is but a poor welcome that I am giving you, but I will make amends for it when I have heard what Philip has to tell me. Now, Philip, tell me the worst, and that there be no concealment. Philip related the whole story of the Massacre, his tale being interrupted by frequent exclamations of horror by the Countess. It seems incredible that a king of French had thus dishonored himself alike by breaking his vows, disregarding his own safe conduct, and massacring those who have accepted his hospitality. And François, you say, was at the Louvre with the King of Navarre and Condé, and even there within the walls of the Royal Palace, some of the king's guests were murdered. But more than this you know not. That is the report that he gathered in the street, Aunt. It may have been much exaggerated. Everyone eerily seized and retailed the ports that were current, but even if it true, it may well be that François is not among those who fell. To a certain extent he was warned, for I told him of the suspicions and fears that I entertained, and when he heard the tumult outside, he may have affected his escape. I do not think so. The Countess said drawing herself up to her full height. My son was of the Prince's gentleman of the chamber, and he would have been unworthy of his name, had he thought first of his personal safety, and not of that of the young king. Philip knew that this was true, and the knowledge had from the first prevented his entertaining any great hopes of his cousin's safety. He said, however, As long as there was a hope of his being of service to the Prince, I am sure that François would not have left him. But from the first, Aunt, resistance was in vain, and would only have excited the assailants. Peri heard that in few cases was there any resistance whatever to the murderers. The horror of the thing was so great that even the bravest, awakened thus from their sleep, either fell without drawing sword or fled. What a day for François! The Countess exclaimed, The admiral, our bravest soldier, our greatest leader, a Christian hero, slaughtered as he lay wounded, and how many others are our noblest in best. And you say orders have been sent all over France to repeat this horrible massacre. But enough for the present. I am forgetting my duties as hostess. Madame Roselle de Valicourt, we are alike mourners, you for your noble father, I for my son, both of us for France and for our religion. Yet I welcome you to Liville, for you bright your days may be in store. My nephew is a goulant gentleman, and with him you may find a home far away from this unhappy country. To me, if François has gone, Philip will stand almost in the light of his son. François loved him as a brother, and he has grown very dear to me, and gladly shall I welcome you as his wife. Now come with me, Philip. I leave it to you to send round the news to the tenants, and to see that all preparations are made to leave the Chateau once again to the mercy of our foes, and to retire to la Roselle, where alone we can talk with safety. See that the bell is rung at once, the tenants know the summons, and the little expecting danger will quickly rally here. Philip at once went out to the courtyard, and in a minute the sharp clinging of the bell told the country round that danger threatened. The retainers of the Chateau ran out hastily, arming themselves as they went, and exclamations of horror and fury broke from them as Philip told them that the order for the massacre of Huguenots throughout France had gone forth, and that already most of those who rode to Paris with the King of Navarre had fallen. Then he repeated the Countess's order, that upon the following morning the Chateau should be abandoned and all should ride to la Roselle, and he dispatched half a dozen mounted men to warn all the Huguenot gentry in the district. In a few minutes the tenants began to flock in, although the tale that they heard involved the destruction of their newly-built houses, and the loss of most of their property, this affected them but slightly in comparison with the news of the murder of Coligny and of so many Huguenot leaders, and of the terrible fate that would befall the Huguenots in every town in France. Some wept, others clenched their weapons in impotent rage, some called down the curses of heaven upon the faceless king, while some stood as if completely dazed at the terrible news. Philip spoke a few cheering words to them. All was not yet lost, my friends. Heaven will rise up fresh leaders for us. Many may fall, but the indignation and rage that you feel will likewise animate all who, drilling in the country, may escape, so that ere long we shall have fresh armies in the field. Doubtless the first blow will be struck at la Roselle, and there we will meet these murderers face to face, and we'll have the opportunity of proving to them that the men of the reformed religion are yet a force capable of resisting oppression and of avenging treachery. There is one thing. Never again shall we make the mistake of laying down our arms, confiding in the promises and vows of this perjured king. Never again shall we be causing and throwing away the results of our victories. Gather your horses in cattle, as you did before. Take your household goods and carts, and at daybreak send in here the wagons that you have to provide in case of necessity. At noon the next day the whole of the occupants of the chateau started for la Roselle. The tenants with the cattle and horses in all their portable property had left at daybreak, and at nightfall the countess and her party came up with them. The encampment was a large one. The women and children slept under the wagons. The men lay down by fire as they had kindled, while a portion were told off to keep watch over the animals. The train had swollen considerably since they had started. Most of the inhabitants of the villages were Huguenots, and as soon as these heard of the massacre in Paris and elsewhere they collected their animals, loaded up their carts, and took the road to the city of refuge. After four days traveling they entered la Roselle. The news had arrived before them, being brought by some of those who had escaped the massacre by being lodged without the walls of Paris. The countess and Claire were received at the house of Mangebertraum. Philip found lodgings near them, and the whole of the inhabitants lied with each other in their hospital reception at the mass of Huguenots. Claire was completely prostrated by the events through which she had passed, and Mangebertraum's daughter devoted herself to her, tending her with unweary care, until, after a week in bed, she began again to gather strength. The time of the countess was entirely occupied in feeling the part that had been before played by Jean of Navarre, holding consultations with the town councillors, going down to the walls and encouraging the men who were labouring there, and urging on the people to make every sacrifice in defence of their religion and homes. She herself set the example by pawning her jewels and selling her horses, and devoting the proceeds to the funds raised for the defence. She worked with feverish activity, as if to give herself no time for thought. She was still without news of Francois. Henry of Navarre and the Prince of Condé had, as was soon known, been compelled to abjure their religion at the price of their lives. She was convinced that her son would have refused to buy his life upon such conditions. Philip, who had come to regard Francois as a brother, was equally anxious, and two days after their arrival at the city, he took Paris aside. Paris, I cannot rest here in ignorance of the fate of my cousin. That I can see, master, you have eaten no food the last two days. You walk about at night instead of sleeping, and I have been expecting every hour that you would say to me, Paris, we must go to Paris. Will you go with me, Paris? How can you ask such a question? Paris asked indignantly. Of course if you go, I go too. There is not much danger in the affair, and if there were, what then? We have gone through plenty of it together. It will not be now as when we made our escape. Then they were hunting down the Huguenots like mad dogs. Now they will think they have exterminated them in Paris, and will no longer be on the lookout for them. It will be easy enough to come and go without being observed. And if we find Mangeur Francois, we will bring him out with us. The young Count is not like you, Mangeur. He is brave and a goulant gentleman, but he's not one to invent plans of escape, and he will not get away unless we go for him. That is what I think, Paris. We will start at once, but we must not let the Countess know what we are going for. I will get the Chief of the Council openly to charge me with a mission to the South, while telling them privately where I am really going, and with what object. I am known to most of them, and I doubt not they will fall in with my plans. We will ride my two best horses and lead a spare one. We will leave them a few miles outside Paris, and then go in disguised as countrymen. At any rate, we shall soon be able to learn if my cousin is among those who fell. He must be hiding somewhere. It will not be easy to discover him, but I trust you to find him. Accordingly the next day, the Countess heard that Philip had been requested by the Council to proceed on the mission to the South, where the Huguenots were everywhere in arms. End of Chapter 21. Recorded December 2008