THE VALOIS SAGA: Queen Margot, Chicot de Jester & The Forty-Five Guardsmen (Historical Novels). Alexandre Dumas

said the King; “I am sure my cousin De Guise will not cavil over the choice of methods.”

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

      “I have ten arquebuses in this room,” replied Charles IX., “with which I can hit a crown-piece at a hundred and fifty paces — will you try one?”

      “Most willingly, sire!” cried Maurevel, with the greatest joy, going in the direction of one which was standing in a corner of the room. It was the one which that day had been brought to the King.

      “No, not that one,” said the King, “not that one; I reserve that for myself. Some day I am going to have a grand hunt and then I hope to use it. Take any other you like.”

      Maurevel took one down from a trophy.

      “And who is this enemy, sire?” asked the assassin.

      “How should I know,” replied Charles, withering the wretch with his contemptuous look.

      “I must ask M. de Guise, then,” faltered Maurevel.

      The King shrugged his shoulders.

      “Do not ask,” said he; “for M. de Guise will not answer. Do people generally answer such questions? Those that do not wish to be hanged must guess them.”

      “But how shall I know him?”

      “I tell you he passes the Canon’s house every morning at ten o’clock.”

      “But many pass that house. Would your Majesty deign to give me any certain sign?”

      “Oh, that is easy enough; tomorrow, for example, he will carry a red morocco portfolio under his arm.”

      “That is sufficient, sire.”

      “You still have the fast horse M. de Mouy gave you?”

      “Sire, I have one of the fleetest of horses.”

      “Oh, I am not in the least anxious about you; only it is as well to let you know the monastery has a back door.”

      “Thanks, sire; pray Heaven for me!”

      “Oh, a thousand devils! pray to Satan rather; for only by his aid can you escape a halter.”

      “Adieu, sire.”

      “Adieu! By the way, M. de Maurevel, remember that if you are heard of before ten tomorrow, or are not heard of afterward, there is a dungeon at the Louvre.”

      And Charles IX. calmly began to whistle, with more than usual precision, his favorite air.

1. “To uphold the faith I am beautiful and trusty. To the king’s enemies I am beautiful and cruel.”

      Chapter 4.

       The Evening of the 24th of August, 1572.

       Table of Contents

      Our readers have not forgotten that in the previous chapter we mentioned a gentleman named De la Mole whom Henry of Navarre was anxiously expecting.

      This young gentleman, as the admiral had announced, entered Paris by the gate of Saint Marcel the evening of the 24th of August, 1572; and bestowing a contemptuous glance on the numerous hostelries that displayed their picturesque signs on either side of him, he spurred his steaming horse on into the heart of the city, and after having crossed the Place Maubert, Le Petit Pont, the Pont Notre–Dame, and skirted the quays, he stopped at the end of the Rue de Bresec, which we have since corrupted into the Rue de l’Arbre Sec, and for the greater convenience of our readers we will call by its modern name.

      The name pleased him, no doubt, for he entered the street, and finding on his left a large sheet-iron plate swinging, creaking on its hinges, with an accompaniment of little bells, he stopped and read these words, “La Belle Étoile,” written on a scroll beneath the sign, which was a most attractive one for a famished traveller, as it represented a fowl roasting in the midst of a black sky, while a man in a red cloak held out his hands and his purse toward this new-fangled constellation.

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

      While the newcomer was thus indulging in this monologue another horseman who had entered the street at the other end, that is to say, by the Rue Saint–Honoré, stopped also to admire the sign of La Belle Étoile.

      The gentleman whom we already know, at least by name, rode a white steed of Spanish lineage and wore a black doublet ornamented with jet; his cloak was of dark violet velvet; his boots were of black leather, and he had a sword and poniard with hilts of chased steel.

      Now if we pass from his costume to his features we shall conclude that he was twenty-four or twenty-five years of age. His complexion was dark; his eyes were blue; he had a delicate mustache and brilliant teeth which seemed to light up his whole face when his exquisitely modelled lips parted in a sweet and melancholy smile.

      The contrast between him and the second traveller was very striking. Beneath his cocked hat escaped a profusion of frizzled hair, red rather than brown; beneath this mop of hair sparkled a pair of gray eyes which at the slightest opposition grew so fierce that they seemed black; a fair complexion, thin lips, a tawny mustache, and admirable teeth completed the description of his face. Taken all in all, with his white skin, lofty stature, and broad shoulders, he was indeed a beau cavalier in the ordinary acceptation of the term, and during the last hour which he had employed in staring up at all the windows, under the pretext of looking for signs, he had attracted the general attention of women, while the men, though they may have felt inclined to laugh at his scanty cloak, his tight-fitting small-clothes, and his old-fashioned boots, checked their rising mirth with a most cordial Dieu vous garde, after they had more attentively studied his face, which every moment assumed a dozen different expressions, but never that good-natured one characteristic of a bewildered provincial.

      He it was who first addressed the other gentleman who, as I have said, was gazing at the hostelry of La Belle Étoile.

      “By Heaven! monsieur,” said he, with that horrible mountain accent which would instantly distinguish a native of Piedmont among a hundred strangers, “we are close to the Louvre, are we not? At all events, I think your choice is the same as mine, and I am highly flattered by it.”

      “Monsieur,” replied the other, with a Provençal accent which rivalled that of his companion, “I believe this inn is near the Louvre. However, I am still deliberating whether or not I shall have the honor of sharing your opinion. I am in a quandary.”

      “You have not yet decided, sir? Nevertheless, the house is attractive. But perhaps, after all, I have been won over to it by your presence. Yet you will grant that is a pretty painting?”

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

      “By Heaven!” replied the Piedmontese, “I don’t care a fig for their tricks; and if the host does not serve me a chicken as well roasted as the one on his sign, I will put him on the spit, nor will I let him off till I have done him to a turn. Come, let us go in.”

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

      “Oh, sir, on my soul I could not think of it, for I am only your most obedient servant, the Comte Annibal de Coconnas.”

      “And I, monsieur, but the Comte Joseph Hyacinthe Boniface de Lerac de la Mole, equally at your service.”