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

I assure you I will listen!”

      “Hush!” said Maurevel, putting his finger on his mouth.

      Coconnas listened.

      At that moment he heard the landlord close the door of a chamber, then the door of a corridor, and bolt it. Then he rushed down the stairs to join the two speakers.

      He offered a chair to Coconnas, a chair to Maurevel, and took one for himself.

      “All is safe now, Monsieur de Maurevel,” said he; “you may speak.”

      It was striking eleven o’clock at Saint Germain l’Auxerrois. Maurevel counted each of the hammer-strokes as they sounded clear and melancholy through the night, and when the last echo had died away in space he turned to Coconnas, who was greatly mystified at seeing the precautions taken by the two men. “Sir,” he asked, “are you a good Catholic?”

      “Why, I think I am,” replied Coconnas.

      “Sir,” continued Maurevel, “are you devoted to the King?”

      “Heart and soul! I even feel that you insult me, sir, in asking such a question.”

      “We will not quarrel over that; only you are going to follow us.”

      “Whither?”

      “That is of little consequence — put yourself in our hands; your fortune, and perhaps your life, is at stake.”

      “I tell you, sir, that at midnight I have an appointment at the Louvre.”

      “That is where we are going.”

      “Monsieur de Guise is expecting me there.”

      “And us also.”

      “But I have a private pass-word,” continued Coconnas, somewhat mortified at sharing with the Sire de Maurevel and Maître La Hurière the honor of his audience.

      “So have we.”

      “But I have a sign of recognition.”

      Maurevel smiled.

      Then he drew from beneath his doublet a handful of crosses in white stuff, gave one to La Hurière, one to Coconnas, and took another for himself. La Hurière fastened his to his helmet. Maurevel attached his to the side of his hat.

      “Ah,” said Coconnas, amazed, “the appointment and the rallying pass-word were for every one?”

      “Yes, sir — that is to say, for all good Catholics.”

      “Then there is a festival at the Louvre — some royal banquet, is there not?” said Coconnas; “and it is desired to exclude those hounds of Huguenots — good, capital, excellent! They have been showing off too long.”

      “Yes, there is to be a festival at the Louvre — a royal banquet; and the Huguenots are invited; and moreover, they will be the heroes of the festival, and will pay for the banquet, and if you will be one of us, we will begin by going to invite their principal champion — their Gideon, as they call him.”

      “The admiral!” cried Coconnas.

      “Yes, the old Gaspard, whom I missed, like a fool, though I aimed at him with the King’s arquebuse.”

      “And this, my gentleman, is why I was polishing my sallet, sharpening my sword, and putting an edge on my knives,” said La Hurière, in a harsh voice consonant with war.

      At these words Coconnas shuddered and turned very pale, for he began to understand.

      “What, really,” he exclaimed, “this festival — this banquet is a — you are going”—

      “You have been a long time guessing, sir,” said Maurevel, “and it is easy to see that you are not so weary of these insolent heretics as we are.”

      “And you take on yourself,” he said, “to go to the admiral’s and to”—

      Maurevel smiled, and drawing Coconnas to the window he said:

      “Look there! — do you see, in the small square at the end of the street, behind the church, a troop drawn up noiselessly in the shadow?”

      “Yes.”

      “The men forming that troop have, like Maître la Hurière, and myself, and yourself, a cross in their hats.”

      “Well?”

      “Well, these men are a company of Swiss, from the smaller cantons, commanded by Toquenot — you know the men from the smaller cantons are the King’s cronies.”

      “Oho!” said Coconnas.

      “Now look at that troop of horse passing along the Quay — do you recognize their leader?”

      “How can I recognize him?” asked Coconnas, with a shudder; “I reached Paris only this evening.”

      “Well, then, he is the one with whom you have a rendezvous at the Louvre at midnight. See, he is going to wait for you!”

      “The Duc de Guise?”

      “Himself! His escorts are Marcel, the exprovost of the tradesmen, and Jean Choron, the present provost. These two are going to summon their companies, and here, down this street comes the captain of the quarter. See what he will do!”

      “He knocks at each door; but what is there on the doors at which he knocks?”

      “A white cross, young man, such as that which we have in our hats. In days gone by they let God bear the burden of distinguishing his own; now we have grown more civilized and we save him the bother.”

      “But at each house at which he knocks the door opens and from each house armed citizens come out.”

      “He will knock here in turn, and we shall in turn go out.”

      “What,” said Coconnas, “every one called out to go and kill one old Huguenot? By Heaven! it is shameful! It is an affair of cut-throats, and not of soldiers.”

      “Young man,” replied Maurevel, “if the old are objectionable to you, you may choose young ones — you will find plenty for all tastes. If you despise daggers, use your sword, for the Huguenots are not the men to allow their throats to be cut without defending themselves, and you know that Huguenots, young or old, are tough.”

      “But are they all going to be killed, then?” cried Coconnas.

      “All!”

      “By the King’s order?”

      “By order of the King and Monsieur de Guise.”

      “And when?”

      “When you hear the bell of Saint Germain l’Auxerrois.”

      “Oh! so that was why that amiable German attached to the Duc de Guise — what is his name?”

      “Monsieur de Besme.”

      “That is it. That is why Monsieur de Besme told me to hasten at the first sound of the tocsin.”

      “So then you have seen Monsieur de Besme?”

      “I have seen him and spoken to him.”

      “Where?”

      “At the Louvre. He admitted me, gave me the pass-word, gave me”—

      “Look there!”

      “By Heaven! — there he is himself.”

      “Would you speak with him?”

      “Why, really, I should not object.”

      Maurevel carefully opened the window; Besme was passing at the moment with twenty soldiers.

      “Guise and Lorraine!” said Maurevel.

      Besme turned round, and perceiving that he himself was addressed, came under the window.

      “Oh,