“No; at the Hotel St. Denis, where I have left my equipages. I shall be there in two hours.”

  CHAPTER XXVI.

  THE LOUVRE.

  That same day, about noon, the king came out of his cabinet and called for M. d’Epernon. The duke, when he came, found the king attentively examining a young monk.

  The king took D’Epernon aside, “Look, what an odd-looking monk,” said he.

  “Does your majesty think so? — I think him very ordinary.”

  “Really!” Then to the monk, the king said, “What is your name?”

  “Brother Jacques, sire.”

  “Your family name?”

  “Clement.”

  “Good. You have performed your commission very well.”

  “What commission, sire?” said the duke, with his wonted familiarity.

  “Nothing!” said Henri. “It is a little secret between me and some one you do not know.”

  “How strangely you look at the lad, sire! you embarrass him.”

  “It is true; I know not why, but it seems to me that I have seen him before; perhaps it was in a dream. Go, my child; I will send the letter to him who asks for it; be easy. D’Epernon, give him ten crowns.”

  “Thanks, sire,” said the monk.

  “You did not say that as if you meant it,” said D’Epernon, who did not understand a monk despising ten crowns.

  “I would rather have one of those beautiful Spanish knives on the wall,” said Jacques.

  “What! you do not prefer money?”

  “I have made a vow of poverty.”

  “Give him a knife, then, and let him go, Lavalette,” said the king.

  The duke chose one of the least rich and gave it to him. Jacques took it, quite joyful to possess such a beautiful weapon. When he was gone, the king said to D’Epernon, “Duke, have you among your Forty-five two or three men who can ride?”

  “Twelve, at least, sire; and in a month all will be good horsemen.”

  “Then choose two, and let them come to me at once.”

  The duke went out, and calling De Loignac, said to him, “Choose me two good horsemen, to execute a commission for his majesty.”

  De Loignac went to the gallery where they were lodged, and called M. de Carmainges and M. de St. Maline. They soon appeared, and were conducted to the duke, who presented them to the king, who dismissed the duke.

  “You are of my Forty-five, then?” said he to the young men.

  “I have that honor, sire,” said St. Maline.

  “And you, monsieur?”

  “And I, also, sire,” replied Carmainges; “and I am devoted to your majesty’s service, as much as any one in the world.”

  “Good! Then mount your horses, and take the road to Tours — do you know it?”

  “We will inquire.”

  “Go by Charenton.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “And proceed till you overtake a man traveling alone.”

  “Will your majesty describe him?” said St. Maline.

  “He has long arms and legs, and has a large sword by his side.”

  “May we know his name, sire?” asked Carmainges.

  “He is called ‘the Shade.’“

  “We will ask the name of every traveler we see, sire.”

  “And we will search the hotels.”

  “When you find him, give him this letter.”

  Both the young men held out their hands.

  The king was embarrassed. “What is your name?” said he.

  “Ernanton de Carmainges, sire.”

  “And yours?”

  “Rene de St. Maline.”

  “M. de Carmainges, you shall carry the letter, and you, M. de St. Maline, shall deliver it.”

  Ernanton took the precious deposit, and was going to place it in his doublet, when St. Maline stopped him, kissed the letter, and then returned it to Ernanton.

  This made Henri smile. “Come, gentlemen,” said he, “I see I shall be well served.” — ”Is this all, sire?”

  “Yes, gentlemen; only our last recommendation. This letter is more precious than the life of a man — for your heads, do not lose it; give it secretly to the Shade, who will give you a receipt for it, which you will bring back to me; and, above all, travel as though it were on your own affairs. Go.”

  The two young men went out — Ernanton full of joy, and St. Maline filled with jealousy. M. d’Epernon waited for them, and wished to question them, but Ernanton replied: “M. le Duc, the king did not authorize us to speak.”

  They went to the stables, when the king’s huntsman gave them two strong horses. M. d’Epernon would have followed them, but at that moment he was told that a man much wished to speak to him at once. “Who is he?” he asked.

  “The lieutenant of the provost of the Ile de France.”

  “Parfandious! am I sheriff or provost?”

  “No, monsieur; but you are a friend of the king, and, as such, I beg you to hear me,” said a humble voice at his side.

  The duke turned. Near him was a man, bowing perpetually.

  “Who are you?” asked the duke.

  “Nicholas Poulain, monsieur.”

  “And you wish to speak to me?”

  “I beg for that favor.”

  “I have no time.”

  “Not even to hear a secret?”

  “I hear a hundred every day.”

  “But this concerns the life of his majesty,” said Poulain, in a low voice.

  “Oh! oh! then come into my cabinet.”

  CHAPTER XXVII.

  THE REVELATION.

  M. D’Epernon, in traversing the antechamber, addressed himself to one of the gentlemen who stood there.

  “What is your name, monsieur?” said he.

  “Pertinax de Montcrabeau, monsieur.”

  “Well, M. de Montcrabeau, place yourself at that door, and let no one enter.”

  “Yes, M. le Duc;” and M. Pertinax, who was sumptuously dressed, with a blue satin doublet and orange stockings, obeyed. Nicholas Poulain followed the duke into his cabinet.

  “Now let us hear your conspiracy,” said the duke.

  “Oh! M. le Duc, it concerns the most frightful crimes.”

  “They wish to kill me, I suppose.”

  “It does not concern you, monsieur; it is the king. They wish to carry him off.”

  “Oh! again that old story,” replied the duke, disdainfully.

  “This time the thing is serious, M. le Duc.”

  “On what day do they intend to do it?”

  “The first time that his majesty goes to Vincennes in his litter.”

  “How will they do it?”

  “By killing his two attendants.”

  “And who will do it?”

  “Madame de Montpensier.”

  D’Epernon began to laugh. “That poor duchess; what things are attributed to her!”

  “Less than she projects, monsieur.”

  “And she occupies herself with that at Soissons?”

  “No; she is in Paris.”

  “In Paris!”

  “I can answer for it.”

  “Have you seen her?”

  “Yes.”

  “You thought you did?”

  “I have had the honor of speaking to her.”

  “The honor.”

  “I am wrong; the misfortune.”

  “But, my dear lieutenant, the duchess cannot carry off the king.”

  “With her associates, of course.”

  “And where will she be when this takes place?”

  “At a window of the Jacobin Priory, which is, as you know, on the road to Vincennes.”

  “What the devil do you tell me?”

  “The truth, monsieur: all is prepared to stop the litter at the gate of the priory.”

  “And who made the preparations?”

  “Alas! — ”

  “Finish quickly.”

  “I did, monsieur.”

  D’Epernon started back. “You, who denounce them!”

  “Monsieur, a good servant should risk all in the service of the king.”

  “Mordieu! you risk hanging.”

  “I prefer death to infamy, or to the death of the king, therefore I came; and I thought, M. le Duc, that you, the friend of the king, would not betray me, and would turn my news to good account.”

  The duke looked fixedly at Poulain. “There must be more in it,” said he; “resolute as the duchess is, she would not attempt such an enterprise alone.”

  “She expects her brother.”

  “The Duke Henri?”

  “No, monsieur; only the Duc de Mayenne.”

  “Ah! good,” said d’Epernon; “now I must set to work to counteract these fine projects.”

  “Doubtless, monsieur; it was for that I came.”

  “If you have spoken the truth you shall be rewarded.”

  “Why should I lie, monsieur; where is my interest — I, who eat the king’s bread? If you do not believe me, I will go to the king himself.”

  “No, parfandious, you shall not go to the king: you shall have to deal with me, alone.”

  “I only said it because you seemed to hesitate.”

  “No, I do not hesitate; and, first, here are a thousand crowns for you, and you shall keep this secret between you and me.”

  “I have a family, monsieur.”

  “Well! a thousand crowns, parfandious.”

  “If they knew in Lorraine that I had spoken, each word would cost me a pint of blood; and in case of any misfortune, my family must be able to live, therefore I accept the thousand crowns.”

  The duke approached a coffer. Poulain thought it was for the money, and held out his hand, but he only drew out a little book and wrote, “Three thousand livres to M. Nicholas Poulain.”

  “It is as if you had them,” said he.

  Nicholas bowed, and looked puzzled.

  “Then it is agreed?” said the duke.

  “What, monsieur?”

  “That you will continue to instruct me?”

  Nicholas hesitated.

  “What! has your noble devotion vanished already?”

  “No, monsieur.”

  “Then I may count on you?”

  “You may.”

  “And I alone know this?”

  “You alone.”

  “Now you may go, my friend; and, parfandious, let M. de Mayenne look to himself.”

  When D’Epernon returned to the king he found him playing at cup and ball. D’Epernon assumed a thoughtful air, but the king did not remark it. However, as the duke remained perfectly silent, the king raised his head and said, “Well, Lavalette, what is the matter, are you dead?”

  “I wish I were,” replied D’Epernon, “and I should not see what I do see.”

  “What, my cup and ball?”

  “Sire, in a time of great peril the subject may be alarmed for the safety of his master.”

  “What! again perils; devil take you, duke.”

  “Then you are ignorant of what is passing?”

  “Ma foi, perhaps.”

  “Your most cruel enemies surround you at this moment.”

  “Bah! who are they?”

  “First, the Duchesse de Montpensier.”

  “Yes, that is true; she came to see Salcede; but what is that to me?”

  “You knew it, then?”

  “You see I did.”

  “But that M. de Mayenne was here?”

  “Yes, since yesterday evening.”

  “What! this secret?” cried D’Epernon, with a disagreeable surprise.

  “Are there, then, any secrets from the king? You are zealous, dear Lavalette, but you are slow. This news would have been good at four o’clock yesterday, but to-day — ”

  “Well, sire, to-day?”

  “It comes too late, you will agree?”

  “Still too soon, sire, it seems, since you will not listen to me.”

  “I have been listening for half-an-hour.”

  “You are menaced — they lay ambushes for you.”

  “Well, yesterday you gave me a guard, and assured me that my immortality was secured. Are your Forty-five no longer worth anything?”

  “Your majesty shall see.”

  “I should not be sorry, duke; when shall I see?”

  “Sooner perhaps than you think.”

  “Ah! you want to frighten me.”

  “You shall see, sire. Apropos, when do you go to Vincennes?”

  “On Saturday.”

  “That is enough, sire.” D’Epernon bowed and withdrew.

  CHAPTER XXVIII.

  TWO FRIENDS.

  We will now follow the two young men sent by the king. Scarcely on horseback, Ernanton and St. Maline, determined that one should not get before the other, nearly crushed each other in the gateway. The face of St. Maline became purple, and that of Ernanton pale.

  “You hurt me, monsieur,” cried the former; “do you wish to crush me?”

  “You also hurt me, only I did not complain.”

  “You wish to give me a lesson, I believe?”

  “I wish to give you nothing.”

  “Ah!” cried St. Maline, “pray repeat that.”

  “You are seeking a quarrel, are you not?” replied Ernanton, quietly; “so much the worse for you.”

  “And why should I wish to quarrel? I do not know you,” replied St. Maline, disdainfully.

  “You know me perfectly, monsieur, because at home my house is but two leagues from yours, and I am well known there, being of an old family; but you are furious at seeing me in Paris, when you thought that you alone were sent for; also, because the king gave me the letter to carry.”

  “Well,” said St. Maline, “it may be true, but there is one result.”

  “What is it?”

  “That I do not like to be near you.”

  “Go away, then; pardieu, I do not want to keep you. On the contrary, I understand perfectly; you would like to take the letter from me and carry it yourself; but unfortunately you must kill me first.”

  “And who tells you that I do not wish to do that?”

  “To desire and to do are two different things.”

  “Descend with me to the banks of the water, and you will see that with me they are the same.”

  “My dear monsieur, when the king gives me a letter to carry, I carry it.”

  “I will tear it from you by force.”

  “You will not force me, I hope, to shoot you like a dog.”

  “You!”

  “Yes; I have a pistol, and you have not.”

  “You shall pay for this.”

  “I trust so, after my commission is over; but, meanwhile, I beg you to observe that as we belong to the king, it is setting a bad example to quarrel.”

  St. Maline was furious, he bit his fingers with rage. As they crossed the Rue St. Antoine, Ernanton saw a litter with a lady in it. “My page!” cried he, and he rode toward it; but she did not seem to recognize him, and passed on.

  The young men now rode on without speaking. St. Maline soon discovered, to his chagrin, that his horse was not as good as Ernanton’s, and could hardly keep pace with him. This annoyed him so much that he began to quarrel with his horse, and to fret him so perpetually with the spur, that at last the animal started off and made for the river Bievre, where he got rid of his rider by throwing him in. One might have heard half a mile off the imprecations of St. Maline, although he was half stifled by the water. By the time he scrambled out his horse had got some little way off. He himself was wet and muddy, and his face bleeding with scratches, and he felt sure that it was useless to try and catch it; and to complete his vexation, he saw Ernanton going down a cross-road which he judged to be a short cut.

  He climbed up the banks of the river, but now could see neither Ernanton nor his own horse. But while he stood there, full of sinister thoughts toward Ernanton, he saw him reappear from the cross-road, leading the runaway horse, which he had made a detour to catch. At this sight St. Maline was full of joy and even of gratitude; but gradually his face clouded again as he thought of the superiority of Ernanton over himself, for he knew that in the same situation he should not even have thought of acting in a similar manner.

  He stammered out thanks, to which Ernanton paid no attention, then furiously seized the reins of his horse and mounted again. They rode on silently till about half-past two, when they saw a man walking with a dog by his side. Ernanton passed him; but St. Maline, hoping to be more clever, rode up to him and said, “Traveler, do you expect something?”

  The man looked at him. Certainly his aspect was not agreeable. His face still bore marks of anger, and the mud half dried on his clothes and the blood on his cheeks, and his hand extended more in menace than interrogation, all seemed very sinister to the traveler.

  “If I expect something,” said he, “it is not some one; and if I expect some one, it is not you.”

  “You are impolite,” said St. Maline, giving way to the anger that he had restrained so long; and as he spoke he raised his hand armed with a cane to strike the traveler, but he, with his stick, struck St. Maline on the shoulder, while the dog rushed at him, tearing his clothes, as well as his horse’s legs.

  The horse, irritated by the pain, rushed furiously on. St. Maline could not stop him for some time, but he kept his seat. They passed thus before Ernanton, who took no notice. At last St. Maline succeeded in quieting his horse, and they rode on again in silence till Ernanton said: “There is he whom we seek waiting for us.”

  CHAPTER XXIX.

  ST. MALINE.

  Ernanton was not deceived; the man he saw was really Chicot. He on his side had seen the cavaliers coming, and suspecting that it was for him that they came, waited for them.

  Ernanton and St. Maline looked at each other.

  “Speak, monsieur, if you wish,” said Ernanton to his adversary.

  St. Maline was suffocated by this courtesy, he could not speak, he could only bend his head; then Ernanton, advancing said, to Chicot —

  “Monsieur, would it be indiscreet to inquire your name?”

  “I am called ‘the Shade.’“

  “Do you expect anything?”