How the King Learned the Flight of His Beloved Brother, and what Followed.

When Monsoreau had retired, the repast continued, and was more gay and joyous than ever.

“Now, Livarot,” said the duke, “finish the recital of your flight from Paris, which Monsoreau interrupted.”

Livarot began again, but as our title of historian gives us the privilege of knowing better than Livarot himself what had passed, we will substitute our recital for that of the young man.

Towards the middle of the night Henri III. was awoke by an unaccustomed noise in the palace. It was oaths, blows on the wall, rapid steps in the galleries, and, amidst all, these words continually sounding, “What will the king say?”

Henri sat up and called Chicot, who was asleep on the couch.

Chicot opened one eye.

“Ah, you were wrong to call me, Henri,” said he; “I was dreaming that you had a son.”

“But listen.”

“To what? You say enough follies to me by day, without breaking in on my nights.”

“But do you not hear?”

“Oh, oh! I do hear cries.”

“Do you hear, ‘What will the king say?’”

“It is one of two things — either your dog Narcissus is ill, or the Huguenots are taking their revenge for St. Bartholomew.”

“Help me to dress.”

“If you will first help me to get up.”

“What a misfortune!” sounded from the antechamber.

“Shall we arm ourselves?” said the king.

“We had better go first and see what is the matter.”

And almost immediately they went out by the secret door into the gallery. “I begin to guess,” said Chicot; “your unlucky prisoner has hanged himself.”

“Oh, no; it cannot be that.”

“So much the worse.”

“Come on;” and they entered the duke’s chamber.

The window was open, and the ladder still hung from it. Henri grew as pale as death.

“Oh, my son, you are not so blasé as I thought!” said Chicot.

“Escaped!” cried Henri, in such a thundering voice that all the gentlemen who were crowded round the window turned in terror. Schomberg tore his hair, Quelus and Maugiron struck themselves like madmen; as for D’Epernon, he had vanished. This sight calmed the king.

“Gently, my son,” said he, laying hold of Maugiron.

“No! mordieu!” cried he, “I will kill myself!” and he knocked his head against the wall.

“Hola! help me to hold him.”

“It would be an easier death to pass your sword through your body!” said Chicot.

“Quelus, my child,” said the king, “you will be as blue as Schomberg when he came out of the indigo.”

Quelus stopped, but Schomberg still continued to tear at his hair.

“Schomberg, Schomberg, a little reason, I beg.”

“It is enough to drive one mad!”

“Indeed, it is a dreadful misfortune; there will be a civil war in my kingdom. Who did it — who furnished the ladder? Mordieu! I will hang all the city! Who was it? Ten thousand crowns to whoever will tell me his name, and one hundred thousand to whoever will bring him to me, dead or alive!”

“It must have been some Angevin,” said Maugiron.

“Oh yes! we will kill all the Angevins!” cried Quelus. However, the king suddenly disappeared; he had thought of his mother, and, without saying a word, went to her. When he entered, she was half lying in a great armchair: She heard the news without answering.

“You say nothing, mother. Does not this flight seem to you criminal, and worthy of punishment?”

“My dear son, liberty is worth as much as a crown; and remember, I advised you to fly in order to gain a crown.”

“My mother, he braves me — he outrages me!”

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