"Can the enemies of Marcel have the audacity of pointing at him as a traitor?" cried Marguerite with tears in her eyes. "Do they aim at his life? Come, Dame Petronille, your silence upsets me."

Marcel entered. The radiant joy that suffused his face upon entering the house now made room for amazement at the silent and brusque departure of Maillart's wife, who swept by him at the door. He looked at Marguerite and Denise inquiringly, and noticing the disquietude and even alarm depicted on their faces by the odious calumnies of Petronille, he hastened to ask: "What is the matter, Marguerite? Why did our friend's wife leave in that strange manner?"

"Oh, uncle!" broke out the young girl with tears in her eyes. "There are very wicked people ... serpents and vipers."

"They are to be pitied, my child. But I hope you do not refer to wicked people in connection with Maillart's wife?"

"My friend," said Marguerite with embarrassment, "idle talk deserves contempt only. Nevertheless, in times like these idle talk may have serious consequences."

"Well," observed Marcel dejectedly, "I have but an hour to spend with you. I am tired out. I hoped to enjoy some rest. I came full of joy with good news that was to make you happy as it made me. And here it is all spoiled. But these minutes of quiet and relaxation are sweet to me at your side, dear objects of my love."

"These moments are quite rare," said Marguerite sighing, "and they are as precious to us as to you ... do not doubt, beloved Marcel!"

"Dear Etienne, we shall speak later on the visit of Dame Petronille," Marguerite broke in, fearing to disturb the rest her husband had come in search of in her company. "You have been announcing a good news.... We are waiting for it."

"Yes, I prefer that," answered the provost with a sigh of relief, taking a seat between his wife and Denise, while the latter quietly removed his hat and cloak. "Coming upstairs I told Agnes to place an additional cover at supper."

"Will our son return this evening from the Bastille of St. Antoine?" quickly inquired Marguerite. "Was that the good news you brought us? We shall be glad to see him."

"No, no! Andre will not return before to-morrow morning. He is to keep watch over night at the Bastille with his company of cross-bowmen. My son must put the example of order in the service. He will neglect none of his duties."

"And who is to take supper with us, uncle?"

"Why, dear Denise?" answered Marcel smiling. "Who? One of our best friends. Guess, if you can."

"Simon the Feather-dealer?... Peter Caillet?... Master Delille?... Philip Giffart?... John Goddard?... Josserand?... John Sorel?..."

"No, Denise. Look not for our guest among my friends of the council. He is not yet old enough to figure in such serious functions. But, so as to help you guess, I shall add that our guest for this evening has just arrived from the country."

"No, dear Denise. The friend whom we expect has been away from Paris only a short time. Cudgel your memory."

"A short time?" Denise repeated mechanically, and struck by a sudden thought but hardly daring to indulge it, the poor child grew pale, joined her two trembling hands, and fixing upon her uncle a look at once full of anxiety and hope, she stammered: "Uncle, what is it you say? Can it be?..."

"I shall add that the fate of that friend has recently made us feel uneasy."

"It is he!" cried Denise throwing herself at Marcel's neck. "Can it be?... Jocelyn is back ... God be praised!"

"Jocelyn!" exclaimed Marguerite joining in the surprise and joy of Denise. "Have you seen him? Is he in Paris?"

"Yes; I saw the worthy fellow this morning at the town hall. He is in good health, although he has suffered a good deal during his travels."

The emotion and tears of Denise must be left undescribed. After the first ebullition of joy was over, Marcel said to his wife: "I was presiding at the town hall over the council when one of our sergeants handed me a letter. I opened it and read that Jocelyn requested to speak with me. I ordered him to be taken upstairs to my room, and immediately after the session I hastened thither. Oh, my poor Denise! I confess it. I hardly recognized our friend, he was so changed! He has lost flesh ... his eyes are hollow ... his cheek-bones stick out."

"What happened to him?" asked Denise. "Did he go to fight the English, as my aunt feared. Does he come from prison?"

"I know the heart and courage of Jocelyn," said Denise deeply moved. "He surely took the part of the unfortunate girl!"

"Without hesitating, because, as he said to me, in his capacity of champion he could not refuse so good a case. The Sire of Beaumont arrived with his two equerries...."

"And the combat started!" cried Denise joining her hands. "Poor Jocelyn! Alone against three!"

"He was strong enough to overcome them. Unfortunately, however, at the very start of the action one of the combatants dealt him such a furious blow from behind with a mace on the head that Jocelyn's casque was broken. He fell from his horse unconscious ... and when he awoke he found himself half naked lying on straw, and aching at every limb at the bottom of a dungeon."

"Poor Jocelyn!" said Marguerite. "That dungeon, no doubt, was some prison cell in the castle of Beaumont, whither our wounded friend was transported after the combat, stripped of his arms and in a dying condition?"

"Yes, dear Marguerite; and Jocelyn remained in that cell, a prey to a devouring fever, until his recent release."

"How he must have suffered! But, uncle, how did our poor friend manage to come out?"

"That horrible adventurer, who pushed forward as far as St. Cloud and gave us such a fright?" asked Denise. "I remember you left the city at the head of the militia, ran against and forced him to retreat. Good God! In what hands did poor Jocelyn fall!"

"Be not alarmed, dear child! By a singular accident our friend has had only cause to praise the adventurer. That savage and eccentric warrior seems sometimes to yield to generous impulses. After having, according to their wont, sacked the castle of Beaumont, massacred the men and violated the women, the band delved down into the subterranean passages in quest of booty. Thus they came to Jocelyn's dungeon, broke his chains and lead him to Captain Griffith, who on that day happily happened to be in a good humor. He cross-questioned our friend, and no doubt struck by his brave and robust appearance, despite all his sufferings, made him an offer to enlist in his company. Jocelyn declined. Griffith, who was half in his cups, then ordered Jocelyn to be furnished with clothes and two florins, and, alluding to our friend's thinness said to him: 'When you shall have regained some meat on your bones you will prove a rude customer; if I again run across you I should be pleased to break a lance with you. You are free. Go! And my patron saint, the Devil, be good to you!"

"That Griffith is a dreadful bandit!" repeated Denise. "And yet I cannot but feel thankful to him for having liberated Jocelyn."

"And then," put in Marguerite, "our friend proceeded straight back to Paris?"

"Yes," answered Marcel sadly, "here another and unexpected sorrow awaited him."

"Oh!" said Denise, "his father's death? It must have been a severe blow to him!"

Agnes the Bigot came in at this juncture and handed to Marcel a small gold medal enameled in green and bearing the letters "C" and "N," surmounted by a crown. "A man," she announced, "wrapped up to the nose in a cloak and whose eyes are barely visible, is in the shop; he wishes to see Master Marcel without delay; he handed me the medal with orders to bring it to you."

Marcel was visibly surprised at the sight of the medal, and said to his wife: "Dear Marguerite, I shall not be able to enjoy even the short hour of rest that I promised myself. Leave me alone now. Go down with Denise. Jocelyn cannot now be long coming. Do not stay supper for me"; and turning to Agnes the Bigot: "Lead the man upstairs."

"Marcel," said Marguerite uneasily, while the servant withdrew to execute her master's orders, "you are fatigued, and will you not take even time enough for a meal?"

"In a few minutes, when I go down again, I shall take a few mouthfuls before leaving."

"What! Another night!"

"I convoked a night meeting to the convent of the Cordeliers," explained Marcel, assuming a serious expression; "the funeral of Perrin Macé may be the signal for transcendent happenings. We must be ready for all eventualities—"

Charles the Wicked—that was the man's well deserved nickname—answered with a smile and with his insinuating voice, that most perfidious of all his charms: "Do not kings pay each other mutual visits? What is there surprising in that Charles, King of Navarre, should pay a visit to Marcel, King of the people of Paris? We are sovereigns, both of us."

"Sire," answered Marcel impatiently, "please to state the purpose of your visit. What do you wish of me? No useless words!"

"You are short of speech."

"Shortness is the language of business. Moreover, it is well to measure the words one utters in your presence."

"Do you, then, continue to mistrust me?"

"Always, more than ever."

"I love frankness."

"Come, to the point, direct, and without mental reservation."

For a moment Charles the Wicked remained silent; then boldly fixing his viper's eyes upon the provost, he answered, slowly weighing each word:

"What do I wish, Marcel? I wish to be King of the French.... This astonishes you!"

"You foresaw things from a great distance.... How long is it since you foresaw it?"

"Since I saw your creature Robert le Coq, Bishop of Laon, throw himself with ardor on the side of the popular party, and show himself one of the most violent enemies of King John, whose daughter you married—"

"Nevertheless, if my memory does not fail me, you made good use of the influence of the Bishop of Laon in the States General to induce them to accept your famous ordinance of reforms."

"I use any instrument that aids me in doing good."

"And then you break it?"

"If necessary. But Robert le Coq is too subtle to be broken. Nevertheless, despite his finesse, I have penetrated his secret motives."

"And that is?"

"The people of Paris have with their keen eyes and tongues surnamed the Bishop of Laon 'a two-edged dirk;' the people, Sire, are right. By showing himself so hostile to King John, your father-in-law, and afterwards so hostile to the Regent, your brother-in-law, the Bishop of Laon played a double game. He aimed, with the aid of the popular party, to first of all dethrone the reigning dynasty; and then ... to give the crown to you. That is the reason, Sire, why I am not taken by surprise at your admission that you wish to be King of the French."

"What do you think of my pretensions?"

"Your chances are fair of mounting the throne. I am ready to admit that."

"With your help, Marcel?"

"I might enter into your projects."

"Sire, you are called Charles the Wicked. I hold the name fits you. But you are active, subtle, venturesome; you command numerous armed bands; your partisans are powerful; your wealth considerable. You are a force, that, at a given moment, may be useful. For that reason I caused your release from prison where your father-in-law kept you locked up."

"So that I, Charles, King of Navarre, am to be merely an instrument in the hands of Marcel, the cloth merchant."

"So help me God! You could not have been better instructed upon the projects of my brother-in-law and his councilors if you had attended their secret meetings! And if they triumph, would you despair?"

"Despair?—For the present, Sire; but I would remain full of hope in the future. The conquest of freedom is as assured as it is slow, laborious and painful.... I do not even now despair of the present. I propose to make a last attempt with the Regent."

"And if you fail, will you come to me?"

"Between two evils, Sire, one is forced to choose the lesser."

"In short, you believe you will find in me what the Regent lacks?"

"You have an immense advantage over him. You wish to become King of the French, while the Regent is that by birth."

"Do you forget my royalty of Navarre?"

"To speak truly, I did forget it, Sire ... just as you forget it for the crown of France. As I was saying, a King by the right of birth looks upon all reform as an encroachment upon his power.... You, on the contrary, look upon the reforms as a means whereby to usurp power. Now, then, however perfidious, however wicked you, Charles the Wicked, may be, I dare you to fail to announce your access to the throne—and that in your own interest—by great and useful measures to the public welfare. That much would be gained ... later, we shall see...."

"And throw me down?"

"And, Master Marcel, you would destroy your own work without scruple?"

"Without scruple! Moreover, better so than as it happened with the first and second dynasties when the stewards of the royal palace or the large feudal seigneurs dethroned the kings and changed dynasties."

"And who would then accomplish the rough task? I would like to know the artisan."

"The people, Sire!... That people, still in its infancy and credulous, must learn that at its breath it can waft away the sovereign masters who impose themselves upon it by force and cunning, and whom the church consecrated. Some day, this very century perhaps, that people will come of age; it will realize the ruinous and superfluousness of the royal power. But that day is not yet. In our days, the people, ignorant and enslaved to habit, would wish to crown a new master the moment they overthrow an old one. They rely on princes. You, Sire, are one of these predestined beings. You can even pretend to reign over Gaul by virtue of one of your ancestors, who was himself deprived of the crown for the benefit of his cousin Philip of Valois, the father of King John. It is, accordingly, not impossible that you may some day reign over France ... a deplorable possibility ... yet tangible enough!"

"You must have courage to speak that wise to me."

"Instead of telling you the truth, I would otherwise be basely flattering you, whose first thought, if to-morrow you are King, would be to rid yourself of me. I indulge in no illusions on that head."

"Rid myself of you, who would have served me!"

"My first words on coming in were: 'Marcel, I wish to be King of the French.' I had my project. I renounce it to join yours," said Charles the Wicked resuming his cloak. "You are one of those inflexible men who can not be convinced any more than they can be corrupted. I shall not seek to change your views concerning me, nor yet to purchase your alliance. However dangerous it may be to me, I accept it as you offer it. I return to St. Denis to await the event. In case my presence shall be necessary in Paris, write to me and I shall come. I only demand of you absolute secrecy on this interview."

"Our common interests demand secrecy."

"Adieu, Marcel! May God prosper you."

"Adieu, Sire!"

A bell rang and recalled Marcel from his reverie. "I shall have barely time to reach the convent of the Cordeliers, in order to prepare our friends for to-morrow's measures ... terrible measures!... yet as legitimate as the law of retaliation ... supreme and unavoidable law in such gloomy days as these, when violence can be opposed and overcome with violence only! Oh! Let the blood fall upon the heads of those who, having driven the people to extremities, have by their conduct provoked these impious struggles!"

After taking some rest at Rufin's lodging, William Caillet accompanied his host to the convent of the Cordeliers, where a large crowd was gathering, greedy to hear Marcel's address. The Cordeliers, a poor monastic order that aroused the profound enviousness of the high and splendidly endowed clergy, had ranked themselves on the side of the people against the court. The large hall of their convent was the habitual place for the holding of large popular mass meetings. Acquainted with the brother who attended the gate, Rufin received from him permission to speak with Marcel in the refectory which he would have to cross on the way to the hall where he was to address the people. The spacious hall, walled and vaulted with stone, and lighted only by the lamps that burned on a sort of tribune situated at one of its extremities, was packed with a dense and impatient crowd, on the front ranks alone of which fell the light of the lamps; the deeper ranks, and in the measure that they stood further and further away from the lighted platform, remained in a semi-obscurity, that deepened into complete darkness at the other end of the hall. The audience consisted of bourgeois and artisans, a large number of whom wore head covers of red and blue, the colors adopted by the popular party, and brooches with the device "To a happy issue."

"My friends, the hour is critical. Let us indulge neither in faint-heartedness nor in illusions. The regent and the court have dropped the mask. This morning, to our solemn protest against the iniquitous and sanguinary act that in defiance of law smote Perrin Macé, the court answered by following the hearse of John Baillet. This is a challenge.... Let us take up the gauge! Let us make ready for battle."

"Aye! Aye!" came the thundering response from the audience. "The Regent and his courtiers shall not make us retreat."

"For a moment frightened by the firmness of the national assembly", Marcel proceeded, "the Regent granted the reforms and swore to carry them out. The deputies of the towns of Gaul, gathered at Paris in the States General, were, with the loyal aid of the Regent, to rule the whole country wisely and paternally, as the magistrates of the communes rule the towns. Thus there would no longer be any royal and feudal tyranny; no more ruinous prodigalities; no more false money; no more venal justice; no more excessive taxes; no more arbitrary imposts; no more pillaging in the name of the King and princes; no more odious privileges for church and nobility; in short, there would be an end of the infamous and horrible seigniorial rights that cause the heart to rise, and reason to revolt. That is what we wanted; and that is just what the Regent and the court resist energetically."

A large number applauded the excited words of Maillart; and the man of the furred cap, who insinuated himself into this meeting as he had done in the morning among the crowds that witnessed the funeral procession of Perrin Macé, moved about saying: "Hein, my friends, what an intrepid man is this Master Maillart! He speaks only of blood and massacre! Master Marcel, on the contrary, seems always afraid to compromise himself. It does not surprise me; it is said he has secretly embraced the side of the court."

"Marcel ... betray the people of Paris!" answered several men. "You are raving, good man! Go on your way!"

"All the same," insisted the man of the furred cap, "Marcel keeps quiet and does not respond to the appeal to arms so bravely made by Master Maillart."

"How do you expect Marcel to speak in the midst of all this noise? But, silence! Quiet is being restored. Marcel is about to resume. Let's listen!"

"No criminal weakness," proceeded Marcel; "but neither let there be any blind revenge. Soon perhaps the cry 'To arms!' will resound from one confine of Gaul to the other, both in towns and country!"

"Eh! What do we care about the country?" cried Maillart. "Let's mind our own business. Let's roll up our sleeves and strike without mercy!"

All eyes turned to Caillet, who in his rustic timidity lowered his head. Marcel continued:

"Listen to me, and your hearts, like mine, will boil with indignation. With me you will cry: 'Justice and vengeance! War upon the castles, peace to the cottages!' The history of this vassal is that of all of our brothers of the country. This man had a daughter, the only solace to his sorrows. The name of that child, who was as beautiful as wise, will indicate her candor to you. It is Aveline-who-never-lied. She was affianced to a miller lad, a vassal like herself. By reason of the goodness of his disposition he was called Mazurec the Lambkin. The day of their marriage is set.... But in these days the wife's first night belongs to her seigneur.... The nobles call it the right of first fruits."

"Shame!" cried the audience in furious indignation. "Execrable shame!"

"Justice has spoken; the decree is enforced. The bride is bound and carried to the bed of the seigneur; he dishonors her and then returns her to her husband. The latter makes the amende honorable on his knees before his seigneur; he is thereupon taken to the arena to fight half naked the iron-cased knight.... You may guess the issue of the duel.... The vassal being vanquished, he is put into a bag and thrown into the river.... Such is feudal justice!"

"And to-day," now cried out William Caillet stepping forward, a frightful picture of hate and rage, "my daughter carries in her bosom the child of her seigneur! What shall be done to that child, townsmen of Paris, if born alive? You have wives and daughters and sisters! Answer, what would you do? Is that child of shame to be loved? Is it to be hated as the child of Aveline's executioner? Should I at the whelp's birth break in his head lest he grow into a wolf? What to do?"

An oppressive silence followed upon the words of William Caillet. None dared answer. Marcel continued:

"Aye! Aye! We will!" cried the councilmen.

"Aye! Aye! We will!" re-echoed from thousands of voices with boundless enthusiasm. "Let's join our brothers of the country. Let our device be theirs also—'To a happy issue,' for townsmen and peasants!"

"Come, poor martyr!" cried Marcel with tears in his eyes and embracing Caillet, who was not less moved than the provost. "I take heaven and the cries that escape from so many generous hearts, moved by the recital of the sufferings of your family, as witnesses to the indissoluble alliance concluded this day between all the children of our mother country! Let us stand united against our common enemy! Artisans, bourgeois and peasants—each for all, and all for each, and to a happy issue the good cause! War upon the castles!"

Sublime was the sensation, holy the enthusiasm of the crowd at the sight of the provost, dressed in his magisterial robe, closing in his arms the horny-handed serf dressed in rags.

"Let all who desire to lead the good cause to a happy issue meet to-morrow morning arms in hand upon the square of St. Eloi church."

"Count upon us, Marcel," came from the crowd; "we shall all be there! We shall follow you with closed eyes! Long live Marcel! Long live the peasants! To a happy issue! To a happy issue! War on the castles, peace to the huts!" Amid these exclamations the crowd tumultuously evacuated the hall of the Cordeliers.

"Do you see, friends, how far this Marcel goes in his defiance of the people of Paris?" remarked the man of the furred cap to several townsmen near him as they were leaving the hall. "Did you hear him?"

"What did he say that was so bad? Come, now, my good man, you are losing your wits!"

It is some time since sunrise. The Regent, who has recently and for good cause moved to the tower of the Louvre, has just risen from his bed, which is located in the rear of a vast chamber, roofed with gilded rafters and magnificently furnished. Rich carpets hang from the walls. A few favorites are accorded the august honor of assisting the treacherous and wily youth, who is reigning over Gaul, in his morning toilet. One of the courtiers, the seigneur of Norville, jealous of his servitude to the prince, is kneeling at his feet in the act of adjusting his long tapering shoes, while, seated on the edge of his bed, his head down, careworn, pensive and twirling his thumbs as was his habit, the Regent mechanically allows himself to be shod. Hugh, the Sire of Conflans and marshal of Normandy, he who presided at the mutilation and execution of Perrin Macé, is conversing in a low voice with Robert, marshal of Champagne, another councilor of the Regent, in the embrasure of a window at the other end of the chamber. After a long time watching his thumbs twirl, the Regent raised his head, called the marshal of Normandy in his shrill voice and asked: "Hugh, at what hour is the barrier of the Seine closed, below the postern that opens on the river bank?"

"Sire, the barrier is closed at nightfall"; and the marshal added sardonically. "Such are the orders of Marcel."

"After nightfall, no vessel can leave Paris?"

"No, Sire. After nightfall no one can leave Paris either by land or water. Such, again, are the orders of Marcel."

For a moment the two favorites remained mute with astonishment. The marshal of Normandy broke the silence with the question: "Do you contemplate leaving Paris by night and furtively, Sire? Would you not be leaving the field to that miserable Marcel? Why, by the saints! If that insolent bourgeois annoys you, Sire, follow the advice I have so often given you! Have Marcel and his councilmen hanged as I hanged Perrin Macé! Did his execution cause Paris to riot? No; not one of the good-for-nothings has dared to kick; they contented themselves with attending in mass the funeral of the hanged fellow. Charge me with relieving you of Marcel along with his gang. It is done quickly."

"Among other scamps that should be hanged high and short," added the marshal of Champagne, "is one Maillart, who is profuse in violent denunciations of the court!"

"Maillart! Allow not a hair on Maillart's head to be touched!" said the Regent with lively interest, while bestowing a sinister and false leer upon the courtiers.

"It will be as you say, Sire," answered the marshal of Normandy, not a little astonished at the prince's words. "We shall spare Maillart. But by God! Order that the other insolent creatures be put to death, Marcel first of all! Your orders shall be executed."

"Hugh," answered the prince, rising on his feet to put on his robe that the seigneur of Norville was pressing upon his master after having shod him, "let the vessel be ready this evening as I ordered. Be punctual. Prudence and discretion."

"My clemency! My goodness!" repeated the prince, casting a sinister look upon the marshal.

Understanding now the secret thoughts of his master, the courtier answered: "If you have decided to mete out prompt justice to that insolent bourgeoisie, why wait so long, Sire?"

"Oh! Oh! Why!" said the young man shrugging his shoulders. He then relapsed into silence, and presently repeated: "Let the vessel be ready this evening."

The Regent's favorites were too well acquainted with the youth's stubbornness and profound powers of dissimulation to endeavor to obtain from him any further light upon his plans. Nevertheless, the marshal of Normandy was about to return to the charge, when an officer of the palace entered and said: "Sire, the seigneur of Nointel and the knight of Chaumontel request admission to take leave from you, a favor that you have accorded them."

At a sign of the Regent the officer left walking backward, and returned almost immediately accompanied by Conrad of Nointel and the knight of Chaumontel. The trials of war had no wise affected the health of the two seigneurs. The two had been among the first to turn tail at the battle of Poitiers. The groom of the beautiful Gloriande was not leading back to her feet the ten chained English prisoners that she had demanded as the pledge of her future husband's valor.

"Well, Conrad of Nointel, you are leaving the court to return to your seigniory?" said the Regent. "We hope to see you again in more prosperous days. We ever love to number a Neroweg among our faithful vassals, seeing that it is said your family is as old as that of the first Frankish kings. Have you not an elder brother?"

"I rely on your promise. The illustriousness of your house makes me anxious to keep it near my court."

"Sire, I shall return for a double reason. First of all to please the Regent, and also to please my betrothed, the damosel of Chivry, who much desires to see the court. But I must hasten to leave Paris in order to collect the money for my own and my friend's ransom. It is a large sum that we have to pay."

"Then you were both taken by the English?"

"Yes, Sire," answered the knight of Chaumontel; "but seeing that my casque and sword are my only property, Conrad, as a loyal brother in arms, has taken it upon himself to pay for me—"

"Did the English set you free on parole? They are generous enemies."

"Yes, Sire," answered Conrad. "I was taken by the men of the Duke of Norfolk, and he placed our ransom at six thousand florins. But I said to him: 'If you retain me a prisoner, my bailiff will never be able to raise from my vassals so large a sum; the vigorous hand of their own seigneur is required to seize so much money from those villeins; let me, therefore, return to my domains, and on my faith as a Christian and a knight I shall speedily bring to you the six thousand florins for our ransom.'"

"And the Englishman accepted?"

"That is so!" exclaimed one of the courtiers. "Fortunately, however, the fortified castles of the seigneurs are protected from the ravages of that chief of adventurers. He falls upon the plebs of the open fields, and his bands put everything to fire and to the sword. He is a savage warrior."

"Well," resumed the Regent with a cruel smile, "let the bourgeois who presume to govern in our stead stop these disasters!" And turning to the Sire of Nointel: "But what has that adventurer of a captain to do with your ransom?"

"It is to him I am to deliver our ransom, together with a letter that the Duke of Norfolk gave me for him."

At this moment the marshal of Normandy, who had inclined his head toward the window, interrupted Conrad, saying: "What noise is that?... I hear near and approaching clamors."

"Clamors!" cried the seigneur of Norville, "who would be so impudent as to clamor in the vicinity of the King's palace? Give the order, Sire, to punish the varlets."

"It is not clamors merely, but threatening cries," put in the marshal of Champagne running to the door which he opened, and through which a wild outburst of furious imprecations penetrated into the royal chamber. Almost at the same time an officer of the palace ran in from the gallery. He was pale and frightened, and came screaming: "Flee, Sire! The people of Paris are invading the Louvre! They have disarmed your guards!"

"Stand by, my friends!" cried the Regent, livid with terror and taking refuge in his bed, behind the curtains of which he sought to hide himself. "Defend me!... The felons mean to kill me!"

These cries had hardly been uttered when the courtiers saw Marcel, followed by a compact troop armed with pikes, axes and cutlasses, appear at the other end of the gallery that communicated with the royal apartment. These men, bourgeois and artisans of Paris, uttered not a sound. Only their foot-falls were heard on the stone slabs. The silence of the armed crowd seemed more ominous than its previous clamors. At their head marched the provost, calm, grave and resolute. A few steps behind him came William Caillet armed with a pike, Rufin the Tankard-smasher with a battle mace, and Jocelyn the Champion with drawn sword. During the few seconds that it took Marcel to cross the gallery, the distracted courtiers held a sort of council in broken words. None of the confused and hasty views prevailed. The Regent remained hidden behind the curtains of his bed together with the seigneur of Norville. Trembling and pale but kept from fleeing by a sense of self-respect, the majority of the courtiers crowded back into the furthest corner of the apartment, while the less scrupulous Conrad of Nointel and his friend, having slid themselves near the second door that led to another apartment, prudently took themselves off.

When he presented himself at the threshold of the royal chamber, Marcel met there none to defend it besides the two marshals who stood with drawn swords. Be it, however, that at that supreme moment they felt imposed by the aspect of the provost, or that they realized the uselessness of a struggle that meant inevitable death to themselves, both lowered their swords.

The accent of the provost was so sincere and the loyalty of his word was so generally acknowledged, even by his enemies, that yielding both to a sentiment of royal dignity and to the confidence inspired by Marcel's words, the Regent came out from behind the curtains, not a little encouraged at the same time by the presence of the court people and the quiet demeanor of the armed crowd that had invaded the Louvre.

"Here I am," said the Regent taking a few steps toward Marcel yet unable, despite his powers of dissimulation, to wholly conceal the rage that had succeeded his fright. "What do you want of me? The Regent waits to hear you!"

Marcel turned towards the armed men who had followed him and ordered them with a gesture to guard silence and not to cross the threshold of the royal chamber which he now entered alone. On the other hand, after a short and whispered consultation with his courtiers, the Regent gradually regained composure and addressed the provost in these words: "Your audacity is great!... To enter my palace in arms!"

"Sire! I have long been requesting an interview from you by letters, and failed; I have been compelled to force open your doors in order to make you hear, in the name of the country, the language of sincere severity—"

"To the point," broke in the Regent impatiently. "What do you want? Speak!"

"Sire! The people demand, first of all the loyal enforcement of the reform ordinances which you have signed and promulgated."

"You are called the King of Paris," answered the Regent with a caustic smile; "well, then, rule!... Save the country!"

The Regent turned to the group of prelates and seigneurs at the head of whom stood the Marshal of Normandy; a hurried council was again held by the courtiers who hastened around their chief; and then returning to the provost, the Regent answered haughtily: "Is that your only grievance? Let's hear the rest!!"

"We have imperative demands."

"What else do you want?"

"An act of justice and reparation, Sire! Perrin Macé, a bourgeois of Paris, has been mutilated and then put to death in defiance of right and of law by the order of some of your courtiers.... The seigneur who ordered the execution of an innocent man must be sentenced to death! It is the law of retaliation."

"By the cross of the Saviour!" cried the Regent. "You dare come and demand of me the condemnation and execution of the marshal of Normandy, my best friend!"

"That man is causing your ruin with his detestable advice. He shall expiate his crime."

"Impudent scamp!" cried out the marshal of Normandy in a fit of rage, threatening Marcel with his sword. "You have the audacity to make charges against me!"

"Not another word!" ordered the Regent interrupting his favorite and beckoning him to lower his sword. "It is for me to answer in this place. I order you, Master Marcel, to leave this place, and upon the spot!"

"And I tell you, Master Marcel," yelled the Regent furiously, "that it is time, high time, to put an end to your insolent requests! Be gone, instantly!"

"Away with this varlet in rebellion against his King," cried the courtiers, like the Regent re-assured and deceived by the attitude of Marcel's armed escort, that remained mute and motionless, and turning to them the marshal of Normandy called out: "As to you, good people of Paris, who now regret the criminal errand on which this bedeviled rebel has brought you despite yourselves, join us, the true friends of your King, in punishing the treason of this miserable Marcel.... Let his blood fall upon himself!"

The provost smothered a sigh of regret, stepped back a few paces so as to place himself beyond the reach of the marshal's sword, turned to his people and said: "Carry out the orders that brought you here."

These words were hardly uttered when Marcel's armed men, anxious to make amends for the silence and prolonged restraint imposed upon them by his orders, burst loose in an explosion of cries of indignation and of threats that struck the Regent and his courtiers with stupor and consternation. Rufin the Tankard-smasher bolted upon the marshal of Normandy, seized him by the collar and cried: "You had Perrin Macé mutilated and hanged; now you shall be hanged! The gibbet is ready!"

"And this for you, caitiff," responded the marshal, quick as lightning transfixing the student's left arm with a thrust of his sword. "The cord that is to hang me is not yet twisted."

The student spoke true. The marshal's skull was crushed; he fell and expired at the Regent's feet bestaining with his blood the latter's robe. During the tumult that ensued, the marshal of Champagne rushed at Marcel dagger in hand. But William Caillet, who had all the while been seeking with burning eyes for the Sire of Nointel from among the brilliant bevy of courtiers, threw himself in front of the provost ahead of Jocelyn, who had darted forward with the same intention, and the old peasant thrust his pike into the bowels of the marshal. The corpse of the courtier rolled upon the floor. Popular vengeance was taken.

The other seigneurs and prelates, who had run to the royal chamber, fled back distracted by the door that had admitted them. When the Regent, who, fainting with terror, had crouched back upon the bed with his face hidden in his hands, looked up again, he found himself alone with Marcel and not far from the prostrate corpses of his two councilors. Marcel's armed men had slowly departed through the gallery together with Caillet, while Jocelyn was engaged near a window in bandaging with his handkerchief the wound of the student.

Finally, protruding under the drapery of the bed behind which he had held himself all the while motionless as a mouse, the feet were seen of the seigneur of Norville, who had lacked even the strength to flee.

"Mercy, Master Marcel!" cried the Regent, trembling with fear and throwing himself at Marcel's feet with arms outstretched in supplication and his face in tears. "Do not kill me; have pity upon me, my good father! Mercy!"

"Oh, my good father! I beg your pardon on my knees for having ignored your wise counsels and listened to bad advisers." Breaking out into sobs, the young prince added, wringing his hands in despair: "Oh, good God! Alone and so young to be far away from my father, who is held a prisoner, is it any fault of mine if I placed confidence in the men around me?" The Regent's eyes fell upon the corpses of the two marshals. In heart-rending accents he proceeded: "There they are, the men who misled me! They loved me! They knew me since my cradle! But, like myself, they were blind in their error. Oh, good father! Reproach me not for weeping over the fate of these unfortunate men. It is my last adieu to them," and still on his knees, the Regent crouched lower, his face in his hands and continued sobbing—with rage, not repentance.

Although long made acquainted by experience with the Regent's profound duplicity—a degree of duplicity almost incredible at so tender an age—Marcel was deceived by what seemed the sincerity of the young man's distressful accent. His touching prayer, his tears, the sorrow which he did not fear to express at the death of his two councilors—all combined to induce the belief that, frightened by the terrible reprisals that had taken place under his own eyes, the Regent was sincerely contrite at his errors, and that, convinced at last regarding his own interests, which commanded him to break with the evil past, he now really desired to march on the straight path. Marcel congratulated himself on the happy change, and said to Jocelyn in a low voice: "Order our people away from the gallery. Let them leave the palace and assemble under the large window of the Louvre. You and Rufin may stay with me. I shall take the Regent out of this chamber. The sight of the corpses is too painful to him."

The Regent obeyed mechanically, and noticing that Marcel, who was just giving his instructions to Jocelyn and Rufin, could neither see nor hear him, he whispered back to Norville: "Do not leave me. Watch for a moment when I can speak to you without being seen by anybody"; observing thereupon that Marcel was again approaching, while the champion and Rufin both left the room, he uttered a piteous moan, turned to the corpses of the two marshals and muttered in a smothered voice: "Adieu, oh, you who loved me and whose sad errors I shared. May God receive you in his Paradise!"

"Come, Sire, come," said Marcel with kindness, leading the Regent to the gallery; "come, lean upon me!"

The seigneur of Norville followed the prince from whom he did not take his eyes and said to the provost in an undertone: "Oh, Master Marcel! Be the protector, the tutor of my poor young master.... He always had a tender feeling for you!"

"Oh, good father! Why threaten me! I am a poor young man, and am at your mercy. Have pity upon me!"

"Sire! I do not threaten you. Far from me be such cruelty! I only place things before you such as they are. It depends upon you to help towards the public safety."

"Speak, speak, good father.... I shall obey you as a most respectful son, I swear to you upon my salvation.... Moreover, you shall be my only councilor.... Speak, what do you order?"

"The people are assembled before the Louvre.... They are informed of the death of the marshal of Normandy.... Show yourself at the window.... Say a few good words to the crowd.... Announce plainly your good resolves.... Declare that the cause of the people is above all yours ... and here, Sire," added Marcel, taking off his hat and offering it to the Regent, "as a token of our alliance, good will and harmony, wear my hat with the popular colors. The inhabitants of Paris will be pleased at this first proof of condescension and agreement."

"Give it to me.... Give it to me," the Regent said with avidity, hastening to don Marcel's hat of red and blue. "A friend like you, my good father ... only such a friend could give me such an advice.... Open the window; I wish to speak to my well beloved people of Paris," added the Regent addressing the seigneur of Norville, who having held himself at a distance during the conversation of Marcel and the prince, now again drew near as ordered. "Open the window wide," said the prince.

"Like Master Marcel, I believe him sincere. Not that I trust in the heart of that royal stripling, but because it is to his interest to follow wise counsel."

"Hm! Hm! To me it looks as if he is playing a comedy. A prince's word is poor guarantee."

"Do you imagine the Regent is so double-faced or so foolish as to try to deceive Master Marcel?"

"As true as Homer is the king of rhapsodists, never was my wench Margot about to play me some scurvy trick without she called me her 'musk-rat,' her 'beautiful king,' her 'gold canary,' and other names no less flattering than deceitful."

"But what connection is there between Margot and the Regent? Quit your fooling!"

"Listen to me to the end. I happen to have an assignment with her for this evening near the Louvre, on the river bank, because by what she says, her friend Jeannette does not want to see me at her house. Very well. I swear by Ovid, the poet beloved of Cupid, Margot acted the gentle puss and induced me to go and inhale the mists of the Seine simply because she had made up her mind to go elsewhere this evening."

"Rufin, let's talk seriously!"

"Seriously, Jocelyn. I fear that the promises of the Regent are like those of Margot! I can assure you, much as the sword thrust I received smarts me devilishly, I would have preferred having pocketed one more in return for having settled the accounts of that puling youngster as I did the accounts of the marshal of Normandy."

"Come, now! Those are excesses worthy only of John Maillart.... But, by the way, did he accompany us hither?"

"Listen!" cried Jocelyn interrupting his friend, and pointing to the Regent, who, having advanced to the balcony, was addressing the people gathered on the street.

"Beloved inhabitants of my good city of Paris," the Regent was saying in a moved and tearful voice, "I appear before you firmly resolved to make amends for my wrongful conduct. I swear by these colors that are your own, and that henceforth will be mine," he added, carrying his hand to the red and blue hat he wore on his head. "The marshal of Normandy, one of my councilors, unjustly ordered the execution of Perrin Macé, an honest bourgeois of Paris. The marshal has just been put to death. May that reparation satisfy you, dear and good Parisians! Let us forget our dissensions; let us join in a common accord for the country's good.... Let us love one another! Let us help one another! I admit my errors! Will you pardon them? Oh, I am so young! Evil councilors led me astray. But I shall henceforth have only one.... That councilor ... here he is!" and the Regent, turning towards Marcel, added: "Good inhabitants of Paris, receive this embrace which I now give you from the bottom of my heart in the person of the great citizen whom we all cherish, whom we all venerate." While pronouncing these last words, the young prince threw himself weeping into the arms of the provost and pressed him to his breast,—the embrace of rulers, a mortal caress!

At the touching spectacle, the enthusiastic clamors of the mobile and credulous mass resounded loud, and prolonged cries of "Long live Marcel!" "Long live the Regent!" "To a happy issue!" greeted the reconciliation as a happy augury of the future.

"My good father!" answered the Regent, panting for breath, "my eyes have been opened to the light; my heart expands.... I am reborn for a new life.... You shall not leave me to-day; only to-night if you must.... Let's go to work.... Let us jointly take prompt, energetic measures.... Oh! Your wishes shall be realized.... I shall bequeath to posterity a name blessed by all.... Come, my good father!" and passing his arm around the neck of Marcel with filial familiarity, the young man took a few steps with him in the gallery towards his cabinet. But suddenly stopping, he added in the most natural manner, as if struck by a thought: "Oh, I forgot!" He then left Marcel and stepped back towards the seigneur of Norville, whom he called. The latter hastened to respond and the Regent whispered to him: "This evening, at nightfall, let a vessel manned with two trusty sailors be ready for me just outside the barrier facing the postern gate of the Louvre.... Gather all my gold and precious stones in a coffer, and keep yourself ready to accompany me. Prudence and discretion!"

"Sire, rely upon me!"

"Well, Jocelyn," said Marcel to the champion during the secret conversation of the Regent and his courtier, "you see it.... My hopes have not been deceived.... The lesson was terrible and salutary. Return home and tell Marguerite that I do not expect to be back until late. I wish to profit on the spot by the young man's repentance. He and I will probably work together a part of the night."

Thus, followed by the seigneur of Norville, the two quitted the gallery, from which also Jocelyn and Rufin took their departure together.

"After what you have just heard," remarked the champion to the student, "can you still entertain any doubts concerning the Regent's sincerity? Do you still believe he plays a comedy?"