"Thirty-three Henris, of which two are bad, these I have set aside—seven sols, and nine deniers, making in all thirty-one Henris, seven sols, and nine coppers of good money—and this is all, monsieur."

It was touching the afternoon, and I was going over the present state of my affairs with Pierrebon. I looked at the small heaps of coin he had sorted out carefully on the table before me, and then rising walked to my window and gazed out. The storm of last night had passed, and Poitiers lay before me, all wet and glistening in warm sunlight. I was not, however, interested in the landscape but in the hard fact that thirty-one Henris, in round figures, would not carry me far in what I had before me. After a minute or so I came back again, and looked at the money and then at Pierrebon. It was a hopeless sum.

"It is correct, monsieur," he said; "and, of course, we have the horses."

"I know that; but what I am thinking of is that it is not enough. In short, I know not how long it will be before I can communicate with Olden Hoorn at Antwerp; and more money is needed, for there is work before us, Pierrebon."

The honest fellow's eyes lit. "How many times have I not said the good days would come back, monsieur? All the years can never be famine years, and we will have our hotel in the Rue de Bourgogne again, and twenty gentlemen at our heels when we go to the Louvre; and if money is needed now, monsieur, we have it."

"Where? I do not see it." And I laughed.

For answer Pierrebon unclasped his belt. Then taking his poniard he ripped up an inch or so of leather on the inner side and took therefrom a piece of paper carefully folded. This he handed to me, saying:

"Open it carefully, monsieur."

I did so, and found I had in my hand a diamond of some value. I looked at it in astonishment, and then at Pierrebon. He read my glance, and began hastily:

"Do not refuse, monsieur, for it came to me from you, as all that I have has come. When we left Antwerp I had a hundred and fifty livres, amassed in your service. Thirty I brought away in cash, and with a hundred and twenty I purchased this stone from Olden Hoorn himself. It is worth a hundred, I dare say, and, as money is needed now, 'tis better to use our own than to go a-borrowing."

It was impossible to refuse this faithful friend, and the diamond was transferred to me. I may mention that I had declined all offers of money made to me by the Queen and Le Brusquet, for I had a mind to work out my way without any such obligation. It was, however, a different matter with Pierrebon, and when the time came he lost nothing by his fidelity.

Matters being so far arranged we left the Elephant and betook ourselves to the priory of the Capuchins, as M. de Montluc wished. On arrival there I found that the General had set forth at dawn, with a hundred lances and the Light Horse, and that two or three days might elapse ere he returned. He had, however, left particular instructions about me, and I found myself comfortably enough lodged. My first task was to make arrangements for Masses for the soul of the dead Olivet, and for the erection of a small cross to his memory in the Church of Ste. Radegonde. Thus having fulfilled my promise to mademoiselle I spent the next day or so in resting my arm, which grew rapidly better, and in replacing sundry articles of apparel both for Pierrebon and myself. All this made so considerable a gulf in the thirty-one Henris that I resolved to transmute the diamond into gold.

I consulted Sarlaboux, who, to his disgust, had been left behind in Poitiers. He looked at the diamond, and said he would buy it for a hundred and twenty livres; but protested, with oaths, that he had but ten crowns in the world, and would, therefore, not be able to pay me at once. This I could not agree to; and I was very nearly involved in a quarrel, as he thought that a slight was being put upon his parole. The affair, however, passed off. Finally, I decided on the advice of a new acquaintance of mine—a Capuchin named Grigolet—to seek the Jews' quarter, where at any rate I would receive gold and not promises to pay. This Capuchin, who was a jovial soul, obligingly said he would accompany me, as he himself had a little business there, in connection with the conversion of a young Jewess, whose eyes, he said in confidence, were brighter than any diamond. I accepted the holy man's aid, and we set forth, he showing me many places of interest on our way.

We left the priory by the western postern and went up the Rue des Trois Piliers. The three pillars, which give its name to the street, mark the boundary between the jurisdiction of the Chapter of St. Hilaire and the town of Poitiers. They are set in the city wall, a few yards apart, and the statue on the first pillar is that of the Emperor Gallienus. On reaching the head of the road we turned up a narrow alley, and found ourselves in the vast enclosure of the old arena—far larger than those of Nimes and Aries in that it was capable of seating fifty thousand persons, and was served for entrance or exit by a hundred and twenty-four vomitories. Through this immense and deserted ruin we passed, gaining the Rue d'Evreux by one of the entrances, in the archway of which an inn was built. Then, passing the Colleges of Ste. Marthe and Puygarreau, we took the Rue du Chat Rouge, and finally came before the ogive arch, which formed the entrance to the Rue de PenthiÈvre, where the Jews were compelled to live and transact their business. A similar arch and gate shut in the other end of the street, and guards were at each gate. During the day these unfortunate people were allowed to go into the city at their own risk; but by nightfall, at the sound of the couvre feu, every one of them had to be within his street, under heavy pains and penalties, which were rigorously exacted.

On entering we found ourselves in a small and narrow street crowded with people in yellow and grey gaberdines. All around us were dark faces, bright black eyes, and hooked noses. Children swarmed, and lay about in the filth and ordure of the pavement. My companion drew forth a small flagon of scent, with which he liberally besprinkled both himself and me, and picking our way with care we found ourselves before the shop of Nathan the Jew. Here, whilst the Capuchin went farther on to see his Jewess, I haggled with Nathan for an hour or more over the price of the diamond, but could not persuade him to give more than fifteen livres. This was absurd, and I was about to turn away in disgust when the Capuchin returned. The bargaining was now taken up by a master, and the short of it was that we made our way out of the Jews' quarter with sixty-three livres in my purse. Three of these I gave Grigole for his good offices, and on approaching the Rue d'Evreux the holy man disappeared into an auberge, doubtless with a view to meditate on further arguments for the conversion of his Miriam, whilst I returned alone to the priory.

I was now fairly well supplied with money, but took the opportunity to write to my friend at Antwerp, bidding him send two hundred crowns of the sun for me to the care of Le Brusquet. This, with many misgivings, I entrusted to the King's post. It, however, arrived in safety, and I got my money.

After supper that evening, as I was returning to my chamber, I heard a commotion in the courtyard, and at first thought that Montluc had returned. On inquiry, however, I found that this was not so, but that certain prisoners of importance had been brought to the priory. I could not find out who they were, nor, indeed, did I try much, but took myself off.

So far things were going well with me, and I felt myself justified in the hope that the famine years were coming to an end. I saw the sentence of the Chambre Ardente against me cancelled, and began to see also fine castles in dreamland, and with all these I unconsciously began to associate Diane. I laughed at my folly, tried to set it aside; but back came the thought to me, in such a manner that I felt that every step I was about to take to win back my place was not for myself but for her sake. And the fear of his own unworthiness, which comes to every man who truly loves, came upon me, and with it the ghost of that duel of days long past.

There I had sinned, and sinned deeply, and it was poor consolation to tell myself that the man does not live whose life could stand sunshine on it. For me it was enough to know that I had committed a grievous wrong; it was for me to find out how to right it, or make compensation—empty regrets were useless.

Of that affair it may be as well to speak freely here. Amongst my friends in the red days was one who was to me as David to Jonathan. Godefrey de la Mothe was of an old family of the Tarantaise, and his career at college had been of exceptional brilliancy. Some years my senior, he had at first acquired great influence over me, an influence ever exercised for my good. This lasted until my return from the Italian campaign, when, seeing ruin staring me in the face, I had let everything go, and sought to drown my sorrows in dissipation. My friend strove to stay me; but, driven to madness, I repulsed all his kindness. One day we met near the Louvre, in such a manner that there was no avoiding him. He began to expostulate with me on my latest folly. I answered back hotly, and at last there were high words between us, and that was said by me for which there was but one remedy; and he fell, as is known. Since then I could only regret. But now there was punishment as well as regret. With the memory of this could I dare to think of Diane? There was only one answer, and with that answer I began to realise that what comes to all men had come to me, and that I loved. In his gibing way Le Brusquet had said that a man feels conscious of love in the same manner as he feels a sudden chill. The words came back to me, and I laughed sadly, for there was truth in them.

I own that the blue-devils took me to such an extent that I had thoughts of abandoning everything; but this soon passed, and I made up my mind to right things as far as man could, and leave the issue in the hands of God. I had been paying for my sins for so many years that the debt was almost quitted, and a stout heart would, perhaps, bring me to shore.

Nevertheless, I passed a white night, and rising early in the morning rode out of the city by the Porte de Rochereuil, returning about ten o'clock. On coming back I found that M. de Montluc had returned, and had desired to see me at once. I was about to dismount when Sarlaboux, who had recovered his temper, which he lost over the affair of the diamond, informed me that the General had gone on to the Tour de l'Oiseau, and I had better follow him there if I thought the matter of sufficient importance. This I did, and as soon as ever Pierrebon, whom I gave orders to accompany me, was ready we set forth, and Sarlaboux came with us. Whilst waiting for Pierrebon he told me that Montluc had utterly broken the Huguenot leader De Ganache near Richelieu, and taken him prisoner.

"Were any others taken?"

"Probably; and must be trying to hang as gracefully as walnuts now. MÉnorval tells me that the old fox of ChÂtillon got off, though with a singed tail."

I began to breathe more freely. If the Cardinal had escaped it was more than probable that mademoiselle was safe; but I resolved to make sure.

"There were no ladies taken, were there?"

Sarlaboux cocked his eye and looked at me. "Eh bien! My dear monsieur, are you finding it dull here? If so, I confess so do I. This is a city of the saints. Alas, no! There were no ladies taken, as far as I know; only De Ganache."

"Then it was he who arrived last night?"

"No; he was brought in by Montluc himself this morning, and it strikes me that he will never see the sun set. He has been taken to the Tour de l'Oiseau where Montluc has just gone, and which we had better reach as soon as possible if we wish to see things."

I had to be content with this, and Pierrebon being ready we started off at a smart canter. The news I had heard had set my heart going, and it was in no enviable frame of mind that I drew up at the entrance to the Tour de l'Oiseau. The full strength of the Light Horse, their red and white pennons fluttering in the air, were trooped around the tower, and it was evident that something was about to happen, for the faces of all were grave, and all eyes kept scanning the battlements. Giving my reins to Pierrebon I passed in with Sarlaboux, and running up the stairs reached the top of the tower. There we found Montluc standing, with half a dozen or so of his officers around him, and before him a young man, his head bare, and his hands bound behind him, stood facing Montluc. It was De Ganache.

We took our places silently in the group just as Montluc spoke, in a harsh, stern voice:

"M. de Ganache, your crimes are heavy, and you are about to pay for them. I bear no malice against you. I set aside my private wrongs, the plunder of my ChÂteau of Estillac, the burning of my woods, and the wanton destruction of my papers and manuscripts collected by me with immense care."

De Ganache laughed mockingly, and the blue veins stood out on Montluc's forehead. If the issue had not been so terrible there was room, in truth, for a smile, as he went on, with a gasp of rage:

"What I hold against you is that you have been taken armed—a rebel against your King and your God. I am going to make an example of you, and shall deal out to you the same mercy you showed to Champagnac, and——"

"Enough, monsieur!" said the prisoner; "let this talking end. If I have to die, let me die. I do not want a priest. I die in my faith, which is not yours. Let the matter end quickly, and be done with it."

A grim smile played on Montluc's lips as he leaned heavily on his sword.

"Well, be it so! I will not keep you. Supposing we say a leap."

"A leap?"

"Yes—from these battlements. If not, you will hang."

"Hang!—I!" And a flush came on the young noble's face.

"Precisely. Champagnac was hanged, if you remember, and it is the fate you reserved for me. You, however, have a choice."

For a moment there was a silence, and Montluc made a sign to the guards on either side of De Ganache to move away, and he was left free, except that his hands were fastened. With a half turn he looked over the battlements and gazed down from their dizzy height, and as he appeared at the embrasure there arose a hoarse cry from below. He drew back, and faced Montluc again.

"Is it to be like this?" he asked thickly, making a motion to indicate his tied hands.

"Yes; you will fall easier."

At this brutal answer De Ganache looked hopelessly around, as if imploring help. His fortitude seemed to give way, and he began to shiver in an uncontrollable manner. I could endure it no longer, and made a step forward; but, growling something that I did not catch, Sarlaboux seized me by the arm and drew me back. Just at this moment Montluc laughed a bitter, stinging laugh; and the wretched prisoner, swinging round, nerved himself to step again to the embrasure, and stopped there tottering. Again the shout rose from below, and Montluc rasped out:

"Come, De Ganache, two looks are enough!"

"I'll give you three to do it in, Monsieur de Montluc," I burst forth, and shaking Sarlaboux off stepped up to the General.

"You!" he snarled.

"Monsieur," I exclaimed, "this will cover you with shame! This is the act of a tiger, not a man. Forbear!—for the sake of your own fame, your own honour."

There was a low murmur behind me; even the stolid guards glanced at each other; but Montluc, after one swift, angry look at me, kept his head down, and made no answer, standing glowering at the hilt of his sword as one who did not hear.

It was De Ganache, however, who spoke. He had plucked up heart again after his weakness.

"There is at least one gentleman here! Let him alone, monsieur! Plead not! After all, death is but death." But I stayed him with uplifted hand, and went on: "Monsieur de Montluc, you will ever regret this. Will you soil your glory with this act of shame?"

Our eyes met, and the sombre fury in his look dropped before my gaze. I saw my advantage, and approaching closer to him urged him again, and to my joy he began to waver. Suddenly he turned from me, and walking to the battlements looked down himself, remaining there for a space amidst an absolute silence, broken but once by the uneasy clink of a spur.

So he stood, and we waited breathlessly, for all hung on a hair; and then as suddenly he turned to us, his face looking older and more wrinkled than ever.

"M. de Ganache," he said in a hard voice, "you are free. Guards, loose him!"

Without another word or look he stepped forward, and began to limp slowly down the winding stair.