upon which there were some writing materials and a pair of richly embroidered gloves. The sight of the gloves brought old Camus back to my mind, and I was about to take one up, to look at the workmanship, when I heard a footfall; the curtains were set aside, and a woman stood before me.

It was Catherine de Medicis herself. It was years since I had seen her, then a young girl; but now, though still young, she was in the bloom of ripened womanhood. People said that, with all her accomplishments, she lacked courage, and was dull and stupid. As my glance rested on the pale features, on the somewhat sullen mouth, and on the dark, expressionless eyes before me, I began to think they were right. To-day, however, I was also to begin learning a new lesson. Others have since learned it too, and paid for the learning as lessons have never been paid for before or after. She let fall the curtain she held as I sank on one knee before her and extended me a shapely hand. As I touched it with my lips she said in her deep-toned voice:

"M. Broussel, arise!"

I did so, and, moving towards the chair near the table, she sat down, and began toying with one of the gloves, her eyes not meeting my look, but surveying me with a swift sidelong glance.

"Eh bien!" she said, "you are that M. Broussel who came so opportunely to the rescue of my cousin of Vendôme."

I bowed, and with another of her swift glances she asked:

"And you are to be trusted?"

"Your Majesty," I said, "I have but my word to offer for this—I have none who will add his pledge to mine."

"No one? Are you sure?"

"Your Majesty, it is as I have said."

A faint smile parted her lips, and she looked up at me suddenly and quickly, her eyes as alive with intelligence as they had appeared dull and lifeless before.

"Well, monsieur, before I trust you," and she struck the glove she held in her hand on the table, "it is necessary for me to tell you something. Listen. Many years ago—I was new to France then—a young gentleman of the best blood of Burgundy came to Paris, and entered at the College of Cambrai. Well, he did what none other of his time did, nor has any of his order done the like since. He took the three courses—took them brilliantly. You follow me?"

"I am all attention, madame." My voice was as cold and measured as hers, but in my heart I began to wonder if I would leave the room for a journey to Montfauçon, with a halt by the way at the Châtelet.

"But," she continued, "this man was not a mere bookworm nor a pedant, though Le Brun, whose voice was the voice of the Sorbonne then, prophesied a red hat for him. The red hat never came, nor did a marshal's baton, though Bevilacqua himself foretold the latter one day, as he brushed away a chalk mark just over the heart, where this young man's foil had touched him. Bevilacqua, mind you—the best sword in Europe!"

I made as if about to speak. I was about to ask her bluntly what was to be the end of this, but with a wave of her hand she stayed me.

"Permit me to continue, monsieur! This man, or boy as he was then, was true metal all through, but he was cursed with an open heart and wealth. Let us say that the course of Philosophy unsettled his mind, that the two campaigns in Italy brought but withered laurels. Let it be what you will, but back he came to Paris; and because his blood was warm, his spirits high, and his heart full of vanity and vain imaginings, the red wine was poured forth, the dice rattled, fair women smiled, and the gold crowns went. It was the old, old story; but the pity of it, monsieur, was that it was such pure good steel that was fretting thus to rust! Was it not?"

She stopped, and looked at me again with her wonderful, searching eyes, and I braced myself, as one who was about to receive a death-blow.

"At last the end came. This brave, gallant—fool—yes, that is the word—quarrelled with his best friend over a lady of the Marais—of the Marais, mind you! This friend wanted to save him from himself. The result was that those two, who had been like brothers, met each other sword in hand under the lee of the Louvre, and one—it was not the fool—fell."

The words seemed to thunder in my ears. By some effort, I knew not how, I managed to restrain myself, and her cold, passionless voice went on:

"After that came ruin—ruin utter and hopeless. And he who might have been anything died like a dog of the streets."

Something like a gasp of relief broke from me; but the Medicis had not done yet. She rose swiftly, and for one brief second let her white hand, glittering with rings, rest on my shoulder. It was for a moment only, and then she let fall her hand, with a smile on her face.

"They say, monsieur, that the age of miracles is past. Caraffa the Legate smiles if you mention them. But I—I believe, for I know. The dead have come back before. Why not again, Bertrand d'Orrain? Would you live again, and pledge your faith for that of the Bourgeois Broussel?"