uited him, privately, that Christophe
should belong to the Reformation. He knew he was rich enough to ransom
his son if Christophe was too much compromised; and on the other hand
if France became Calvinist his son could save the family in the event of
one of those furious Parisian riots, the memory of which was ever-living
with the bourgeoisie,--riots they were destined to see renewed through
four reigns.

But these thoughts the old furrier, like Louis XI., did not even say to
himself; his wariness went so far as to deceive his wife and son. This
grave personage had long been the chief man of the richest and most
populous quarter of Paris, that of the centre, under the title of
_quartenier_,--the title and office which became so celebrated some
fifteen months later. Clothed in cloth like all the prudent burghers who
obeyed the sumptuary laws, Sieur Lecamus (he was tenacious of that title
which Charles V. granted to the burghers of Paris, permitting them
also to buy baronial estates and call their wives by the fine name of
_demoiselle_, but not by that of madame) wore neither gold chains nor
silk, but always a good doublet with large tarnished silver buttons,
cloth gaiters mounting to the knee, and leather shoes with clasps. His
shirt, of fine linen, showed, according to the fashion of the time, in
great puffs between his half-opened jacket and his breeches. Though his
large and handsome face received the full light of the lamp standing on
the table, Christophe had no conception of the thoughts which lay buried
beneath the rich and florid Dutch skin of the old man; but he understood
well enough the advantage he himself had expected to obtain from his
affection for pretty Babette Lallier. So Christophe, with the air of
a man who had come to a decision, smiled bitterly as he heard of the
invitation to his promised bride.

When the Burgundian cook and the apprentices had departed on their
several errands, old Lecamus looked at his wife with a glance which
showed the firmness and resolution of his character.

"You will not be satisfied till you have got that boy hanged with your
damned tongue," he said, in a stern voice.

"I would rather see him hanged and saved than living and a Huguenot,"
she answered, gloomily. "To think that a child whom I carried nine
months in my womb should be a bad Catholic, and be doomed to hell for
all eternity!"

She began to weep.

"Old silly," said the furrier; "let him live, if only to c