de Conde. The generous promise of the prince, who, of
course, was only exercising his profession of prince, remained graven on
his heart; little did he think that Conde had sent him, mentally, to the
devil in Orleans, muttering, "A Gascon would have understood me better,"
when Christophe called out a touching farewell as the prince passed the
window of his dungeon.

But besides this sentiment of admiration for the prince, Christophe
had also conceived a profound reverence for the great queen, who had
explained to him by a single look the necessity which compelled her to
sacrifice him; and who during his agony had given him an illimitable
promise in a single tear. During the silent months of his weakness, as
he lay there waiting for recovery, he thought over each event at Blois
and at Orleans. He weighed, one might almost say in spite of himself,
the relative worth of these two protections. He floated between the
queen and the prince. He had certainly served Catherine more than he
had served the Reformation, and in a young man both heart and mind would
naturally incline toward the queen; less because she was a queen than
because she was a woman. Under such circumstances a man will always hope
more from a woman than from a man.

"I sacrificed myself for her; what will she do for me?"

This question Christophe put to himself almost involuntarily as he
remembered the tone in which she had said the words, _Povero mio_! It is
difficult to believe how egotistical a man can become when he lies on a
bed of sickness. Everything, even the exclusive devotion of which he is
the object, drives him to think only of himself. By exaggerating in his
own mind the obligation which the Prince de Conde was under to him he
had come to expect that some office would be given to him at the court
of Navarre. Still new to the world of political life, he forgot its
contending interests and the rapid march of events which control and
force the hand of all leaders of parties; he forgot it the more because
he was practically a prisoner in solitary confinement on his bed in
that old brown room. Each party is, necessarily, ungrateful while the
struggle lasts; when it triumphs it has too many persons to reward not
to be ungrateful still. Soldiers submit to this ingratitude; but their
leaders turn against the new master at whose side they have acted and
suffered like equals for so long. Christophe, who alone remembered his
sufferings, felt himself alre