uville, then seventy-six
years old, broken, decrepit, almost dead, was sitting at sunset in an
immense arm-chair, before the gothic window of his bedroom, at the place
where his wife had so vainly implored, by the sounds of the horn wasted
on the air, the help of men and heaven. You might have thought him a
body resurrected from the grave. His once energetic face, stripped of
its sinister aspect by old age and suffering, was ghastly in color,
matching the long meshes of white hair which fell around his bald head,
the yellow skull of which seemed softening. The warrior and the fanatic
still shone in those yellow eyes, tempered now by religious sentiment.
Devotion had cast a monastic tone upon the face, formerly so hard, but
now marked with tints which softened its expression. The reflections of
the setting sun colored with a faintly ruddy tinge the head, which, in
spite of all infirmities, was still vigorous. The feeble body, wrapped
in brown garments, gave, by its heavy attitude and the absence of all
movement, a vivid impression of the monotonous existence, the terrible
repose of this man once so active, so enterprising, so vindictive.

"Enough!" he said to his chaplain.

That venerable old man was reading aloud the Gospel, standing before the
master in a respectful attitude. The duke, like an old menagerie lion
which has reached a decrepitude that is still full of majesty, turned to
another white-haired man and said, holding out a fleshless arm covered
with sparse hairs, still sinewy, but without vigor:--

"Your turn now, bonesetter. How am I to-day?"

"Doing well, monseigneur; the fever has ceased. You will live many years
yet."

"I wish I could see Maximilien here," continued the duke, with a smile
of satisfaction. "My fine boy! He commands a company in the King's
Guard. The Marechal d'Ancre takes care of my lad, and our gracious Queen
Marie thinks of allying him nobly, now that he is created Duc de Nivron.
My race will be worthily continued. The lad performed prodigies of valor
in the attack on--"

At this moment Bertrand entered, holding a letter in his hand.

"What is this?" said the old lord, eagerly.

"A despatch brought by a courier sent to you by the king," replied
Bertrand.

"The king, and not the queen-mother!" exclaimed the duke. "What is
happening? Have the Huguenots taken arms again? Tete-Dieu!" cried the
old man, rising to his feet and casting a flaming glance at his three
companions, "I'll a