n his bed in Paris.
He had returned, at past two o'clock in the morning, from a magnificent
ball given by the Constable of France. The capital had been uncommonly
brilliant during the winter with banquets and dances, tourneys and
masquerades, as if to cast a lurid glare over the unutterable misery of
the people and the complete desolation of the country; but this
entertainment--given by Montmorency in honour of a fair dame with whom he
supposed himself desperately in love, the young bride of a very ancient
courtier--surpassed in splendour every festival that had been heard of
for years. De Bethune had hardly lost himself in slumber when he was
startled by Beringen, who, on drawing his curtains in this dead hour of
the night, presented such a ghastly visage that the faithful friend of
Henry instantly imagined some personal disaster to his well-beloved
sovereign. "Is the King dead?" he cried.

Being re-assured as to, this point and told to hasten to the Louvre,
Rosny instantly complied with the command. When he reached the palace he
was admitted at once to the royal bed-chamber, where he found the king in
the most unsophisticated of costumes, striding up and down the room, with
his hands clasped together behind his head, and with an expression of
agony upon his face: Many courtiers were assembled there, stuck all of
them like images against the wall, staring before them in helpless
perplexity.

Henry rushed forward as Rosny entered, and wringing him by the hand,
exclaimed, "Ah, my friend, what a misfortune, Amiens is taken!"

"Very well," replied the financier, with unperturbed visage; "I have just
completed a plan which will restore to your Majesty not only Amiens but
many other places."

The king drew a great sigh of relief and asked for his project. Rosny,
saying that he would instantly go and fetch his papers, left the
apartment for an interval, in order to give vent to the horrible
agitation which he had been enduring and so bravely concealing ever since
the fatal words had been spoken. That a city so important, the key to
Paris, without a moment's warning, without the semblance of a siege,
should thus fall into the hands of the enemy, was a blow as directly to
the heart of De Bethune as it could have been to any other of Henry's
adherents. But while they had been distracting the king by unavailing
curses or wailings, Henry, who had received the intelligence just as he
was getting into bed, had sent for support a