luence grows weaker every day and the Admiral's stronger.
Charles begins to take sides with him against us. We shall have him a
tool of the Huguenot party before all is done. Ah, mon Dieu! You should
have seen him leaning upon the shoulder of that old parpaillot, calling
him 'my father,' and protesting himself his devoted friend 'body
and soul, heart and bowels,' in his own words. And when I seek him
afterwards, he scowls and snarls at me, and fingers his dagger as if he
would have it in my throat. It is plain to see upon what subject the old
scoundrel entertained him." And again he repeated, more fiercely than
before: "It is time to end it!"

"I know," she said, ever emotionless before so much emotion. "And it
shall be ended. The old assassin should have been hanged years ago for
guiding the hand that shot Francois de Guise. Daily he becomes a greater
danger, to Charles, to ourselves, and to France. He is embroiling us
with Spain through this Huguenot army he is raising to go and fight the
battles of Calvinism in Flanders. A fine thing that. Ah, per Dio!" For a
moment her voice was a little warmed and quickened. "Catholic France at
war with Catholic Spain for the sake of Huguenot Flanders!" She laughed
shortly. Then her voice reverted to its habitual sleepy level. "You
are right. It is time to end it. Coligny is the head of this rebellious
beast. If we cut off the head, perhaps the beast will perish. We will
consult the Duke of Guise." She yawned again. "Yes, the Duke of Guise
will be ready to lend us his counsel and his aid. Decidedly we must get
rid of the Admiral."

That was on Monday, August 18th of that year 1572, and such was the firm
purpose and energy of that fat and seemingly sluggish woman, that within
two days all necessary measures were taken, and Maurevert, the
assassin, was at his post in the house of Vilaine, in the Cloisters
of Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois, procured for the purpose by Madame de
Nemours, who bore the Admiral a mortal hatred.

It was not, however, until the following Friday that Maurevert was given
the opportunity of carrying out the task to which he had been hired. On
that morning, as the Admiral was passing, accompanied by a few gentlemen
of his household, returning from the Louvre to his house in the Rue
Betisy, the assassin did his work. There was a sudden arquebusade from
a first-floor window, and a bullet smashed two fingers of the Admiral's
right hand, and lodged itself in the muscl