cede torn in four
pieces? No, pardieu! Besides, I have renounced politics; I will go and
dine."

CHAPTER IV.

HIS MAJESTY HENRI THE THIRD.

M. Friard was right when he talked of 100,000 persons as the number of
spectators who would meet on the Place de Greve and its environs, to
witness the execution of Salcede. All Paris appeared to have a
rendezvous at the Hotel de Ville; and Paris is very exact, and never
misses a fete; and the death of a man is a fete, especially when he has
raised so many passions that some curse and others bless him.

The spectators who succeeded in reaching the Place saw the archers and a
large number of Swiss and light horse surrounding a little scaffold
raised about four feet from the ground. It was so low as to be visible
only to those immediately surrounding it, or to those who had windows
overlooking the Place. Four vigorous white horses beat the ground
impatiently with their hoofs, to the great terror of the women, who had
either chosen this place willingly, or had been forcibly pushed there.

These horses were unused, and had never done more work than to support,
by some chance, on their broad backs the chubby children of the
peasants. After the scaffold and the horses, what next attracted all
looks was the principal window of the Hotel de Ville, which was hung
with red velvet and gold, and ornamented with the royal arms. This was
for the king. Half-past one had just struck when this window was filled.
First came Henri III., pale, almost bald, although he was at that time
only thirty-five, and with a somber expression, always a mystery to his
subjects, who, when they saw him appear, never knew whether to say "Vive
le Roi!" or to pray for his soul. He was dressed in black, without
jewels or orders, and a single diamond shone in his cap, serving as a
fastening to three short plumes. He carried in his hand a little black
dog that his sister-in-law Marie Stuart had sent him from her prison,
and on which his fingers looked as white as alabaster.

Behind the king came Catherine de Medicis, almost bowed by age, for she
might be sixty-six or sixty-seven, but still carrying her head firm and
erect, and darting bitter glances from under her thick eyebrows. At her
side appeared the melancholy but sweet face of the queen, Louise de
Torraine. Catherine came as a triumph, she as a punishment. Behind them
came two handsome young men, brothers, the eldest of whom smiled with
wonderful beaut