rent from usual
that Henry scarcely recognized him.

"Henriot," said the King, "I told you that when I left the Louvre I came
out of hell. When I enter here I am in paradise."

"Sire," said Henry, "I am happy that your Majesty has thought me worthy
of taking this trip to Heaven with you."

"The road thither is a narrow one," said the King, turning to a small
stairway, "but nothing can be compared to it."

"Who is the angel who guards the entrance to your Eden, sire?"

"You shall see," replied Charles IX.

Signing to Henry to follow him noiselessly, he opened first one door,
then another, and finally paused on a threshold.

"Look!" said he.

Henry approached and gazed on one of the most beautiful pictures he had
ever seen.

A young woman of eighteen or nineteen lay sleeping, her head resting on
the foot of a little bed in which a child was asleep. The woman held its
little feet close to her lips, while her long hair fell over her
shoulders like a flood of gold. It was like one of Albane's pictures of
the Virgin and the Child Jesus.

"Oh, sire," said the King of Navarre, "who is this lovely creature?"

"The angel of my paradise, Henriot, the only one who loves me."

Henry smiled.

"Yes," said Charles, "for she loved me before she knew I was King."

"And since she has known it?"

"Well, since she has known it," said Charles, with a smile which showed
that royalty sometimes weighed heavily on him, "since she has known it
she loves me still; so you may judge."

The King approached the woman softly and pressed a kiss as light as that
which a bee gives to a lily on her rosy cheek.

Yet, light as it was, she awakened at once.

"Charles!" she murmured, opening her eyes.

"You see," said the King, "she calls me Charles. The queen says 'sire'!"

"Oh!" cried the young woman, "you are not alone, my King."

"No, my sweet Marie, I wanted to bring you another king, happier than
myself because he has no crown; more unhappy than I because he has no
Marie Touchet. God makes compensation for everything."

"Sire, is it the King of Navarre?" asked Marie.

"Yes, my child; come here, Henriot." The King of Navarre drew near;
Charles took him by the hand.

"See this hand, Marie," said he, "it is the hand of a good brother and a
loyal friend. Were it not for this hand"--

"Well, sire?"

"Well, had it not been for this hand to-day, Marie, our child would have
no father."

Marie uttered a cry, fell on her knees, a