ve," replied Henry, finding by a subterfuge the
means of avoiding the dangerous confidence of the King.

"Marie," said the latter, "I have brought you one of the finest and the
wittiest men I know. At court, you see, and this is saying a great deal,
he puts every one in the shade. I alone have clearly understood, not his
heart, perhaps, but his mind."

"Sire," said Henry, "I am sorry that in exaggerating the one as you do,
you mistrust the other."

"I exaggerate nothing, Henriot," said the King; "besides, you will be
known some day."

Then turning to the young woman:

"He makes delightful anagrams. Ask him to make one of your name. I will
answer that he will do it."

"Oh, what could you expect to find in the name of a poor girl like me?
What gentle thought could there be in the letters with which chance
spelled Marie Touchet?"

"Oh! the anagram from this name, sire," said Henry, "is so easy that
there is no great merit in finding it."

"Ah! ah! it is already found," said Charles. "You see--Marie."

Henry drew his tablets from the pocket of his doublet, tore out a paper,
and below the name _Marie Touchet_ wrote _Je charme tout_. Then he
handed the paper to the young woman.

"Truly," she cried, "it is impossible!"

"What has he found?" asked Charles.

"Sire, I dare not repeat it."

"Sire," said Henry, "in the name Marie Touchet there is, letter for
letter, by changing the 'i' into a 'j,' as is often done, _Je charme
tout_." (I charm all.)

"Yes," exclaimed Charles, "letter for letter. I want this to be your
motto, Marie, do you hear? Never was one better deserved. Thanks,
Henriot. Marie, I will give it to you written in diamonds."

The supper over, two o'clock struck from Notre-Dame.

"Now," said Charles, "in return for this compliment, Marie, you will
give the king an armchair, in which he can sleep until daybreak; but let
it be some distance from us, because he snores frightfully. Then if you
waken before I do, you will rouse me, for at six o'clock we have to be
at the Bastille. Good-night, Henriot. Make yourself as comfortable as
possible. But," he added, approaching the King of Navarre and laying his
hand on his shoulder, "for your life, Henry,--do you hear? for your
life,--do not leave here without me, especially to return to the
Louvre."

Henry had suspected too many things in what still remained unexplained
to him to disobey such advice. Charles IX. entered his room, and Henry,
the sturdy mou