, stained with the blood of murders,
sprinkled with the wine of orgies, scented with the perfumes of
love,--perhaps never had this corner of the Louvre seen a paler face
than that of the Duc d'Alencon, as with book in hand he opened the door
of the bedchamber of the King of Navarre. And no one, as the duke had
expected, was in the room to question with curious or anxious glances
what he was about to do. The first rays of the morning sun alone were
lighting up the vacant chamber.

On the wall in readiness hung the sword which Monsieur de Mouy had
advised Henry to take with him. Some links of a coat of mail were
scattered on the floor. A well-filled purse and a small dagger lay on a
table, and some light ashes in the fireplace, joined to the other
evidence, clearly showed D'Alencon that the King of Navarre had put on
the shirt of mail, collected some money from his treasurer, and burned
all papers that might compromise him.

"My mother was not mistaken," said D'Alencon "the knave would have
betrayed me."

Doubtless this conviction gave added strength to the young man. He
sounded the corners of the room at a glance, raised the portieres, and
realizing from the loud noise in the court-yard below and the dense
silence in the apartments that no one was there to spy on him, he drew
the book from under his cloak, hastily laid it on the table, near the
purse, propping it up against a desk of sculptured oak; then drawing
back, he reached out his arm, and, with a hesitation which betrayed his
fears, with his gloved hand he opened the volume to an engraving of a
hunt. This done, D'Alencon again stepped back, and drawing off his glove
threw it into the still warm fire, which had just consumed the papers.
The supple leather crackled over the coals, twisted and flattened itself
out like the body of a great reptile, leaving nothing but a burned and
blackened lump.

D'Alencon waited until the flame had consumed the glove, then rolling up
the cloak which had been wrapped around the book, he put it under his
arm, and hastily returned to his own apartments. As he entered with
beating heart, he heard steps on the winding stairs, and not doubting
but that it was Henry he quickly closed his door. Then he stepped to the
window, but he could see only a part of the court-yard of the Louvre.
Henry was not there, however, and he felt convinced that it was the King
of Navarre who had just returned.

The duke sat down, opened a book, and tried