to read. It was a history of
France from Pharamond to Henry II., for which, a few days after his
accession to the throne, Henry had given a license.

But the duke's thoughts were not on what he was reading; the fever of
expectation burned in his veins. His temples throbbed clear to his
brain, and as in a dream or some magnetic trance, it seemed to Francois
that he could see through the walls. His eyes appeared to probe into
Henry's chamber, in spite of the obstacles between.

In order to drive away the terrible object before his mind's eye the
duke strove to fix his attention on something besides the terrible book
opened on the oak desk; but in vain he looked at his weapons, his
ornaments; in vain he gazed a hundred times at the same spot on the
floor; every detail of the picture at which he had merely glanced
remained graven on his memory. It consisted of a gentleman on horseback
fulfilling the duties of a beater of hawking, throwing the bait, calling
to the falcon, and galloping through the deep grass of a swamp. Strong
as was the duke's will, his memory triumphed over it.

Then it was not only the book he saw, but the King of Navarre
approaching it, looking at the picture, trying to turn the pages,
finally wetting his thumb and forcing the leaves apart. At this sight,
fictitious and imaginary as it was, D'Alencon staggered and was forced
to lean one hand against a table, while with the other he covered his
eyes, as if by so doing he did not see more clearly than before the
vision he wished to escape. This vision was in his own thoughts.

Suddenly D'Alencon saw Henry cross the court; he stopped a few moments
before the men who were loading two mules with the provisions for the
chase--none other than the money and other things he wished to take with
him; then, having given his orders, he crossed the court diagonally and
advanced towards the door.

D'Alencon stood motionless. It was not Henry, then, who had mounted the
secret staircase. All the agony he had undergone during the last quarter
of an hour had been useless. What he thought was over or almost over was
only beginning.

Francois opened the door of his chamber, then holding it so he listened.
This time he could not be mistaken, it was Henry himself; he recognized
his step and the peculiar jingle of his spurs.

Henry's door opened and closed.

D'Alencon returned to his room and sank into an armchair.

"Good!" said he, "this is what is now taking place: