he has passed
through the antechamber, the first room, the sleeping-room; then he
glances to see if his sword, his purse, his dagger are there; at last he
finds the book open on his table.

"'What book is this?' he asks himself. 'Who has brought it?'

"Then he draws nearer, sees the picture of the horseman calling his
falcon, wants to read, tries to turn the leaves."

A cold perspiration started to the brow of Francois.

"Will he call? Is the effect of the poison sudden? No, no, for my mother
said he would die of slow consumption."

This thought somewhat reassured him.

Ten minutes passed thus, a century of agony, dragging by second after
second, each supplying all that the imagination could invent in the way
of maddening terror, a world of visions.

D'Alencon could stand it no longer. He rose and crossed the antechamber,
which was beginning to fill with gentlemen.

"Good morning, gentlemen," said he, "I am going to the King."

And to distract his consuming anxiety, and perhaps to prepare an
_alibi_, D'Alencon descended to his brother's apartments. Why did he go
there? He did not know. What had he to say? Nothing! It was not Charles
he sought--it was Henry he fled.

He took the winding staircase and found the door of the King's
apartments half opened. The guards let the duke enter without
opposition. On hunting days there was neither etiquette nor orders.

Francois traversed successively the antechamber, the salon, and the
bedroom without meeting any one. He thought Charles must be in the
armory and opened the door leading thither.

The King was seated before a table, in a deep carved armchair. He had
his back to the door, and appeared to be absorbed in what he was doing.

The duke approached on tiptoe; Charles was reading.

"By Heaven!" cried he, suddenly, "this is a fine book. I had heard of
it, but I did not know it could be had in France."

D'Alencon listened and advanced a step.

"Cursed leaves!" said the King, wetting his thumb and applying it to the
pages; "it looks as though they had been stuck together on purpose to
conceal the wonders they contain from the eyes of man."

D'Alencon bounded forward. The book over which Charles was bending was
the one he had left in Henry's room. A dull cry broke from him.

"Ah, is it you, Francois?" said Charles, "you are welcome; come and see
the finest book on hunting which ever came from the pen of man."

D'Alencon's first impulse was to snatch the volu