k it from my house."

"The queen mother!" exclaimed Charles.

"Yes."

"With what object?"

"With the intention, I think, of having it sent to the King of Navarre,
who had asked the Duc d'Alencon for a book of the kind in order to study
the art of hawking."

"Ah!" cried Charles, "that is it. I see it all. The book indeed was in
Henriot's room. There is a destiny about this and I submit to it."

At that moment Charles was seized with a violent fit of coughing,
followed by fresh pain in the bowels. He gave two or three stifled
cries, and fell back in his chair.

"What is the matter, sire?" asked Rene in a frightened voice.

"Nothing," said Charles, "except that I am thirsty. Give me something to
drink."

Rene filled a glass with water and with trembling hand gave it to
Charles, who swallowed it at a draught.

"Now," said he, taking a pen and dipping it into the ink, "write in this
book."

"What must I write?"

"What I am going to dictate to you:

"'_This book on hawking was given by me to the queen mother, Catharine
de Medicis._'"

Rene took the pen and wrote.

"Now sign your name."

The Florentine obeyed.

"You promised to save my life."

"I will keep my promise."

"But," said Rene, "the queen mother?"

"Oh!" said Charles, "I have nothing to do with her; if you are attacked
defend yourself."

"Sire, may I leave France, where I feel that my life is in danger?"

"I will reply to that in a fortnight."

"But, in the meantime"--

Charles frowned and placed his finger on his livid lips.

"You need not be afraid of me, sire."

And happy to have escaped so easily the Florentine bowed and withdrew.

Behind him the nurse appeared at the door of her room.

"What is the matter, my Charlot?" said she.

"Nurse, I have been walking in the dew, and have taken cold."

"You are very pale, Charlot."

"It is because I am so weak. Give me your arm, nurse, as far as my bed."

The nurse hastily came forward.

Charles leaned on her and reached his room.

"Now," said Charles, "I will put myself to bed."

"If Maitre Ambroise Pare comes?"

"Tell him that I am better and that I do not need him."

"But, meanwhile, what will you take?"

"Oh! a very simple medicine," said Charles, "the whites of eggs beaten
in milk. By the way, nurse," he continued, "my poor Acteon is dead.
To-morrow morning he must be buried in a corner of the garden of the
Louvre. He was one of my best friends. I will have a tomb ma