ent outdoors and asked what it
meant. Receiving an unsatisfactory reply, they proceeded to the Louvre,
where they found the outer court filled with armed men, who, seeing them
without the white cross and the scarf, abused them as "accursed
Huguenots," whose turn would come next. One of them who replied to this
insolent threat, was immediately run through with a spear. This, if the
incident be true, occurred about one o'clock on Sunday morning, August
24th, the festival of St. Bartholomew.

Shortly after midnight the Queen-mother rose and went to the King's
chamber, attended only by one lady, the Duchess of Nemours, whose thirst
for revenge was to be satisfied at last. She found Charles pacing the
room in one of those fits of passion which he at times assumed to
conceal his infirmity of purpose. At one moment he swore he would raise
the Huguenots and call them to protect their sovereign's life as well as
their own. Then he burst out into violent imprecations against his
brother Anjou, who had entered the room but did not dare say a word.
Presently the other conspirators arrived--Guise, Nevers, Birague, De
Retz, and Tavannes. Catherine alone ventured to interpose, and, in a
tone of sternness well calculated to impress the mind of her weak son,
she declared that there was now no turning back: "It is too late to
retreat, even were it possible. We must cut off the rotten limb, hurt it
ever so much; if you delay, you will lose the finest opportunity God
ever gave man of getting rid of his enemies at a blow." And then, as if
struck with compassion for the fate of her victims, she repeated in a
low tone--as if talking to herself--the words of a famous Italian
preacher, which she had often been heard to quote before: "_E la pieta
lor ser crudele, e la crudelta lor ser pietosa_" ("Mercy would be
cruel to them, and cruelty merciful"). Catherine's resolution again
prevailed over the King's weakness, and, the final orders being given,
the Duke of Guise quitted the Louvre, followed by two companies of
arquebusiers and the whole of Anjou's guard.

As soon as Guise had left, the chief criminals--each afraid to lose
sight of the other, each needing the presence of the other to keep his
courage up--went to a room adjoining the tennis-court overlooking the
Place Bassecour. Of all the party--Charles, Catherine, Anjou, and De
Retz--Charles was the least guilty and the most to be pitied. They went
to the window, anxiously listening for the