che and of the effort
contemplated by the King of Navarre for its relief. M. de Rosny not
only communicated these matters to me without reserve, but engaged
my affections by farther proofs of confidence such as might well have
flattered a man of greater importance.

I have said that, as a rule, there was no coming or going of messengers.
But one evening, returning from the chase with one of the keepers, who
had prayed my assistance in hunting down a crippled doe, I was surprised
to find a strange horse, which had evidently been ridden hard and far,
standing smoking in the yard. Inquiring whose it was, I learned that
a man believed by the grooms to be from Blois had just arrived and was
closeted with the baron. An event so far out of the ordinary course of
things naturally aroused my wonder; but desiring to avoid any appearance
of curiosity, which, if indulged, is apt to become the most vulgar of
vices, I refrained from entering the house, and repaired instead to the
yew-walk. I had scarcely, however, heated my blood, a little chilled
with riding, before the page came to me to fetch me to his master.

I found M. de Rosny striding up and down his room, his manner so
disordered and his face disfigured by so much grief and horror that I
started on seeing him. My heart sinking in a moment, I did not need to
look at Madame, who sat weeping silently in a chair, to assure myself
that something dreadful had happened. The light was failing, and a lamp
had been brought into the room. M. de Rosny pointed abruptly to a
small piece of paper which lay on the table beside it, and, obeying his
gesture, I took this up and read its contents, which consisted of less
than a score of words.

'He is ill and like to die,' the message ran, 'twenty leagues south of
La Ganache. Come at all costs. P. M.

'Who?' I said stupidly--stupidly, for already I began to understand. Who
is ill and like to die?'

M. de Rosny turned to me, and I saw that the tears were trickling
unbidden down his cheeks. 'There is but one HE for me,' he cried. 'May
God spare that one! May He spare him to France, which needs him, to the
Church, which hangs on him, and to me, who love him! Let him not fall
in the hour of fruition. O Lord, let him not fall!' And he sank on to
a stool, and remained in that posture with his face in his hands, his
broad shoulders shaken with grief.

'Come, sir,' I said, after a pause sacred to sorrow and dismay; 'let me
remind you that while