uipment lay about the apartment, but failed to give any but
an untidy air to its roomy bareness. The light was beginning to
wane, the sun was gone. Outside, the ringing of bells and the distant
muttering of guns, with the tumult of sounds which rose from the crowded
street, seemed to tell of joyous life and freedom, and all the hopes and
ambitions from which I was cut off.

Having no other employment, I watched the street, and keeping myself
well retired from the window saw knots of gay riders pass this way and
that through the crowd, their corslets shining and their voices
high. Monks and ladies, a cardinal and an ambassador, passed under my
eyes--these and an endless procession of townsmen and beggars, soldiers
and courtiers, Gascons, Normans and Picards. Never had I seen such a
sight or so many people gathered together. It seemed as if half Paris
had come out to make submission, so that while my gorge rose against my
own imprisonment, the sight gradually diverted my mind from my private
distresses, by bidding me find compensation for them in the speedy and
glorious triumph of the cause.

Even when the light failed the pageant did not cease, but, torches and
lanthorns springing into life, turned night into day. From every side
came sounds of revelry or strife. The crowd continued to perambulate
the streets until a late hour, with cries of 'VIVE LE ROI!' and 'VIVE
NAVARRE!' while now and again the passage of a great noble with his
suite called forth a fresh outburst of enthusiasm. Nothing seemed
more certain, more inevitable, more clearly predestinated than that
twenty-four hours must see the fall of Paris.

Yet Paris did not fall.

When M. d'Agen returned a little before midnight, he found me still
sitting in the dark looking from the window. I heard him call roughly
for lights, and apprised by the sound of his voice that something was
wrong, I rose to meet him. He stood silent awhile, twirling his small
moustaches, and then broke into a passionate tirade, from which I was
not slow to gather that M. de Rambouillet declined to serve me.

'Well,' I said, feeling for the young man's distress and embarrassment,
'perhaps he is right.'

'He says that word respecting you came this evening,' my friend
answered, his cheeks red with shame, 'and that to countenance you after
that would only be to court certain humiliation. I did not let him off
too easily, I assure you,' M. d'Agen continued, turning away to evade
my gaze;