Henri III. turned on his heel angrily.

“Really,” said he, “these Joyeuses are more obstinate than a Valois.  Here is one who will bring me every day his long face and eyes circled with black; that will be delightful.”

“Oh! sire, I will smile so, when I am here, that every one shall think me the happiest of men.”

“Yes, but I shall know the contrary, and that will sadden me.”

“Does your majesty permit me to retire?” asked Du Bouchage.

“Go, my child, and try to be a man.”

When he was gone the king approached D’Epernon, and said: 

“Lavalette, have money distributed this evening to the Forty-five, and give them holiday for a night and a day to amuse themselves.  By the mass! they saved me like Sylla’s white horse.”

“Saved?” said Catherine.

“Yes, mother.”

“From what?”

“Ah! ask D’Epernon.”

“I ask you, my son.”

“Well, madame, our dear cousin, the sister of your good friend M. de Guise—­oh! do not deny it; you, know he is your good friend—­laid an ambush for me.”

“An ambush!”

“Yes, madame, and I narrowly escaped imprisonment or assassination.”

“By M. de Guise?”

“You do not believe it?”

“I confess I do not.”

“D’Epernon, my friend, relate the adventure to my mother.  If I go on speaking, and she goes on shrugging her shoulders, I shall get angry, and that does not suit my health.  Adieu, madame; cherish M. de Guise as much as you please, but I would advise them not to forget Salcede.”

CHAPTER LV.

Red plume and white plume.

It was eight in the evening, and the house of Robert Briquet, solitary and sad-looking, formed a worthy companion to that mysterious house of which we have already spoken to our readers.  One might have thought that these two houses were yawning in each other’s face.  Not far from there the noise of brass was heard, mingled with confused voices, vague murmurs, and squeaks.

It was probably this noise that attracted a young and handsome cavalier, with a violet cap, red plume, and gray mantle, who, after stopping for some minutes to hear this noise, went on slowly and pensively toward the house of Robert Briquet.  Now this noise of brass was that of saucepans; these vague murmurs, those of pots boiling on fires and spits turned by dogs; those cries, those of M. Fournichon, host of the “Brave Chevalier,” and of Madame Fournichon, who was preparing her rooms.  When the young man with the violet hat had well looked at the fire, inhaled the smell of the fowls, and peeped through the curtains, he went away, then returned to recommence his examinations.  He continued to walk up and down, but never passed Robert Briquet’s house, which seemed to be the limit of his walk.  Each time that he arrived at