“No, my friend.”

“And why, if you please?”

“Because I must be economical, and you would eat too much.”

“Jacques eats as much as I do.”

“Yes, but Jacques was a monk.”

“And what am I?”

“You, my friend, are a gendarme, or a foot soldier.”

“What do you mean?  Do you not see my monk’s robe?”

“The dress does not make the monk, my friend; tell Brother Borromee that, if you please.”

The giant disappeared, grumbling, like a beaten hound.

CHAPTER XXV.

The guises.

On the evening of the same day on which Chicot set off for Navarre, we shall find again, in a large room at the Hotel Guise, the person who, disguised as a page, had entered Paris behind Carmainges, and who was also, as we know, the penitent of Gorenflot.  On this occasion her sex was disclosed, and, elegantly dressed, with her hair glittering with precious stones, she was waiting impatiently for some one.

At last a horse’s step was heard, and the usher almost immediately announced M. le Duc de Mayenne.  Madame de Montpensier ran to her brother so hastily that she forgot to proceed on the point of the right foot, as was her habit, in order to conceal her lameness.

“Are you alone, brother?” asked she.

“Yes, my sister.”

“But Henri; where is Henri?  Do you know that every one expects him here?”

“Henri has nothing to do here, and plenty to do in Flanders and Picardy.  We have work to do there, and why should we leave it to come here, where our work is done?”

“But where it will be quickly undone, if you do not hasten.”

“Bah!”

“Bah! if you like.  I tell you the citizens will be put off no longer; they insist upon seeing their Duke Henri.”

“They shall see him at the right time.  And Salcede—?”

“Is dead.”

“Without speaking?”

“Without uttering a word.”

“Good! and the arming?”

“Finished.”

“And Paris?”

“Is divided into sixteen quarters.”

“And each quarter has the chief pointed out?”

“Yes.”

“Then let us live in peace, and so I shall say to our good bourgeoisie.”

“They will not listen to you.”

“Bah!”

“I tell you they are furious.”

“My sister, you judge others by your own impatience.  What Henri says must be done; and he says we are to remain quiet.”

“What is to be done, then?” asked the duchess impatiently.

“What do you wish to do?”

“Firstly, to take the king.”

“That is your fixed idea; I do not say it is bad, if it could be done, but think how often we have failed already.”

“Times are changed, the king has no longer defenders.”

“No; except the Swiss, Scotch, and French guards.”