“Ah! ah! and clever with his sword?”

“Marvelously.”

“A long face?”

“Yes.”

“And an old friend of the prior’s?”

“Yes.”

“Oh!  I have a suspicion which I must have cleared up.  Borroville, you must go to Soissons, to my brother—­”

“But the priory?”

“Oh! you can invent some excuse to Gorenflot; he believes all you say,” said Mayneville.

“You will tell my brother all you know about the mission of M. de Joyeuse.”

“Yes, monseigneur.”

“And Navarre—­” said the duchess.

“Oh!  I charge myself with that,” said Mayenne.  “Let them saddle me a fresh horse, Mayneville.”  Then he murmured to himself, “Can he be still alive?”

CHAPTER XXXIII.

Chicot, Latinist.

After the departure of the young men, Chicot went on quietly; but as soon as they had disappeared in the valley, he stopped at the top of a hill and looked all round him; then, seeing no one, he seated himself, and commenced an examination.  He had now two purses, for he perceived that the packet he had received contained money, besides the letter.  It was quite a royal purse, embroidered with an “H” at each end.

“It is pretty,” said Chicot, “no one could be more generous or more stupid.  Decidedly I shall never make anything of the king.  All that astonishes me is that he did not have the letter embroidered outside also.  Now let me see how much money he has sent.  One hundred crowns; just the sum I borrowed from Gorenflot.  Ah! pardon, Henri, this is good.  But the purse annoys me; if I were to keep it I should feel as if the very birds, as they flew over my head, would denounce me as a royal messenger.”

So saying, he drew from his pocket Gorenflot’s bag, emptied the king’s money into it, then placed a stone in the purse, and threw it into the Orge, which flowed under the bridge at his feet.

“So much for myself—­now for Henri,” said Chicot; and he took up the letter, broke the seal with the utmost tranquillity, and sent the envelope into the river after the purse.  “Now,” said he, “let us read.

“’Dear brother, the deep love which you felt for our late dear brother and king, Charles IX., still clings to the Louvre and to my heart; it grieves me, therefore, to have to write to you about vexatious things.  You are strong, however, against ill fortune, so that I do not hesitate to communicate these things to you—­things which can only be told to a tried friend.  Besides, I have an interest in warning you—­the honor of my name and of your own, my brother.  We resemble each other in one thing, that we are each surrounded with enemies.  Chicot will explain to you.

“’M. de Turenne, your servant, causes daily scandal at your court; God forbid that I should interfere in your affairs, except where