When he had gone I sat down eagerly to read my comrade’s letter.  There was a smaller packet enclosed, but that I set aside.  Felix wrote at some length, and his first item of news was very startling.

“It will cause you both grief and astonishment,” he wrote, “to learn of the death of our good Queen Joan.  She died on June 9, and some talk has passed of her having been poisoned.  There is, however, a great deal of sickness here, and from what Jeanne tells me, I think the poor queen took fever.”

“This may cause events to move more rapidly,” I thought.  “Now that Henry has become King of Navarre, he is a person of even greater importance.  Charles will need to reckon with him.”

“Our patron,” Felix continued, “remains in close attendance on the king, who treats him with the utmost kindness, and even respect.  The Guises are in despair, Monseigneur is furious, and even the Queen-Mother has to swallow her pride.  This is strange, is it not?”

“Strange!” I exclaimed aloud, “it is a miracle!  What else does this wonderful budget contain?”

“Our patron has a grand scheme in his head.  He is working hard to unite the Huguenots and the Moderate Catholics into a national party, and to declare war against Spain.  The king has nearly consented, and unless the Queen-Mother regains her power war may break out at any moment.”

“Better to fight the Spaniards than to cut each other’s throats,” I muttered.

“I have kept my best news until the last,” the letter continued.  “Our patron believes the coming war will afford you the chance needed.  He will nominate you to a commission, and present you to the king at the same time.  For this purpose you must be here, and I am to instruct you to repair at once to the Hotel Coligny, at Paris.  Is not this glorious news?”

I had scarcely patience to finish the letter, feeling more inclined to jump up and dance around the room; and yet the ending was full of strange interest.

“A week ago, a man, closely muffled, who refused to give his name, sought me out late at night.  He wished, he said, to communicate with you, but for a special reason preferred to send in an indirect way.  He finished by asking me to enclose a note the first time I was sending any correspondence to Le Blanc.  It sounded very mysterious, but thinking a letter could not work much mischief I consented.”

“That is odd,” I thought, looking at the smaller packet, which bore no address, and opening it I read in Renaud L’Estang’s handwriting—­

“Monsieur, I fear something has gone wrong.  Did you receive my letter?  My messenger has not returned, and I can hear no word of him.  I am too busily engaged to leave Monseigneur, and I do not care to send to you openly.  Cordel either suspects or knows that I am your friend.

     D’ANGELY.”

Calling Jacques, I handed the note to him, and asked his opinion.