Here, with many expressions of good-will on both sides, we parted, L’Estang to return to Paris, and I to enter the grief-stricken town.  Numbers of fugitives thronged the streets; everywhere one saw groups of men, and weeping women, and frightened children who had abandoned their homes in terror.

I proceeded slowly and haltingly, being still extremely weak, and many a curious glance was directed toward my bandaged head.  Expecting to find Jeanne at my aunt’s house, I went there first, and in the courtyard saw two horses saddled and bridled as if for a journey.  I stopped a moment to speak to the servant, when a voice exclaimed joyfully, “’Tis he!  ’Tis Monsieur Edmond!” and Jacques came running out, his face beaming with delight.

“We were coming in search of you,” he cried.  “Monsieur Braund is in the house, bidding mademoiselle farewell.  She is terribly alarmed on your account; she believes you to be dead.  She blames herself bitterly for leaving you in Paris.  Is the news true, monsieur?  Is it really true that the noble Coligny has been murdered?”

“Yes,” I answered sadly, “it is too true.  But you shall hear all about it later; I must go to my sister.”

Roger was endeavouring to comfort her, but on seeing me she broke from him and ran across the room, crying, “Edmond!  Edmond!” as if she could scarcely credit the evidence of her senses.

“Did you think I was a ghost, Jeanne?” I asked laughingly. “’Tis I, Edmond, and very much alive, I assure you.  Come, let me dry those tears; you will spoil your pretty eyes.”

“Oh, Edmond,” she gasped, “I thought you were killed!  And you have been wounded!  Your head is bandaged.”

“I have had a very narrow escape, Jeanne; but here I am, and there is no need for any more sorrow on my account.”

“And Felix?” she cried, “has he escaped too?  Where have you left him?  Ah, he is dead!  I am sure of it!  I can read it in your face!”

“Yes,” I answered sadly, “there have been terrible doings in Paris, and Felix is among the slain.”

“And he was so brave and good!” she sobbed.  “Poor Felix!  Tell me about it, Edmond.”

When she had become more composed I related the story just as it had happened, but softening down the more brutal parts lest her grief should break out afresh.  She was silent for a little while, but presently she said, “The Cause is ruined, Edmond!”

“Yes,” I admitted, reluctantly, “with all our leaders slain, or in the hands of the king, we are powerless.  And now, my dear Jeanne, you had better go to your room and rest a while.”

“But you are hurt!” she exclaimed anxiously.

“The wound is not serious, and it has been skilfully dressed.  However, Roger shall fetch a surgeon.”

“And you need food,” she said, “you are weak and faint.  It is you who need rest, and I will take care of you.”

“Very well,” I said, thinking it would be better perhaps if she had something to occupy her mind, “you shall nurse back my strength.”