Felix shrugged his shoulders.  “On land,” he remarked, “danger does not alarm me, but I should not care to put to sea in such a boat as that!” in which I was at one with him.

“I will choose a better craft next time,” laughed Roger, as, after bidding him farewell, we walked across the gangway to the wharf, where we stood waving our hands until he disappeared from sight.

“Does he really mean to return?” my comrade asked.

“I think so.  He has evidently made up his mind to visit Paris.”

“I fancy,” said Felix rather bitterly, it struck me, “that he will be satisfied with Rochelle, as long as Queen Joan holds her Court there!”

My friend was not in the best of humour, but he recovered his spirits in a day or two, and before a week had passed was as lively and merry as usual.  Black Care and Felix were not congenial companions.

Nothing happened after Roger’s departure until the spring of 1571, when we heard of the king’s marriage with Elizabeth of Germany.  None of our leaders attended the ceremony, which seemed to have been a very brilliant affair, the new queen riding into Paris in an open litter hung with cloth of silver, drawn by the very finest mules shod with the same gleaming metal.

A courier who waited upon the Admiral declared that the decorations were a triumph of art, and that the bridge of Notre Dame was like a scene taken bodily from fairy land.  A triumphal arch was erected at each end of the bridge; the roadway was covered with an awning smothered in flowers and evergreens, while between every window on the first floor of the houses were figures of nymphs bearing fruits and flowers, and crowned with laurel.

But, although debarred from attending the marriage of the king, we were not without our rejoicings.  Our noble leader was married to Jacqueline of Montbel, Countess of Entremont, who came to la Rochelle attended by fifty gentlemen of her kindred.  Headed by Coligny, we rode out to meet her, and the cannon thundered forth a joyous salute.  The citizens lined the streets, and if our decorations were not as gay as those of Paris, there was, perhaps, a more genuine heartiness in our welcome.

These public rejoicings, however, could not make me forget that my position was still very awkward.  My stock of money was dwindling, and I could not expect to live in the Admiral’s house for ever; while, as long as we remained at Rochelle, Henry of Beam’s generous promise was not likely to bear fruit.

Jacques, who paid one or two visits to Le Blanc, reported that the castle remained closed, and that the tenants on the property had received orders to pay their rents to the crown.  This was bad enough, but his second piece of Information made my blood hot with anger.

I asked if he had learned anything of Etienne Cordel, and he replied angrily, “More than enough, monsieur.  I shall certainly spit that insolent upstart one of these days.  He is giving himself all the airs of a grand personage, and boasts openly that before long he will be the Sieur Le Blanc.  He is a serpent, monsieur—­a crawling, loathsome, deadly serpent; his breath pollutes the very air.”