but farther than that she would not go; and she made her deliverance the price of the highest rewards of his love.  In those days, in order to dissolve a marriage it was necessary to go to Rome; to obtain the help of certain cardinals, and to appear before the sovereign pontiff in person armed with the approval of the king.  Marie was firm in maintaining her liberty to love, that she might sacrifice it to him later.  Nearly every woman in those days had sufficient power to establish her empire over the heart of a man in a way to make that passion the history of his whole life, the spring and principle of his highest resolutions.  Women were a power in France; they were so many sovereigns; they had forms of noble pride; their lovers belonged to them far more than they gave themselves to their lovers; often their love cost blood, and to be their lover it was necessary to incur great dangers.  But the Marie of his dream made small defence against the young seigneur’s ardent entreaties.  Which of the two was the reality?  Did the false apprentice in his dream see the true woman?  Had he seen in the hotel de Poitiers a lady masked in virtue?  The question is difficult to decide; and the honor of women demands that it be left, as it were, in litigation.

At the moment when the Marie of the dream may have been about to forget her high dignity as mistress, the lover felt himself seized by an iron hand, and the sour voice of the grand provost said to him:—­

“Come, midnight Christian, who seeks God on the roofs, wake up!”

The young man saw the black face of Tristan l’Hermite above him, and recognized his sardonic smile; then, on the steps of the corkscrew staircase, he saw Cornelius, his sister, and behind them the provost guard.  At that sight, and observing the diabolical faces expressing either hatred or curiosity of persons whose business it was to hang others, the so-called Philippe Goulenoire sat up on his pallet and rubbed his eyes.

“Mort-Dieu!” he cried, seizing his dagger, which was under the pillow.  “Now is the time to play our knives.”

“Ho, ho!” cried Tristan, “that’s the speech of a noble.  Methinks I see Georges d’Estouteville, the nephew of the grand master of the archers.”

Hearing his real name uttered by Tristan, young d’Estouteville thought less of himself than of the dangers his recognition would bring upon his unfortunate mistress.  To avert suspicion he cried out:—­

“Ventre-Mahom! help, help to me, comrades!”

After that outcry, made by a man who was really in despair, the young courtier gave a bound, dagger in hand, and reached the landing.  But the myrmidons of the grand provost were accustomed to such proceedings.  When Georges d’Estouteville reached the stairs they seized him dexterously, not surprised by the vigorous thrust he made at them with his dagger, the blade of which fortunately slipped on the corselet of a guard; then, having disarmed him, they bound his hands, and threw him on the pallet before their leader, who stood motionless and thoughtful.