A few moments later and the great hall of the Bailliage presented much the same aspect as that of the Salle des gardes at Blois on the day when Christophe was put to the torture and the Duc de Guise was proclaimed lieutenant-governor of the kingdom,—­with the single exception that whereas love and joy overflowed the royal chamber and the Guises triumphed, death and mourning now reigned within that darkened room, and the Guises felt that power was slipping through their fingers.  The maids of honor of the two queens were again in their separate camps on either side of the fireplace, in which glowed a monstrous fire.  The hall was filled with courtiers.  The news—­spread about, no one knew how—­of some daring operation contemplated by Ambroise Pare to save the king’s life, had brought back the lords and gentlemen who had deserted the house the day before.  The outer staircase and courtyard were filled by an anxious crowd.  The scaffold erected during the night for the Prince de Conde opposite to the convent of the Recollets, had amazed and startled the whole nobility.  All present spoke in a low voice and the talk was the same mixture as at Blois, of frivolous and serious, light and earnest matters.  The habit of expecting troubles, sudden revolutions, calls to arms, rebellions, and great events, which marked the long period during which the house of Valois was slowly being extinguished in spite of Catherine de’ Medici’s great efforts to preserve it, took its rise at this time.

A deep silence prevailed for a certain distance beyond the door of the king’s chamber, which was guarded by two halberdiers, two pages, and by the captain of the Scotch guard.  Antoine de Bourbon, king of Navarre, held a prisoner in his own house, learned by his present desertion the hopes of the courtiers who had flocked to him the day before, and was horrified by the news of the preparations made during the night for the execution of his brother.

Standing before the fireplace in the great hall of the Bailliage was one of the greatest and noblest figures of that day,—­the Chancelier de l’Hopital, wearing his crimson robe lined and edged with ermine, and his cap on his head according to the privilege of his office.  This courageous man, seeing that his benefactors were traitorous and self-seeking, held firmly to the cause of the kings, represented by the queen-mother; at the risk of losing his head, he had gone to Rouen to consult with the Connetable de Montmorency.  No one ventured to draw him from the reverie in which he was plunged.  Robertet, the secretary of State, two marshals of France, Vieilleville, and Saint-Andre, and the keeper of the seals, were collected in a group before the chancellor.  The courtiers present were not precisely jesting; but their talk was malicious, especially among those who were not for the Guises.

Presently voices were heard to rise in the king’s chamber.  The two marshals, Robertet, and the chancellor went nearer to the door; for not only was the life of the king in question, but, as the whole court knew well, the chancellor, the queen-mother, and her adherents were in the utmost danger.  A deep silence fell on the whole assembly.