“But in that case, sire, we should have Germans to oppose to your Spaniards,” said one of his hearers.

“Cousin,” replied Charles IX., coldly, “my wife’s name is Elizabeth of Austria; support might fail you on the German side.  But, for Heaven’s sake, let us fight, if fight we must, alone, without the help of foreigners.  You are the object of my mother’s hatred, and you stand near enough to me to be my second in the duel I am about to fight with her; well then, listen to what I now say.  You seem to me so worthy of confidence that I offer you the post of connetable; you will not betray me like the other.”

The prince to whom Charles IX. had addressed himself, struck his hand into that of the king, exclaiming: 

“Ventre-saint-gris! brother; this is enough to make me forget many wrongs.  But, sire, the head cannot march without the tail, and ours is a long tail to drag.  Give me more than ten days; we want at least a month to make our friends hear reason.  At the end of that time we shall be masters.”

“A month, so be it!  My only negotiator will be Villeroy; trust no one else, no matter what is said to you.”

“One month,” echoed the other seigneurs, “that is sufficient.”

“Gentlemen, we are five,” said the king,—­“five men of honor.  If any betrayal takes place, we shall know on whom to avenge it.”

The three strangers kissed the hand of Charles IX. and took leave of him with every mark of the utmost respect.  As the king recrossed the Seine, four o’clock was ringing from the clock-tower of the Louvre.  Lights were on in the queen-mother’s room; she had not yet gone to bed.

“My mother is still on the watch,” said Charles to the Comte de Solern.

“She has her forge as you have yours,” remarked the German.

“Dear count, what do you think of a king who is reduced to become a conspirator?” said Charles IX., bitterly, after a pause.

“I think, sire, that if you would allow me to fling that woman into the river, as your young cousin said, France would soon be at peace.”

“What! a parricide in addition to the Saint-Bartholomew, count?” cried the king.  “No, no!  I will exile her.  Once fallen, my mother will no longer have either servants or partisans.”

“Well, then, sire,” replied the Comte de Solern, “give me the order to arrest her at once and take her out of the kingdom; for to-morrow she will have forced you to change your mind.”

“Come to my forge,” said the king, “no one can overhear us there; besides, I don’t want my mother to suspect the capture of the Ruggieri.  If she knows I am in my work-shop she’ll suppose nothing, and we can consult about the proper measures for her arrest.”

As the king entered a lower room of the palace, which he used for a workshop, he called his companion’s attention to the forge and his implements with a laugh.

“I don’t believe,” he said, “among all the kings that France will ever have, there’ll be another to take pleasure in such work as that.  But when I am really king, I’ll forge no swords; they shall all go back into their scabbards.”