For a moment let me digress.  The few of my age will remember, and the many younger will have been told, that at this time the Italian queen-mother was the ruling power in France.  It was Catharine de’ Medici’s first object to maintain her influence over Charles the Ninth—­her son; who, ricketty, weak, and passionate, was already doomed to an early grave.  Her second, to support the royal power by balancing the extreme Catholics against the Huguenots.  For the latter purpose she would coquet first with one party, then with the other.  At the present moment she had committed herself more deeply than was her wont to the Huguenots.  Their leaders, the Admiral Gaspard de Coligny, the King of Navarre, and the Prince of Conde, were supposed to be high in favour, while the chiefs of the other party, the Duke of Guise, and the two Cardinals of his house, the Cardinal of Lorraine and the Cardinal of Guise, were in disgrace; which, as it seemed, even their friend at court, the queen’s favourite son, Henry of Anjou, was unable to overcome.

Such was the outward aspect of things in August, 1572, but there were not wanting rumours that already Coligny, taking advantage of the footing given him, had gained an influence over the young king, which threatened Catharine de’ Medici herself.  The admiral, therefore, to whom the Huguenot half of France had long looked as to its leader, was now the object of the closest interest to all; the Guise faction, hating him—­as the alleged assassin of the Duke of Guise—­with an intensity which probably was not to be found in the affection of his friends, popular with the latter as he was.

Still, many who were not Huguenots had a regard for him as a great Frenchman and a gallant soldier.  We—­though we were of the old faith, and the other side—­had heard much of him, and much good.  The Vicomte had spoken of him always as a great man, a man mistaken, but brave, honest and capable in his error.  Therefore it was that when the landlord mentioned him, I forgot even my hunger.

“He was shot, my lords, as he passed through the Rue des Fosses, yesterday,” the man declared with bated breath.  “It is not known whether he will live or die.  Paris is in an uproar, and there are some who fear the worst.”

“But,” I said doubtfully, “who has dared to do this?  He had a safe conduct from the king himself.”

Our host did not answer; shrugging his shoulders instead, he opened the door, and ushered us into the eating-room.

Some preparations for our meal had already been made at one end of the long board.  At the other was seated a man past middle age; richly but simply dressed.  His grey hair, cut short about a massive head, and his grave, resolute face, square-jawed, and deeply-lined, marked him as one to whom respect was due apart from his clothes.  We bowed to him as we took our seats.

He acknowledged the salute, fixing us a moment with a penetrating glance; and then resumed his meal.  I noticed that his sword and belt were propped against a chair at his elbow, and a dag, apparently loaded, lay close to his hand by the candlestick.  Two lackeys waited behind his chair, wearing the badge we had remarked in the inn yard.