as men, women, and children together, they swarmed around him as he walked, kissing his garments, and rending the air with their shouts.  For that wolfish mob of Paris, which had once lapped the blood of ten thousand Huguenots in a single night, and was again rabid with thirst, was most docile and fawning to the great Balafre.  It grovelled before him, it hung upon his look, it licked his hand, and, at the lifting of his finger, or the glance of his eye, would have sprung at the throat of King or Queen-Mother, minister, or minion, and devoured them all before his eyes.  It was longing for the sign, for, much as Paris adored and was besotted with Guise and the League, even more, if possible, did it hate those godless politicians, who had grown fat on extortions from the poor, and who had converted their substance into the daily bread of luxury.

Nevertheless the city was full of armed men, Swiss and German mercenaries, and burgher guards, sworn to fidelity to the throne.  The place might have been swept clean, at that moment, of rebels who were not yet armed or fortified in their positions.  The Lord had delivered Guise into Henry’s hands.  “Oh, the madman!”—­cried Sixtus V., when he heard that the Duke had gone to Paris, “thus to put himself into the clutches of the King whom he had so deeply offended!” And, “Oh, the wretched coward, the imbecile?” he added, when he heard how the King had dealt with his great enemy.

For the monarch was in his cabinet that May morning, irresolutely awaiting the announced visit of the Duke.  By his aide stood Alphonse Corse, attached as a mastiff to his master, and fearing not Guise nor Leaguer, man nor devil.

“Sire, is the Duke of Guise your friend or enemy?” said Alphonse.  The King answered by an expressive shrug.

“Say the word, Sire,” continued Alphonse, “and I pledge myself to bring his head this instant, and lay it at your feet.”

And he would have done it.  Even at the side of Catharine’s sedan chair, and in the very teeth of the worshipping mob, the Corsican would have had the Balafre’s life, even though he laid down his own.

But Henry—­irresolute and fascinated—­said it was not yet time for such a blow.

Soon afterward; the Duke was announced.  The chief of the League and the last of the Valois met, face to face; but not for the last time.  The interview—­was coldly respectful on the part of Mucio, anxious and embarrassed on that of the King.  When the visit, which was merely one of ceremony, was over, the Duke departed as he came, receiving the renewed homage of the populace as he walked to his hotel.