ad been more sober
than he seemed. "Mind you, it does not do to thwart our little master in
his fits! Remember that another time, or worse will come of it, brother.
As it is, you came out of it finely and tripped that black devil's heels
to a marvel! But you won't be so mad as to go to Biron?"

"Yes," Count Hannibal answered coldly. "I shall go."

"Better not! Better not!" the Marshal answered. "'Twill be easier to go
in than to come out--with a whole throat! Have you taken wild cats in
the hollow of a tree? The young first, and then the she-cat? Well, it
will be that! Take my advice, brother. Have after Montgomery, if you
please, ride with Nancay to Chatillon--he is mounting now--go where you
please out of Paris, but don't go there! Biron hates us, hates me. And
for the King, if he do not see you for a few days, 'twill blow over in a
week."

Count Hannibal shrugged his shoulders. "No," he said, "I shall go."

The Marshal stared a moment. "Morbleu!" he said, "why? 'Tis not to
please the King, I know. What do you think to find there, brother?"

"A minister," Hannibal answered gently. "I want one with life in him,
and they are scarce in the open. So I must to covert after him." And,
twitching his sword-belt a little nearer to his hand, he passed across
the court to the gate, and to his horses.

The Marshal went back laughing, and, slapping his thigh as he entered the
hall, jostled by accident a gentleman who was passing out.

"What is it?" the Gascon cried hotly; for it was Chicot he had jostled.

"Who touches my brother touches Tavannes!" the Marshal hiccoughed. And,
smiting his thigh anew, he went off into another fit of laughter.

CHAPTER XIII. DIPLOMACY.

Where the old wall of Paris, of which no vestige remains, ran down on the
east to the north bank of the river, the space in the angle between the
Seine and the ramparts beyond the Rue St. Pol wore at this date an aspect
typical of the troubles of the time. Along the waterside the gloomy old
Palace of St. Pol, once the residence of the mad King Charles the
Sixth--and his wife, the abandoned Isabeau de Baviere--sprawled its maze
of mouldering courts and ruined galleries; a dreary monument of the
Gothic days which were passing from France. Its spacious curtilage and
dark pleasaunces covered all the ground between the river and the Rue St.
Antoine; and north of this, under the shadow of the eight great towers of
the Bastille, whi