"Who spoke of Charles? Who said he lay upon his death-bed?" cried
Perrotte, walking up and down with the uncertain step of the deranged of
mind, and unheeding her unhappy grandchild; "Charles dying! and I shall
see him no more--shall he die without a warning word from her who loved
and cherished him so long--die without repentance? What was that voice
that tortured my very soul? Who said he was about to die, and that I
should see him no more?"

Jocelyne sprung up from the ground, as if a sudden thought had crossed
her mind.

"Yes, mother, yes," she cried, "the king is dying. Come to him. See him
once more. He will hear your words upon his death-bed, and extend his
pardon to the innocent--for Philip de la Mole is innocent, my mother. He
will save him who is unjustly condemned; and you will save his repentant
soul. Come, mother, come--come," she continued, as if speaking to a
child, "the king is waiting for you!"

"Charlot--my nursling--dying!" murmured the old woman--"Yes--let us go."

"Alayn will accompany us," said Jocelyne, turning to the youth, who
stood at the window unhappy and confused.

Without waiting for any addition to their dress, the eager girl seized
her grandmother's hand, and led her to the door.

When it was opened, two soldiers appeared upon the threshold, stationed
to prevent all egress of the inhabitants; and one of them, placing his
arquebuse across the door-stall, cried, in a rude voice--

"_On ne passe pas._"

The two women drew back in alarm.

CHAPTER IV.

"Sweet Isabel, take my part;
Lend me your knees, and all my life to come
I'll lend you all my life to do you service."

SHAKSPEARE.

"Your suit's unprofitable; stand up, I say."

IDEM.

Again the scene changes to the palace of the Louvre, where so many dark
intrigues surrounded the rich chamber of the dying king; where, instead
of the sympathy of friends, and the tears of relations, jarring
ambition, and rivalry, and hatred, between brethren and kindred, between
mother and children, escorted him on his passage to the tomb, and
darkened the _last hours of his reign_. Such might have been supposed by
a moralist to be the punishment, inflicted, even upon this earth, on
him, who, if he did not instigate, ordained and prosecuted the horrible
massacre of St Bartholomew.

The state of the miserable Charles grew hourly worse, and he rapidly
approached his last moments. None knew better than his heartless