f the crowd took place, Georges
d'Estouteville was stupefied at seeing, at one of the windows of the
hotel de Poitiers, his dear Marie de Saint-Vallier, laughing with the
count. She was mocking at _him_, poor devoted lover, who was going to
his death for her. But perhaps she was only amused at seeing the caps
of the populace carried off on the spears of the archers. We must be
twenty-three years old, rich in illusions, able to believe in a woman's
love, loving ourselves with all the forces of our being, risking
our life with delight on the faith of a kiss, and then betrayed, to
understand the fury of hatred and despair which took possession of
Georges d'Estouteville's heart at the sight of his laughing mistress,
from whom he received a cold and indifferent glance. No doubt she had
been there some time; she was leaning from the window with her arms on
a cushion; she was at her ease, and her old man seemed content. He, too,
was laughing, the cursed hunchback! A few tears escaped the eyes of the
young man; but when Marie de Saint-Vallier saw them she turned hastily
away. Those tears were suddenly dried, however, when Georges beheld the
red and white plumes of the page who was devoted to his interests. The
count took no notice of this servitor, who advanced to his mistress on
tiptoe. After the page had said a few words in her ear, Marie returned
to the window. Escaping for a moment the perpetual watchfulness of her
tyrant, she cast one glance upon Georges that was brilliant with the
fires of love and hope, seeming to say:--

"I am watching over you."

Had she cried the words aloud, she could not have expressed their
meaning more plainly than in that glance, full of a thousand thoughts,
in which terror, hope, pleasure, the dangers of their mutual situation
all took part. He had passed, in that one moment, from heaven to
martyrdom and from martyrdom back to heaven! So then, the brave young
seigneur, light-hearted and content, walked gaily to his doom; thinking
that the horrors of the "question" were not sufficient payment for the
delights of his love.

As Tristan was about leaving the rue du Murier, his people stopped him,
seeing an officer of the Scottish guard riding towards them at full
speed.

"What is it?" asked the provost.

"Nothing that concerns you," replied the officer, disdainfully. "The
king has sent me to fetch the Comte and Comtesse de Saint-Vallier, whom
he invites to dinner."

The grand provost had sca