“Well,” continued his father, “I have asked their permission to buy a legal practice for you in the province of Bearn. Our good friend Pare undertook to present the letters which I wrote on your behalf to the Prince de Conde and the queen of Navarre. Here, read the answer of Monsieur de Pibrac, vice-chancellor of Navarre:-- To the Sieur Lecamus, _syndic of the guild of furriers_: Monseigneur le Prince de Conde desires me to express his regret that he cannot do what you ask for his late companion in the tower of Saint-Aignan, whom he perfectly remembers, and to whom, meanwhile, he offers the place of gendarme in his company; which will put your son in the way of making his mark as a man of courage, which he is. The queen of Navarre awaits an opportunity to reward the Sieur Christophe, and will not fail to take advantage of it. Upon which, Monsieur le syndic, we pray God to have you in His keeping. Pibrac, At Nerac. Chancellor of Navarre.” “Nerac, Pibrac, crack!” cried Babette. “There’s no confidence to be placed in Gascons; they think only of themselves.” Old Lecamus looked at his son, smiling scornfully. “They propose to put on horseback a poor boy whose knees and ankles were shattered for their sakes!” cried the mother. “What a wicked jest!” “I shall never see you a counsellor of Navarre,” said his father. “I wish I knew what Queen Catherine would do for me, if I made a claim upon her,” said Christophe, cast down by the prince’s answer. “She made you no promise,” said the old man, “but I am certain that _she_ will never mock you like these others; she will remember your sufferings. Still, how can the queen make a counsellor of the Parliament out of a protestant burgher?” “But Christophe has not abjured!” cried Babette. “He can very well keep his private opinions secret.” “The Prince de Conde would be less disdainful of a counsellor of the Parliament,” said Lallier. “Well, what say you, Christophe?” urged Babette. “You are counting without the queen,” replied the young lawyer. A few days after this rather bitter disillusion, an apprentice brought Christophe the following laconic little missive:-- Chaudieu wishes to see his son. “Let him come in!” cried Christophe. “Oh! my sacred martyr!” said the minister, embracing him; “have you recovered from your sufferings?” “Yes, thanks to Pare.” “Thanks rather to God, who gave you the strength to endure the torture. But what is this I hear? Have you allowed them to make you a solicitor? Have you taken the oath of fidelity? Surely you will not recognize that prostitute, the Roman, Catholic, and apostolic Church?” “My father wished it.” “But ought we not to leave fathers and mothers and wives and children, all, all, for the sacred cause of Calvinism; nay, must we not suffer all things? Ah! Christophe, Calvin, the great Calvin, the whole party, the whole world, the Future counts upon your courage and the grandeur of your soul. We want your life.”