“I accept it, my good man,” cried Charles IX.; “and it shall henceforth be my particular drinking cup.” “It is beautiful enough,” said the queen, examining the masterpiece, “to be included among the crown-jewels. Well, Maitre Ambroise,” she whispered in the surgeon’s ear, with a glance at Christophe, “have you taken good care of him? Will he walk again?” “He will run,” replied the surgeon, smiling. “Ah! you have cleverly made him a renegade.” “Ha!” said the queen, with the levity for which she has been blamed, though it was only on the surface, “the Church won’t stand still for want of one monk!” The supper was gay; the queen thought Babette pretty, and, in the regal manner which was natural to her, she slipped upon the girl’s finger a diamond ring which compensated in value for the goblet bestowed upon the king. Charles IX., who afterwards became rather too fond of these invasions of burgher homes, supped with a good appetite. Then, at a word from his new governor (who, it is said, was instructed to make him forget the virtuous teachings of Cypierre), he obliged all the men present to drink so deeply that the queen, observing that the gaiety was about to become too noisy, rose to leave the room. As she rose, Christophe, his father, and the two women took torches and accompanied her to the shop-door. There Christophe ventured to touch the queen’s wide sleeve and to make her a sign that he had something to say. Catherine stopped, made a gesture to the father and the two women to leave her, and said, turning to Christophe: “What is it?” “It may serve you to know, madame,” replied Christophe, whispering in her ear, “that the Duc de Guise is being followed by assassins.” “You are a loyal subject,” said Catherine, smiling, “and I shall never forget you.” She held out to him her hand, so celebrated for its beauty, first ungloving it, which was indeed a mark of favor,--so much so that Christophe, then and there, became altogether royalist as he kissed that adorable hand. “So they mean to rid me of that bully without my having a finger in it,” thought she as she replaced her glove. Then she mounted her mule and returned to the Louvre, attended by her two pages.