“Tell us all about it,” said Chicot. “Yes,” stammered the duke, “tell us all about it, monsieur.” “I listen,” said Henri. “Sire, for some time I have been watching some malcontents, but they were shopkeepers, or junior clerks, a few monks and students.” “That is not much,” said Chicot. “I know that malcontents always make use either of war or of religion.” “Very sensible!” said the king. “I put men on the watch, and at last I succeeded in persuading a man from the provosty of Paris to watch the preachers, who go about exciting the people against your majesty. They are prompted by a party hostile to your majesty, and this party I have studied, and now I know their hopes,” added he, triumphantly. “I have men in my pay, greedy, it is true, who, for a good sum of money, promised to let me know of the first meeting of the conspirators.” “Oh! never mind money, but let us hear the aim of this conspiracy.” “Sire, they think of nothing less than a second St. Bartholomew.” “Against whom?” “Against the Huguenots.” “What have you paid for your secret?” said Chicot. “One hundred and sixty thousand livres.” Chicot turned to the king, saying, “If you like, for one thousand crowns, I will tell you all the secrets of M. de Morvilliers.” “Speak.” “It is simply the League, instituted ten years ago; M. de Morvilliers has discovered what every Parisian knows as well as his _ave_.” “Monsieur,” interrupted the chancellor. “I speak the truth, and I will prove it,” cried Chicot. “Tell me, then, their place of meeting.” “Firstly, the public streets; secondly, the public streets.” “M. Chicot is joking,” said the chancellor; “tell me their rallying sign.” “They are dressed like Parisians, and shake their legs when they walk.” A burst of laughter followed this speech; then M. de Morvilliers said, “They have had one meeting-place which M. Chicot does not know of.” “Where?” asked the king. “The Abbey of St. Geneviève.” “Impossible!” murmured the duke. “It is true,” said M. de Morvilliers, triumphantly. “What did they decide?” asked the king. “That the Leaguers should choose chiefs, that every one should arm, that every province should receive a deputy from the conspirators, and that all the Huguenots cherished by his majesty (that was their expression)----” The king smiled. “Should be massacred on a given day.” “Is that all?” said the duke. “No, monseigneur.” “I should hope not,” said Chicot; “if the king got only that for one hundred and sixty thousand livres, it would be a shame.” “There are chiefs----” The Duc d’Anjou could not repress a start. “What!” cried Chicot, “a conspiracy that has chiefs! how wonderful! But we ought to have more than that for one hundred and sixty thousand livres.” “Their names?” asked the king. “Firstly, a fanatic preacher; I gave ten thousand livres for his name.” “Very well.” “A monk called Gorenflot.” “Poor devil!” said Chicot. “Gorenflot?” said the king, writing down the name; “afterwards----”